“Ye are from a long line of time-crossers, and yer mother, Tacy, was one of us.” She buttoned up her waistcoat again, studying us closely. “What we never understood was why the marks ye bear are on the backs of yer heads. No one in our family bears a mark there.”
I turned in bewilderment to Grace, and she stared back at me, just as befuddled.
Finally, I said to Pricilla, “We bear the mark of our time-crossing mother, Maggie, from 1912.” I leaned forward, my voice low. “Are you saying that our mother inthispath also bore a time-crossing mark?”
It was Pricilla’s turn to look perplexed. “Yes.” She shook her head. “Mayhap that’s why there are two of ye. Ye are born oftwotime-crossing mothers.”
I put my hand to my mouth, uncertain what any of this meant.
“Tacy left us when she was only nineteen and still had two years to make her final decision,” Pricilla said. “We did not want her to pledge herself to a man in this path before she left her other one. I pleaded with her to reconsider, but she abandoned us without any word so we wouldn’t look for her. When she returned to us, she was filled with remorse—not only for leaving us, but for sacrificing her faith. She was hanged just monthsbefore her twenty-first birthday, and my only consolation was that she was still alive somewhere.”
“If Tacy was a time-crosser,” Grace asked, slowly, “when was her other time?”
“She was born in 1869 in New York City.”
For the third time that day, I was stunned.
“If she was born in 1869,” Grace said, looking down as if trying to put all the pieces together, “that means—”
“She might still be alive in 1912,” I finished for her. “She would only be—” I paused to do the math in my head. “Forty-three-years old.”
Pricilla’s face crumpled, and tears came to her eyes again. “That means ye might be able to find her for me and tell her I’m sorry that I couldn’t save her from hanging.”
I started to nod—but then realized I could not find Tacy in 1912, because I would never go back there again.
But Grace could.
16
GRACE
JULY 4, 1912
WASHINGTON, DC
I stood with my parents in the Congressional Cemetery in Washington, DC, staring at Hope’s closed coffin. Heavy clouds hung overhead, drizzling on the mourners who had come to say farewell to my twin sister. Though I had spent the past couple of days with her in Salem, trying to make sense of what happened at the Boston air meet—and what we learned about our mother, Tacy—I still couldn’t believe she was gone from 1912.
Her death in this path was final—and that stung like nothing ever had before.
Daddy and Mama stood under one black umbrella while I stood under another. It was the first time I’d felt truly alone in my entire life. Hope was usually at my side—but I would never see her here again.
A sob caught in my throat as the weight of reality settled on my shoulders.
Mama wept and laid her head against Daddy’s chest as thepastor said the final prayer. Hope’s coffin was lowered into the ground next to Mama’s father, Senator Edward Wakefield.
“Ashes to ashes and dust to dust,” the pastor said, sprinkling a handful of dirt onto Hope’s coffin. “Lord, we commit our sister Hope unto thee. Amen.”
I felt numb as tears slipped from my eyes. Losing Hope in 1912 had created more than just grief. For days, confusion, uncertainty, and fear had overwhelmed me—but now I just felt dull and void.
Mourners walked past the three of us, murmuring words of comfort and consolation.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” one of our older neighbors said as she reached for my cold hand and gave it a squeeze before moving on to Mama and Daddy.
“You must be devastated,” said another. “My thoughts and prayers are with you.”
“My heart is breaking for you,” said a third. “Whatever you need, be sure to ask.”
I glanced at each person, but I didn’t really see them. I was too bereft. For me, for Hope, for Mama and Daddy. My parents would never see Hope again, and though I would wake up tomorrow in Salem and she would be there, everything had changed.
