“All set?” she asks from behind her display.
Oliver steps into the chamber and the door slides shut behind him. He sways on his feet, the rotating grid of glass and metal suddenly disorienting. He steadies himself against the curved wall.
A vibrant green light washes over him, and he squeezes his eyes shut against the brightness. It scans him from head to toe, cataloging his vital signs, checking for a DNA profile match and testing his recall chip. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. The scan completes and the chamber thrums to life. His ears pop as the pressure changes. The sounds of the lab turn dull and distant.
Oliver still isn’t used to the many odd sensations of time travel. The jagged energy that prickles like a thousand needles against his skin before a jump and the feeling of being squeezed tight and pulled apart all at once as he passes through time are unpleasant enough, but the most unsettling part is the smell.
Oliver didn’t realize time had a scent until his test jump. A hop, really—an hour into the past at the lab, and a return to his present—to set the travel limit within his recall chip. As Lucy later explained, he could travel to any time before that test-jump moment—within Aevum’s established rules as stipulated in his contract—but not after. She also wanted him to get a feel for the process before she sent him careening back to the first Elizabethan era. He thought the hardest part would be not losing his lunch, but when he returned to the lab, the scent lingering in the chamber brought tears to his eyes. Fake cinnamon and the powdery floral perfume his mother wore for dance recitals and hospital galas and date nights with his father. It smelled like home, or, at least, what home used to be. He thought it would fade when he opened the chamber, but he couldn’t escape it. It clung to him like bad cologne.
As best as Aevum could tell, the scents belong to memories associated with a then and now, a before and after, a changing of the seasons. It is different for everyone. To Lucy, the travelers smell like bonfire smoke and an afternoon storm in a pine wood. “Like summer at the lake with my cousins,” she once said wistfully. She has assured Oliver he will get used to it. He hasn’t.
A low vibration hums against Oliver’s skin, and Lucy gives him a thumbs-up through the glass. The hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand on end. He grits his teeth as the vibration turns into a pressure that fills the chamber. He braces himself for that scent, and in a blinding flash of light, the lab vanishes.
March 2, 1717London, England
Beatrix paces at the top of the stone steps, in and out of the narrow shadows cast by the row of grand columns. It’s the closest she’s been to the new cathedral, not even a decade old. She feels guilty, as if she has betrayed a dear friend by standing on these steps, running her hand along the smooth wood of the new doors. She can’t bring herself to push them open.
The skirts of her silk dress rustle around her ankles, and the tightly spiraled curls of her hair bounce at her shoulder. Her guts twist. Will Oliver show up, or is this all some cruel, long joke? Is it silly to think he’ll come back? To put on this dress? To believe him? Maybe he was only being polite when he agreed to meet her here. Maybe he never meant to come. Maybe—
A carriage slows to a stop next to the marble statue of Queen Anne presiding over the cathedral square. Beatrix ducks behind a column. She peers out, her heart pounding a wild rhythm inside her chest.
The door of the carriage swings open. A tall, well-dressed man with dark hair steps out, and she smiles. His brown wool coat falls to his knees, its edges embroidered with silver thread that catches in the waning daylight as he approaches St. Paul’s. He carries a black tricorn hat awkwardly under one arm, as if he’s not entirely sure what he’s supposed to do with it. Her heart flutters in her chest.
Beatrix steps from the shadows, and Oliver looks up from the bottom of the stairs. His eyes grow wide, but he doesn’t say a word as she descends. She glances down at her dress. “What? Is it all right?”
She has seen quite a few fashions fall in and out of favor over the decades, though she can never understand why they do. As far as she can tell, there is no rhyme or reason to what size skirt she should wearor where her neckline should fall. And don’t get her started on hoop skirts and stays.
She found this gown in a wardrobe in one of the guest rooms at the manor, forgotten along with the rest of the dresses Lady Holbrook deemed out of fashion. She thought it was just Lady Holbrook being frivolous. How can a thing of beauty stop being beautiful just because someone says it isn’t any longer?
And the dress is beautiful, with a fitted bodice and sweeping skirts the color of sage in a summer garden. The silk brocade shines in the late-afternoon light, embroidered with snaking vines in a fine gold thread. The sleeves fall in ruffles at her elbows, trimmed with delicate lace.
Oliver hasn’t said a word, only stares at her with his mouth agape. Maybe Lady Holbrook was right. Maybe the dress is unsuitable. “Should I change? The manor isn’t far, I can go back and find—”
“No,” Oliver says, finding his voice. He takes her hand and guides her down the last few steps. “Don’t change a thing.”
Butterflies dance through Beatrix’s insides as Oliver leads her to the carriage. This is different from the first time she met him, when they had no expectations of ever seeing each other again. Different from Carnevale, when they spent the night dancing and laughing without ever knowing who they were dancing and laughing with. She almost wishes for the masks of Venice again, porcelain armor she can hide behind.
Oliver helps her into the carriage. He exchanges a few words with the driver and slides in after her.
“Where are we going?” she asks as they pull away from St. Paul’s.
“The Theatre Royal in Drury Lane,” Oliver says. “Tonight is the first ballet performance in all of England. It’s like a play, but the story is told with music and dance instead of words.”
“That sounds lovely,” Beatrix says, though she can’t imagine how she will understand it if no one is speaking.
“It’s the first modern ballet performance in history,” he adds excitedly. “This is where it all starts.”
“Is ballet around in your time?” She is constantly surprised by what things survive from one century to the next and what things don’t last the decade.
“Some things have changed, but at its heart, it’s the same. I used totake lessons when I was a kid, and I danced in a recital based on a performance from the 1800s.” He smiles wistfully.
“Why did you stop?” His memories of it seem so fond.
His smile fades. He shifts on the upholstered bench next to her.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry,” she says quickly.
“No, it’s fine.” But he won’t look at her. All his attention is on his hands, clasped in his lap. “My mom was my dance instructor, growing up. I was dancing since I could walk, to hear her tell it.” A ghost of a smile crosses his lips, there and gone in a heartbeat. “She and my dad were in an accident when I was fourteen. They didn’t survive.”
