“I see.” Then, in two swift movements, he steps around me. “Until tomorrow.”
He disappears out of the door, the latch clicking behind him.
“Good talk.” I sigh.
I move to the other side of the sunken couch Lionel’s sitting on and gesture to the empty space. He shoots me an eager thumbs-up before turning his attention to his game.
What are wedoing? This cannot be real. Only it is. Denying William’s presence doesn’t make the reality any less true. And if something can be deemed as factual, even if supporting evidencedenies it, then this means it can be studied in some capacity in order to understand it.
This gives me an idea.
I pull my laptop out of my book bag and lean against the thin cushions as I open a new Google search, feeling seven different types of foolish when I type:time travel.
It’s what I expect. Words likehypotheticalandscience fictionandrelativityandDoctor Whopopulate on screen. Articles end with phrases like “not possible” and “unlikely event.” People on Reddit argue over time dilation and parallel universes and theories that are suggestions but not definite answers. Whatever I know, and whatever I hope to find, will not be spelled out in black and white on the internet.
Thinking of this for too long makes my brain hurt. How can you explain the unexplainable?
You don’t Google it, Delaney, that’s for sure.
Wait.
My fingers hover over my keyboard. I’d searched for William on Instagram—with no results for obvious reasons—but I hadn’t thought to browse the internet. A quick search brings up two William Cromwells: a medical practitioner out of Kentucky and a lawyer in Fort Lauderdale. Not what I’m looking for, so I backspace and try again:William Alexander Cromwell.
This time, the Ivernia website pops up.
What the hell? An accelerated beat thumps against my rib cage. I glide my index finger over the trackpad until I’m clicking onthe link and bringing up a text-heavy page with the title “Ivernia’s History.” It’s dense. And because I am too impatient to comb through every sentence, I type his name in the search tool.
And there it is.
Ivernia School, established in 1889, was founded by William Alexander Cromwell.
15
I read and rereadthis sentence until my vision blurs and a spike of adrenaline makes me feel restless.
Half-formed truths slip through the feathered cracks of my reality. Is this William’s legacy? The founder of Ivernia School? I’m aware it’s one of the oldest boarding schools on the East Coast, but I was never sure of its complete history until now. Ivernia is usually discussed within the span of its laurels: the percentage of students accepted into Ivies, its STEM focus, the prestigious faculty and even more prestigious alumni. The school, this place—it couldn’t possibly be his idea. Only, maybe it can.
His words from this morning come back to me.If I could, I would become a professor.
I continue reading.
William Alexander Cromwell (1841–1893) was a London-based scholar who shared his love of science and mathematics with his son, Frederick, and his sister, Caroline. After his death, his son took over as chancellor for the next three decades.
If my math is correct, William was forty-eight when he founded the school. No wonder he has no memory of this place. When Iscroll even further, there’s a black-and-white photograph of him with his son, nearly a spitting image of his father, standing near the stone exterior of what’s now the administration building. Aside from the subtle signs of aging, he looks exactly like William. Because heisWilliam.
I screenshot the page and pull up my messages, shooting the image over to Sumner accompanied by the words:Read this.A few seconds later, his read receipt switches fromDeliveredtoRead.What kind of chaos demon leaves their read receipts on? I wait for three dots to emerge, the ones that say he’s typing a reply, but he doesn’t respond. Irritation zips up my spine. It irks me more than it should.
My skin begins to feel tight and itchy, and my restlessness only grows. After repacking my bag, I wave goodbye to Lionel and march out into the quiet evening.
There’s a high probability Sumner’s in his room with William since Ijustsent William off to find him, but I decide I’ll check Segner’s common room anyway. Hyde and Segner students can mingle in one another’s commons until eight, after which they’re required to retire to their own houses. I’ve got thirty minutes, and this is a matter of urgency.
I slide my phone back in my pocket and scan inside, rounding the corner and plodding down the corridor until I reach the commons. Warm light emanates from sconces placed in rows along the cream-colored walls. All around me, students claim deep-seated armchairs and spread out on leather couches sprinkled throughthe space. Some choose to sit on the floor in circles, laptops in their laps, as they work through homework together.
A rough laugh draws my attention. Across the room, Sumner sits on an armchair with Hailey Collins angled over the backrest. Her silky auburn hair swishes as her laughter mixes with his. They’re amused by something on his phone. She reaches down to gesture toward his screen and brushes his forearm in the process. He adjusts his glasses even though they’re not slipping, a habit I’m realizing he saves for when he’s nervous and looking for a way to occupy his hands.
He can sit in the common room with Hailey, but he can’t respond to my text? Annoyance scrapes through me, callous and prickly. Does he not understand the gravity of everything that’s happened over the last few days? Or does he not care? Also, where the hell is William?
My stomach twists as I come toward them. Sumner’s eyes narrow. Hailey pushes herself upright, then crosses her forearms on top of the armchair, a soft smile playing on her lips. I am clearly interrupting something, but I try not to care.
