generator, every Earthling will be able to make their own decisions without anyone up there messing with their lives. And . . . Look, even if it turns out I need your help in France, if you decide you’ve had enough, I’ll bring you back right away anyway. I swear it.” He touches the center of his chest, and speaks a few choppy syllables in that slightly slurred alien tongue before switching to what I assume is a translation. “By my heart, by Kemya.”
He could say anything right now. It’s not as if I could make him bring me back home once we’re across oceans and centuries; I can’t operate the time cloth myself.
But he’s right. Everyone I care about is at risk every second his scientists keep poking at us. What Win’s asking, it’s not just about an end to the wrong feelings and having a normal future for myself, it’s making sure my parents and Angela and, hell, the very fabric of the planet still have a future. Isn’t this what I’ve wanted my whole life—the answer to what was wrong , and a way to make it stop?
All that is being handed to me, and I’m too busy cowering at the thought of a past I’ve never seen to take it.
Locked in the same old patterns, Jeanant’s voice echoes in my head. That’s not what I want. The word pops out before I let myself change my mind.
“Okay.”
“Wonderful,” Win says with a smile, as if he knew I’d come around eventually, which somehow reassures me and gives me an uncomfortable twinge at the same time. He motions me down a shaded driveway between two houses. After checking that no one’s in view, he pulls out the cloth.
A fresh anxiety washes over me. “We’re going now ?” I glance down at my bright purple jacket, my jeans. “Like this?” I suspect my outfit was not a common look in early modern France.
“No,” Win agrees. “I have my Traveler clothes, but you’ll need something else to blend in. Can we visit your house uninterrupted?”
“My parents will still be at work.”
“Good. What’s your address?” He shakes open the cloth, his smile widening. “We can be there in an instant.”
The cloth gives a little jerk after Win enters the coordinates, but otherwise doesn’t move. He frowns and taps the panel harder. I’m remembering what he said about it being an “older model” when there’s a jolt. My stomach flips over. Then we’re standing in my front hall.
“It’s a lot easier when you’re not going very far,” Win says. So I guess I’m not just getting used to time travel really fast.
He studies the inside of the house as I lead him upstairs, eyeing the hardwood floor and the framed prints on the wall with what looks like equal fascination. He stops in the hall by the oil of a forest landscape Dad bought from a local painter, his hand hovering over it, tracing the sweep of the river.
“That scene’s from a state park about an hour from here,” I tell him. “We used to hike there when I was younger. It’s even prettier in the fall.”
“Right, the reds and yellows would be striking. My dad would love to be able to see it—for real, not just on a recording. He always says the colors and textures aren’t the same when you can’t . . .” His sudden enthusiasm trails off. “He thinks too much about that sort of thing.” He pulls himself away, peering over the banister, and then takes in the row of doors ahead of us. “You’ve always lived here?”
“Since I was two,” I say.
“It’s so big.”
This is just a midsize three bedroom. What would he make of the huge country homes in the suburbs, like the one Bree’s aunt owns?
“Houses on your planet aren’t much like this?” I venture.
“No. We only have so much room to work with.” He shrugs. “We use it as efficiently as possible, though. And when the scientists start focusing more on there than here, it’ll get better.”
The question that tickled at me this morning rises up again. “Why do your scientists care so much about
He could say anything right now. It’s not as if I could make him bring me back home once we’re across oceans and centuries; I can’t operate the time cloth myself.
But he’s right. Everyone I care about is at risk every second his scientists keep poking at us. What Win’s asking, it’s not just about an end to the wrong feelings and having a normal future for myself, it’s making sure my parents and Angela and, hell, the very fabric of the planet still have a future. Isn’t this what I’ve wanted my whole life—the answer to what was wrong , and a way to make it stop?
All that is being handed to me, and I’m too busy cowering at the thought of a past I’ve never seen to take it.
Locked in the same old patterns, Jeanant’s voice echoes in my head. That’s not what I want. The word pops out before I let myself change my mind.
“Okay.”
“Wonderful,” Win says with a smile, as if he knew I’d come around eventually, which somehow reassures me and gives me an uncomfortable twinge at the same time. He motions me down a shaded driveway between two houses. After checking that no one’s in view, he pulls out the cloth.
A fresh anxiety washes over me. “We’re going now ?” I glance down at my bright purple jacket, my jeans. “Like this?” I suspect my outfit was not a common look in early modern France.
“No,” Win agrees. “I have my Traveler clothes, but you’ll need something else to blend in. Can we visit your house uninterrupted?”
“My parents will still be at work.”
“Good. What’s your address?” He shakes open the cloth, his smile widening. “We can be there in an instant.”
The cloth gives a little jerk after Win enters the coordinates, but otherwise doesn’t move. He frowns and taps the panel harder. I’m remembering what he said about it being an “older model” when there’s a jolt. My stomach flips over. Then we’re standing in my front hall.
“It’s a lot easier when you’re not going very far,” Win says. So I guess I’m not just getting used to time travel really fast.
He studies the inside of the house as I lead him upstairs, eyeing the hardwood floor and the framed prints on the wall with what looks like equal fascination. He stops in the hall by the oil of a forest landscape Dad bought from a local painter, his hand hovering over it, tracing the sweep of the river.
“That scene’s from a state park about an hour from here,” I tell him. “We used to hike there when I was younger. It’s even prettier in the fall.”
“Right, the reds and yellows would be striking. My dad would love to be able to see it—for real, not just on a recording. He always says the colors and textures aren’t the same when you can’t . . .” His sudden enthusiasm trails off. “He thinks too much about that sort of thing.” He pulls himself away, peering over the banister, and then takes in the row of doors ahead of us. “You’ve always lived here?”
“Since I was two,” I say.
“It’s so big.”
This is just a midsize three bedroom. What would he make of the huge country homes in the suburbs, like the one Bree’s aunt owns?
“Houses on your planet aren’t much like this?” I venture.
“No. We only have so much room to work with.” He shrugs. “We use it as efficiently as possible, though. And when the scientists start focusing more on there than here, it’ll get better.”
The question that tickled at me this morning rises up again. “Why do your scientists care so much about
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