I raise an eyebrow. “Anything else?”
“Just one thing.” Her fingers lace together, and she smiles. “Don’t write me off too quickly.”
And then I’m dismissed.
When I tell my mom about the presentation ball, I’m going to have to act like it’s my idea. Another tiny lie, but at least she won’t worry. I don’t plan on causing any more trouble this year.
Once I make the trek to my room, I dump my textbooks and laptop on my bed and check my email from my phone. Mr.Kovacs’s name appears alongside the subject line:FRIDAY. When I open it, I’m linked to an article detailing the M-class solar flare (medium-ish by space standards) that was categorized three nights ago. This resulted in a geomagnetic storm producing a show of auroras throughout the northern hemisphere, including New York.
I kick off my loafers and plop on the bed. I’d seen signs of it on wish night, hadn’t I? The spectacular glow of green smearedagainst the night sky. My dad would have loved it. He’d predicted a high likelihood of this happening in his journal, after all, so I toss my phone aside in favor of reaching for it. As I lie on my back, fingers flipping through the pages, I quickly realize this is not my dad’s handwriting. There are no scratchy slanted capitals. No familiar ponderings.
I sit up straight. My hands continue to tear through the pages, but his handwriting doesn’t appear. Heart racing, I fold the journal closed. Smooth over the binding. Scrutinize the surface. That’s when I notice the outside is made of soft, worn leather.
This is not my dad’s journal.
A static fuzz of confusion blurs across my brain. How did I end up with this? I don’t know who it belongs to. And if it isn’t his journal—have I lost his?
That thought nearly causes my heart to stop. I mentally retrace my steps. It was with me in the astronomy lab, but I’d brought it back here. Hadn’t I? So it must have been in my pocket when I went to wish night.
Only—no. That’s not right. Because when Sumner had asked if I had a penny, my pockets were empty.
My eyes skip to my desk. And there it is, his journal propped neatly against my stack of textbooks as though it’s made a permanent residence there. A sense of relief melts away my panic.
But if I didn’t bring his journal to wish night, then this one must not belong to me.
When I peel it open a second time, I find dates scrawled inloopy penmanship on the top right of each page. Oh hell. Is this someone’s diary? I don’t want to pry, but how else am I going to figure out its owner? My curiosity urges me to flip forward a few pages. The dates change with every couple of turns.
9th of February, 1859
23rd of March, 1859
14th of August, 1859
23rd of August, 1859
1st of September, 1859
Eighteen fifty-nine?
My pulse beats in my throat. Slowly, carefully, my thumb hooks on the leather flap, revealing the first page. There, inked at the top in regal looping cursive, a name. One I very much recognize.
William AlexanderCromwell.
12
My first reaction is tofind Enzo—William?—whoever he is, so I dart downstairs and scan the students sprawled in Hyde’s common room. He’s not there. I try the student lounge. Nothing. No luck in the dining hall either. Not even when I take a fast lap to Segner’s common room.
where’s your roommate?I text Sumner.
how the fuck should I know, he texts back.
Cool. Great talk. Incredibly helpful, as always.
I rake a hand through my hair and stare down at the journal. William’s initial confusion plays back in my mind. I’d made so many assumptions because they slotted easily into my brain’s logic box. HeisSumner’s roommate. He couldn’t have attended classes if that wasn’t true, right? But everything else makes less sense. The formal introduction, the lack of modern technology. His bright-eyed curiosity.
1859.
Oh my god.
