The Golden Specific by S. E. Grove Page A

but on this occasion he immediately excused himself, saying he had to attend to something on the ship. He urged us to make ourselves comfortable until he returned.
    Bronson and I sat in silence. The last two days had been tense between us. While I felt increasingly ill at ease aboard the Roost , certain as I was that something was not right, Bronson was increasingly enthralled by Captain Wren and his crew, certain that they were the kindest, canniest fellows in the world. The night before, we had almost argued about it. I insisted that we should reveal nothing more about ourselves, and Bronson fairly laughed at my insistence. I called him a fool for being so easily won over, and Bronson called me a fool for being so easily suspicious.
    So we sat in silence in Wren’s cabin, until I got up, somewhat impatiently, and went to the back of the cabin, where I began to peruse the shelves that held the captain’s library and nautical instruments. Shelves full of books always put me in mind of my brother Shadrack and make me feel at home. I ran my finger idly along the spines, none of which had titles I recognized. Imagine my surprise when I saw the very name that had just come to mind: Shadrack Elli . I exclaimed in delight.
    â€œWhat is it?” Bronson asked, condescending to speak to me.
    â€œWren has a book by Shadrack!” As I said these words, however, I found myself suddenly confused. The author was, indeed, Shadrack Elli. But I knew my brother’s books quite well, and this was one I had never seen— Maps of California, the Mexican Border, and the Mexican-American War . I stared at the cover. “Could it be he published a book without telling me? There couldn’t possibly be another author with the same name. It doesn’t make any sense.”
    Bronson came up behind me and read the title over my shoulder. “That’s not one of Shadrack’s books.”
    â€œI know,” I said quietly. “And what is California?”
    â€œCheck the printer’s information,” he suggested.
    I turned to the front of the book, and what I saw there gave me sudden pause: Roberts Bros., Boston, 1899 . “How is this possible?” I whispered to Bronson, aghast. “When it is now 1881?”
    Bronson was frowning at the book, equally baffled, when the door opened.
    Captain Wren saw at once that something had happened. With a nervous air, he pocketed the amber monocle. Instead of speaking or asking what the matter was, he simply stared at us. I was surprised and even more confused to see fear pinching at the edges of his eyes.
    â€œCaptain Wren,” I asked, holding up my discovery, “how is it that you have a book here written by my brother and published eighteen years from now ?”
    Wren held up his hands as if to appease us, the apprehension in his eyes giving way to an equally disturbing look of resigned sorrow. “Please,” he said. “Please, do not be alarmed.”
    â€œI
am
alarmed,” I said, somewhat more loudly than I intended. I could feel Bronson’s arm slip around my waist, steadying me. “I don’t understand what this means.”
    â€œI will explain—I will explain it to you,” he assured us. “Please, sit down. Allow me to call for dinner as I had planned, and I will explain everything to you.”
    If Wren had wanted to harm us, some part of me reasoned, he would have had many opportunities. And besides, I
wanted
an explanation.
    Bronson and I took our seats. Wren rang the handbell, calling for dinner, and, as he always did, poured us glasses of wine. I noticed that the wine, which he usually took from a glass cabinet, came from a drawer in his desk and had avery unusual, pristine label, unlike any I had ever seen. For some seconds, he seemed lost in thought. Bronson took my hand—the discovery had erased the tension between us—and squeezed it.
    â€œIt will seem to you,” Wren began with a sigh,