Win motions for me to follow him. As I descend the steps, the alarm band shivers against my ankle. I stiffen.
“It’s gone off,” I say. “The alarm—”
“Just now?”
“Yes.”
“Back, then.” He grabs my wrist like he did in the coffee shop yesterday, tugging me through the library doors. A few steps over the threshold, the band’s humming cuts out.
“It’s stopped,” I say, and he nods, not looking particularly reassured.
“We might be okay,” he says, “but let’s keep moving. Let me know if it goes off again. Does this place have another exit?”
“I think there’s one on that side.” I point.
We circle the checkout desk and duck around the stairs, and then push past a smaller door that leads onto a lawn dotted with stone checkers tables. We keep walking, on down the sidewalk. The alarm band stays still.
“Good?” Win asks. I nod. “What did you find?”
I’d almost forgotten. I pull the book from where I’ve been cradling it under my arm and open it to the right page. Win veers around a corner, and I hurry along beside him. “This,” I say, tapping the sentence. “ Three Glorious Days. The number feels wrong.”
Win snatches the book from my hands, coming to a halt to stare at it. “The Three Glorious Days. Beginning July 27, 1830 AD. Paris. It’s such a small detail—and not even part of the main revolutionary period—that must be why it’s taking the others so long.” He pauses, glances around, and starts walking again. “But that’s all right. I can check it out myself.”
“Can’t you tell your friends so they can help?”
“Communication through time is difficult,” he says. “And all our supplies we had to collect unofficially—inconspicuously. As I told you before, our equipment is limited. Isis set us up with devices that can signal between us, but the best those can do is drag everyone away from what they’re doing to meet up and talk properly. For all I know, Thlo’s already figured this part out and is way ahead, and I’d just be delaying them. I’m not calling them in until I have something concrete.”
I glance at the book. “And I guess— You said there are ‘official’ Travelers making changes all the time too. We can’t know that Jeanant’s the one who did this.”
“It’s extremely likely it was him,” Win says. “The regular Travelers shouldn’t be shifting things that far back. There were a couple of mistakes, early on, where one little change altered centuries of history in ways no one intended, and there’s no easy way to just set things back. So the scientists restrict the experiments to try to minimize the breadth of the impact. Nobody authorized would be making changes nearly two hundred years ago.”
“But maybe I’m noticing something that was shifted way back then,” I point out.
He shakes his head. “ You should only be able to notice shifts that were made by Travelers working within your lifetime. Changes to things you already experienced once, that were then rewritten. A shift some Traveler made hundreds of years ago, it was already in place before you were born. You’d never know the difference with those. But Jeanant, he came here during your present, he’s making changes now. This is almost definitely him.”
The thought of thousands of years of shifts I haven’t noticed, on top of the little ones I have, overwhelms me. It’s a few seconds before I realize Win’s still looking at me. Studying me, with a frank appreciation that makes my cheeks warm. He closes the book and hands it back to me, his grin returning. “You’re amazing.”
His fingers graze mine with that overwhelming there ness, his eyes bright as he beams at me. My heart skips a beat.
Then he stops in his tracks, peering at the nearby houses as he swings his satchel around. The satchel that holds his time cloth.
Right. Because he’s not some normal guy I met at school; he’s an alien. An alien who’s probably only pleased with me
“It’s gone off,” I say. “The alarm—”
“Just now?”
“Yes.”
“Back, then.” He grabs my wrist like he did in the coffee shop yesterday, tugging me through the library doors. A few steps over the threshold, the band’s humming cuts out.
“It’s stopped,” I say, and he nods, not looking particularly reassured.
“We might be okay,” he says, “but let’s keep moving. Let me know if it goes off again. Does this place have another exit?”
“I think there’s one on that side.” I point.
We circle the checkout desk and duck around the stairs, and then push past a smaller door that leads onto a lawn dotted with stone checkers tables. We keep walking, on down the sidewalk. The alarm band stays still.
“Good?” Win asks. I nod. “What did you find?”
I’d almost forgotten. I pull the book from where I’ve been cradling it under my arm and open it to the right page. Win veers around a corner, and I hurry along beside him. “This,” I say, tapping the sentence. “ Three Glorious Days. The number feels wrong.”
Win snatches the book from my hands, coming to a halt to stare at it. “The Three Glorious Days. Beginning July 27, 1830 AD. Paris. It’s such a small detail—and not even part of the main revolutionary period—that must be why it’s taking the others so long.” He pauses, glances around, and starts walking again. “But that’s all right. I can check it out myself.”
“Can’t you tell your friends so they can help?”
“Communication through time is difficult,” he says. “And all our supplies we had to collect unofficially—inconspicuously. As I told you before, our equipment is limited. Isis set us up with devices that can signal between us, but the best those can do is drag everyone away from what they’re doing to meet up and talk properly. For all I know, Thlo’s already figured this part out and is way ahead, and I’d just be delaying them. I’m not calling them in until I have something concrete.”
I glance at the book. “And I guess— You said there are ‘official’ Travelers making changes all the time too. We can’t know that Jeanant’s the one who did this.”
“It’s extremely likely it was him,” Win says. “The regular Travelers shouldn’t be shifting things that far back. There were a couple of mistakes, early on, where one little change altered centuries of history in ways no one intended, and there’s no easy way to just set things back. So the scientists restrict the experiments to try to minimize the breadth of the impact. Nobody authorized would be making changes nearly two hundred years ago.”
“But maybe I’m noticing something that was shifted way back then,” I point out.
He shakes his head. “ You should only be able to notice shifts that were made by Travelers working within your lifetime. Changes to things you already experienced once, that were then rewritten. A shift some Traveler made hundreds of years ago, it was already in place before you were born. You’d never know the difference with those. But Jeanant, he came here during your present, he’s making changes now. This is almost definitely him.”
The thought of thousands of years of shifts I haven’t noticed, on top of the little ones I have, overwhelms me. It’s a few seconds before I realize Win’s still looking at me. Studying me, with a frank appreciation that makes my cheeks warm. He closes the book and hands it back to me, his grin returning. “You’re amazing.”
His fingers graze mine with that overwhelming there ness, his eyes bright as he beams at me. My heart skips a beat.
Then he stops in his tracks, peering at the nearby houses as he swings his satchel around. The satchel that holds his time cloth.
Right. Because he’s not some normal guy I met at school; he’s an alien. An alien who’s probably only pleased with me
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