1
October 31, 1887
London, England
A cold wind rattled the window frame in my bedroom at 11 Wilton Crescent as the edges of a tree branch scraped across the glass. I burrowed deeper under the thick cover of my bed, unable to take my eyes off the book in my hand.The StrangeCase ofDr. Jekyll andMr. Hydehad been published last year by Robert Louis Stevenson, but it was my first time reading it, and I was both enthralled and terrified. I had to remind myself that the story was just that—a story—and there was nothing to be afraid of. There was no madman terrorizing London.
My candle flickered and then died out, leaving only the soft glow of embers in my fireplace to light the room. I’d been reading for so long, the wick had burned to the bottom and would need to be replaced.
As the wind continued to howl, I lay for a moment in the darkness, wondering if I should set the book aside and go to sleep or if I should get up and look for another candle. It was after midnight, so if I went to sleep, I would wake up in my other life in 1937, and I would have to wait for an entire day to return to 1887 to finish the story. I was working on an important exhibit at the SmithsonianInstitute with personal items belonging to George Washington, but not even that fascinating project could hold my attention if I couldn’t finish Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde’s story tonight.
It was the strange reality of my existence, living two lives at the same time. When I went to sleep tonight in 1887, I would wake up tomorrow in 1937. After I spent the day there, I’d go to sleep and then wake up in 1887 again, without any time passing while I was away. I had two identical bodies but one conscious mind that traveled between them. It had been this way since I was born and would continue until my twenty-fifth birthday in less than three years. On that day, May 20, 1890, I would have to choose which life I wanted to keep and which one I would forfeit forever.
But I wasn’t thinking about my choice tonight. All I could think about was how the book would end.
With a sigh, I pushed aside the covers and set my bare feet on the thick rug.
The wind suddenly calmed, and the unexpected stillness allowed another sound to capture my attention.
I moved to my door and pressed my ear against the panel, the terrifying story of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde too fresh in my mind for me to find the courage to walk into the hallway without a candle.
Until I realized someone was crying.
My sister’s room was next to mine, and my parents’ rooms were on the floor below us. There should have been no noise outside my bedroom—yet I heard it again.
Slowly, I opened my door and stepped into the hallway. “Mary?” I whispered into the void. “Is that you?”
My younger sister’s bedroom door was ajar.
“Where will you go, Miss Mary?” Sarah Danbury, Mary’s lady’s maid, asked in a desperate voice. “Especially on a night such as this?”
Concerned, I walked to Mary’s room and opened the door a little further. A lone candle offered a bit of light as Mary stood near an open satchel, dressed in a dark travel suit, filling her bagwith a few items of clothing. She wiped her wet cheek with her shoulder but kept packing.
Danbury stood nearby, helpless, as she wrung her hands together. When she saw me standing at the door, her young face looked relieved, if only a little.
“What are you doing?” I asked Mary.
My sister looked up quickly, clearly surprised to see me. She had just turned nineteen, but she was delicate and appeared much younger, especially when she cried. Her dark red hair, the same shade as mine, was caught back in a low chignon with tendrils falling around her pretty face. When her gaze met mine, her green eyes glistened with fear.
“What are you doing?” I asked again as I walked into the room. “Why are you packing?”
Mary glanced at her maid and nodded for her to leave.
Danbury bit her bottom lip and looked like she might try to protest, but she knew it wasn’t her place to debate with her mistress. With a slight curtsy and a pleading look in my direction, Danbury left Mary’s room, closing the door behind her.
“Now can you tell me?” I asked.
My sister wiped away her tears as she went to her bureau and pulled out several pairs of stockings before returning to her satchel to stuff them inside. “I’m sorry, Kathryn. I can’t tell you where I’m going.”
“This is absurd,” I said as I investigated the satchel to see what she was packing. “Where are you going?”
She sniffed and swallowed hard. “It doesn’t matter.”
I frowned, truly perplexed. Our father was Sir Bernard Kelly, a renowned physician and respected author. Our mother was Mrs. Agatha Kelly, a leading member of Victorian society and a patron of the arts. Mary and I were rarely allowed to leave the house without a proper chaperone during the day, much less in the middle of the night, alone. It wasn’t safe, nor was it wise. And my sister had never been reckless or careless. She was a rule-follower and loved to please my parents.
I took Mary’s forearms, stopping her from packing her bag, forcing her to look at me.
Her eyes were swimming in more tears, and the anguish on her face broke my heart.
