“Hitler knows that the Freemasons support democracy,” Sir Rothschild said, “and they are one of the most powerful organizations on the earth. To allow Fascism to rule, we must first destroy the Freemasons. He has started to dismantle their lodges in Germany, Austria, and now Czechoslovakia. But if we have the Book, even a portion of it, we will have enough ammunition to take all of them down. And then Hitler can make his next move.”
“You’re a Fascist?” I asked him, though I shouldn’t be surprised, given his conversations at Cliveden House. “And all of this, eventhe murders in 1888, were all about taking the Freemasons down for Hitler.”
He smiled, pleased with himself, but narrowed his eyes. “I’m giving you just forty-eight hours to locate the Book, Miss Voland. I don’t care how you do it. I want it in my hands two days from now. And if you do not present it to me, you will never see yourpapaagain.”
I started to rise off the couch, to lash out at him, but Mama held me back.
How had I worked side by side with Jack the Ripper for months and not known?
When Sir Rothschild stopped at the door, he turned and said, “And don’t try to get the police involved. I have an impeccable record, and I have alibis. Besides that, I have the British Union of Fascists with over fifty-thousand members on my side, not to mention the keen and eager ear of Hermann Göring, the commander in chief of the Luftwaffe, and the second in command in Germany. You do not want to cross any of us.” He smiled, though it was cold and lifeless. “Get me the Book in forty-eight hours, or I will not hesitate to kill your papa.”
And with that, Sir Rothschild walked out of the parlor and disappeared.
Mama turned to me, her ashen face filled with horror. “He has Luc,” she said.
I rose, all my senses firing as I tried to grapple with everything Sir Rothschild had just told us. He was Jack the Ripper! I couldn’t remember ever seeing him in 1888, but had he recognized Austen and me on Berner Street? Thinking back, I tried to remember the man I had seen. It had been so dark, but it could very well have been Bryant Rothschild. They were the same height and the same build.
“How will I learn where they are keeping the Book if I don’t wake up in 1888 tomorrow?” I asked Mama.
“I don’t know.” She shook her head, her face filled with panic.
“What if I do wake up there tomorrow? I didn’t change history, despite trying. I can’t save Mary—” My voice caught as griefchoked me, but I had to stay strong for Mama. “But I can still save Papa.”
“You knowingly changed history, Kathryn. My grandmother Libby tried to do the same thing, and even though she failed, she still lost her 1774 path.”
I frowned as I stared at my mama. “You never told me that.”
She lifted her shoulders. “My grandfather Henry was a time-crosser, and he knew his destiny. Libby tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t be stopped, because he knew he had to die as a spy in the American Revolution. That’s why she couldn’t change history. I didn’t think it would happen to you, too. Mary didn’t know her fate, not like Henry did.”
“I have to get the Book,” I said as I paced, worrying my bottom lip. My heart was torn in half, thinking about Austen and Mary, but I couldn’t dwell on my grief right now. I needed all my energy to find a way to get Papa back.
Yet I still had questions. How did Mary get back to Miller’s Court? Was Miles loyal to Sir Rothschild? And what was Sir Rothschild’s real name in 1888?
More importantly, how had history not changed when we’d moved Mary far away from the scene of the crime?
“I need to speak to Austen,” I said as I came to a stop.
“How? You won’t go back to 1888, Kathryn.”
“No. I need to speak to the Austen of 1938. Right now.”
I began to move toward the door, but she reached out to try and stop me. “Don’t go. You can make things so much worse.”
“I can’t sit here and worry, Mama. I need todosomething.”
I didn’t let her stop me, but rushed out of the house and ran from Berkeley Square to Wilton Crescent. I was out of breath when I arrived there fifteen minutes later, and my heart felt like it might burst inside my chest, but I ran right up to the door and rang the bell, then pounded on it with all my might.
I waited as I tried to catch my breath.
But no one answered my knock. I tried again and again, and even shook the doorknob, trying to get in, but nothing.
There was no one at home.
Surely, Austen would know I had questions. He saw me in 1938 and knew I was in London. My sister still died. He’d tried to help me save her. Where was he now when he could tell me what happened?
Unless he had died, as I feared.
I backed away from his house, never feeling more defeated or heartbroken in my life.
