Protecting Truth (13 page)

::19::
Selfish

Guilt surges through me. After Bishop gave me the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever received, I lied to him. I told him that I had plans with Aunt Mona, only so I could face off with Hologram Turner again.

Staring into the classroom mirror, I search for the answer to why I’m so selfish. What’s wrong with me? My life is perfect in every way: perfect boyfriend, perfect school, perfect everything. Why do I need to have a mom too? I’ve gone sixteen years without her. Why can’t I just let Terease and the Society of Wanderers hunt Cece and the Underground by themselves? If capable, my mom will come and find me when she’s saved.

I
think
she will.

And that’s my problem, right there. If she’s capable, maybe she won’t come to find me. Maybe she doesn’t need me the way I need her. If she really has been alive all this time, why hasn’t she come looking for me? Given the opportunity, she may never look for me, and I’d lose her in time forever. Because maybe—she
doesn’t
care.

The only way I’ll know for sure is to find her myself. If I can see her, face-to-face, I can ask her the things I’ve wondered about since I discovered she was still alive. Then, if she wants to, she can leave.

But at least then I’ll know the truth. I need to do this for myself, to know my own truths. I need to be a better fighter, I need the rosary necklace, and I need to find her again.

I stretch out as the hologram machine counts down. “Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Hologram number—thirty-seven—on.” The robotic voice announces. A fizzled haze of electricity appears, but something’s different. When Hologram Turner solidifies and turns, he’s dressed in a pair of slacks, a vest, and a long-sleeve shirt. Not an outfit for fighting.

“What’s going on?” I ask, fisting my hands on my hips. “You’ve changed the hologram.”

“I didn’t say you’d be fighting the same routine
every
time.” He struts forward. “I’ve seen how you’ve mastered the other holograms over time. I can’t allow you the upper hand, can I?” His eyebrows arch and his lips curl at one side.

“I’m curious,” he continues, “what will you do to get this lovely little relic back?” He reaches into his vest and pulls out the rosary, inspecting it carefully.

“You’re changing the agreement!” I yell. It’s useful that Bishop will not feel my anger toward a hologram, since the training image isn’t a threat.

“There was never an agreement—just me offering you a chance. And I’ll change the conditions of that chance if I please.” He paces, flexing his muscles. He brushes the cross to his lips.

I just stand and gawk, allowing his actions to play in my head. I quickly realize he never intended to give me back the necklace. After our first match, he realized I might beat him and now, he’s switching everything around.

“You win!” I scream the safe words. Hologram Turner smiles before he dematerializes into sparkling dust, and the machine turns off.

Angry, I run out the door of the gymnasium and down the hall into Olde Town. I bolt up the hidden emergency steps to the fourth floor of the Academy. Then I storm down the hall to Turner’s apartment.

I don’t bother knocking. Instead, I kick the door open and then slam it shut. My fists clench into tight balls when I see Turner. He sits, arms hung lazily over the sides of a leather chair, facing the door.

“Seraphina,” he says, knowing the name will fire me up further. “I’d calm down if I were you. That is, if you don’t want Bishop to know you’re here.”

I freeze when he mentions Bishop. He’s right. I need to clear my head so I can speak in a mild manner and not alarm my team members. As time wears on, they’ve become more in tune to my emotions, especially anger and fear.

I close my eyes and inhale deeply, telling myself to relax my shoulders, my jaw, my chest, my arms, and everything down to my toes, just as Mr. Tash taught. In an almost meditative state, I inhale deeply again and open my eyes.

Free of my anger, I take time to survey the room. Dull lights flicker an orange glow on the wall. Stacks of drawings and strange little mechanical inventions sit on nearby tables. Music swirls around the space, Italian opera. The room smells like Turner, a delicious spicy musk.

“I’ve been expecting you,” he says. “Take a seat.” He gestures.

I do as he asks, trying not to think about why I’ve come. The thought will only work me into a frenzy again. I throw myself onto the worn leather couch.

“Gabe lets you keep a beat-up couch?” I ask to distract myself. Any time Gabe notices as much as a scrape on a table in our apartment, he fixes the item and returns it the very next day.

“I don’t let him in here. I prefer to choose my own possessions and not be controlled by the Academy,” he says, glancing around the mismatched apartment.

“I didn’t know we had a choice.”

“You always have a choice, Seraphina.”

I glance around the large apartment, sensing an empty loneliness throughout.

“Turner—why—why don’t you have a team?” I ask in the most tactful voice I can muster.

He stretches his neck, rolling it around on his shoulders, allowing himself time to search for the correct words to explain. “I had a team once,” he says, looking sad.

“What happened?”

“I suppose you could say it just didn’t work out.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, because I can see the pain in his eyes. “How are you able to stay, then?”

He leans forward. “I still have an interest in this life, and I enjoy working as the professor’s assistant. And maybe I have a vested hope that my team members will change their minds, however impossible that hope is.” He regards me. “Nevertheless, it’s nothing for you to worry about, Seraphina, it’s not of your doing.”

“Please don’t call me that. You know it irritates me.” I sigh.

“Very well.” He stands and sits on the couch next to me, draping his arm behind my back, resting it on a pillow.

I slide away slightly. “Can you please just tell me what you want, so I can leave?”

“What I want,” he pauses and leans in, “is for you to stay,” he says sheepishly.

“And why on earth would I do that?” I cross my arms. “I can see you have no intention of giving back the rosary.”

“I will. I told you I would, but only after you’ve stayed.”

“You’ve been playing a game, Turner. And it’s really starting to bother me. It feels like you’re using the necklace as a reason to spend time with me.” I hadn’t even known the words were true, until I said them out loud. I look over at him with shock.

“Yes,” he says softly and looks away. “Of course, you see right through me.”

“Turner, you need to stop. Really, I mean it. I’m in love with Bishop. I’m
with
Bishop.” I have no intention of hurting his feelings. I do care for Turner, even as much as he annoys me. I start to reach for his hand, to comfort him, but I stop and pull away. It will only give him the wrong idea.

“Just give me a chance, please, you’ll see,” he pleads softly. His beautiful ashen-gray eyes hold me, locked in a tethered gaze.

“I—I’m sorry.” I can’t help the guilt I feel with the apology.

He grabs both of my hands, sending goose bumps racing up my arms, the same energy that surged through my body the last time we touched. Turner looks down, noticing the pricks on my skin. My face flushes warm and red, igniting an unusual feeling in my stomach.
This shouldn’t be happening. He shouldn’t make me feel like this.

“Seraphina.” He whispers my name so gently, the breath from his mouth stirs a stray hair that’s loosened from my braid. It tickles my face. He brushes his fingertips to my cheek and just for this moment, I allow myself to look at him, to really see every part of his beautiful face—his slate-colored eyes, angular black brows, the coal-black wavy hair framing his chiseled features.

As if I have no control, my eyes shut, and I inhale his intoxicating spicy musk. In my heart, I see beyond his features and into his beautiful soul: charming and provocative, hidden behind a facade of misplaced anger and hurt. Anger that he desperately wants me to understand but is forbidden to explain. To touch him would release his secrets. To kiss him would set him free. My eyes flutter open. His lips, so full, so enticing, are inches away from mine. They whisper, seducing, drawing me closer.

“I’ll show you everything, be everything for you.” He gently gathers me into his arms.

My breath hitches in my throat.

“No!” I jump up, looking at him in confusion. Without thinking, I turn to quickly leave.

“Sera, wait!” Turner reaches for me.

I swing open the apartment door.

Perpetua stands on the other side, hand lifted, preparing to knock. She’s shocked, taking me in, but she instantly glances into the room. I can only imagine what it must look like with the romantic music and low lighting, and Turner looking as though he was about to kiss me.

“Oh—I’m sorry. I can see I’m interrupting something here.” She laughs her evil laugh and relaxes. She peeks into the room again, allowing her eyes to soak up every incriminating detail.

“Don’t worry, you aren’t.” I push past her and stomp down the hall.

“Sera!” Turner shoves around her, chasing me.

So I run.

“Sera,” Perpetua yells. “Give my regards to Bishop.”

And that’s when I hear Turner scream. I turn. Terease swoops in from out of nowhere and grabs his collar, yanking him away.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Terease asks him.

He fights without saying a word. Finally, he drops to his knees with his head cradled in his hands, sobbing.

Terease’s terrifying eyes find mine. I look on in horror, expecting her to torture my mind with her special brand of fire, but the brain-burning flames never come. I bolt, running.

I’m angry—angry with myself for being so incredibly stupid. What was I even thinking? How could I let myself get lost with him? I don’t understand why Terease came for him, but what I do understand is that Turner’s a danger to my relationship with Bishop and now, so is Perpetua.

Within a few hours, my guilty conscience has grown. Not only am I lying to Bishop, but I also almost kissed another boy…his brother! I sit on a bench on the second floor in the main atrium staring at my mural, the Seraphina Angel by Leonardo da Vinci. Bishop adores the painting because the time-traveling angel looks like me. But angels don’t do the things I do. I sit, wallowing in self-loathing for hours.

Our apartment door creaks open. I hear its unique squeak from down the hall. I tilt my body to one side and see Sam tiptoeing down the corridor. In her light pink pajamas, she pauses and gracefully sits next to me.

“I know why you’re out here.”

I continue to stare at the painting without responding. If I talk about what happened tonight, I’m certain I’ll cry.

“It would be helpful if you just stayed away from Turner.”

“How do you know what’s going on?” Several guilty tears escape, plinking into dark spots on my pants leg.

“I see things. I pay attention.”

“I promise, I don’t want him. I want Bishop.” My voice trails into a croak and my eyes well up again.

“What am I going to do?”

::20::
London Exhibition

Sam tilts her head, studying my face. Then she does something she rarely does. She shows compassion, leaning in to give me a comforting hug. “If you keep your distance from Turner, things will get better. I promise.”

I believe her; I need to. For an entire night, I allow myself hope that her words are true. I will, from now on, avoid Turner like the plague, even if he has the rosary. I need to hold on to what I have, not the glorified dream of my mom. I find the courage to go back to my apartment with Sam at my side. Thankfully, Bishop slept through our exchange.

I spend most of the night awake, reading through his love letters, the ones bound into the emerald velvet book. His words only solidified what I already know to be true—Bishop’s amazing.

The next morning, Bishop greets me at my bedroom door as he always does. Encircling me with his long arms, he kisses me sweetly on the cheek. But I can’t bear to look into his beautiful green eyes. All I’ll see in their reflection is the disappointment I feel for myself. I have to tell him about Turner before Perpetua finds him and regales him with her version of the story.

“You look exhausted.” He pulls me closer and squeezes.

“I didn’t sleep well,” I admit and place my head on his chest.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He strokes my hair, giving me more love than I deserve.

“Are you excited about our wandering trip today?”

“Yes,” I say automatically. In truth, I’d pushed it to the back of my mind. We’ve been listening to night classes on the contrapulator, the machine that allows us to learn while we’re sleeping. Last night’s classes not only covered the regular school curriculum, such as trigonometry and chemistry, but we also learned the etiquette of the mid-1800s and the history of the London Exhibition in 1862 for the field trip we’re taking today.

The London Exhibition was a huge event where inventors, entrepreneurs, and artists of the day exhibited their work. Some 28,000 exhibitors attended from around the world, hoping to promote trade and technology.

There’s a knock at the door. Sam glides forward to answer it. A smiling Gabe appears in the doorway with two large white garment bags.

“Good morning, my lovelies!” He bounces into the room. “I have your costumes for today.” He hangs them on the top of a door and unzips them. He pulls out a charcoal-gray suit for Bishop and a lavender Victorian dress for me.

“We meet in Olde Town at noon. And—oh—unsweet goodness, Sera, we can’t have you meeting 1862 with those awful designer bags under your eyes!” Gabe rushes toward me in a panic.

“How can you notice bags under my eyes that quickly,” I ask, touching my face. “You’ve been here for twenty seconds!”

“It’s my job, cupcake!” He approaches, pulls Bishop and me away from each other, and pushes me into my room. He drags me into the bathroom and frantically applies night cream under my eyes.

“Did you even sleep last night?” he asks, smearing green goo over my skin.

“Not much.” I cross my arms, annoyed. Really, I want to bat him away, but that would be like hitting a kitten.

“It shows! Well, this will have to do,” he says with frustration, giving my face a final look. “As soon as you get back from your field trip, take a nap!” Gabe gives me a hug. “I’ve gotta run and deliver more costumes.”

“Ciao, bella!” He blows a kiss at Sam on his way out the door.

“Are you feeling better this morning?” she asks.

“No, not really, but at least my eyes will look fabulous,” I joke and swing my hand through the air, mimicking Gabe.

“Just try to enjoy the day with Bishop.” For some reason, she’s become very sensitive to my feelings. Even though I can’t explain it, it’s nice to have someone to talk to. If only I could talk to her about everything else.

“I’ll try.”

She leaves, and I hop in the shower. Afterward, I dry my hair and twist it into a pile of curls on top of my head. To complete the style, I pin a delicate charcoal-colored hat adorned with mounds of lavender ribbon on top. The hairstyle matches exactly with a photo given to me by Gabe—his idea of a quickie beauty manual for the 1860s.

I step into a crinoline and pull it to my waist; the multiple layers sway with each step and will give the lower half of my dress its bell shape. Sam arrives to help tie off the corset. It’s awful and binding, but part of the costume. Finally, she helps me into the silk dress. With all the fabric, the thing weighs a ton, and the added weight of the crinoline doesn’t help. Sam fastens the opal buttons on the front. There are at least fifty of them, starting at my stomach and ending just below a lacy ruffled collar around my neck.

“Does it make you sad that you never get to dress up?” I ask. As our Seer, she remains in this time period, true time. As Bishop and I wander back into history, she’ll fall into a meditative state, in which she’ll view our travels through Bishop’s mind. They’re connected like a chain—her to him and he to me.

“A little. Even though I can’t travel with you physically, in my mind I feel as though I’m experiencing everything. It’s the most vivid dream you can imagine.” She finishes buttoning the top button.

She turns and reaches for a set of earrings, a pretty teardrop pair that dangle. When I put them on, they brush my jawline.

“You look perfect!”

“Thanks. Um—are you okay? I mean—you’ve been acting different. Sort of.” Nicer really, although, I don’t want to say that to her face.

“Fine.” She forces a flat smile. Obviously, she’s not.

“Seraphina, it’s time to go.” Bishop enters my room. He’s dashing and regal in his charcoal-gray gentleman’s suit, cut in a Victorian style. And just now, I notice that he’s grown sideburns. The look suits him.

“You’re lovely.” He presents his arm.

“Oh, almost forgot.” Sam reaches for something on the dresser. “Here’s your relic for the day.” She hands it to Bishop. “It’s an original ticket to the London Exhibition, the day it opened.” The ticket is black leather with gold letters embossed on the face. The logo of the exhibition building stretches across the top.

“Should be a fairly simple ride, not too many bumps in the wormhole,” she explains.

Sam’s grown intimately attuned to her job as Seer, learning about relics and finding the quickest route to any event in time. She turns to leave, heading for the Seer’s meditation room.

•

Students line up around the edge of Olde Town. Ms. Midgenet stands at the front of the line, offering final bits of advice as teams prepare to wander back in time.

When it’s our turn, we step forward.

“Okay, let’s see what we have here.” Miss Midgenet inspects us. “Gabe’s meeting you on the other side. Here’s some time-appropriate money and a guide booklet, listing the exhibitors.” She hands me a small change purse and the booklet. I tuck them into my drawstring purse. “I see you have your relic.” She nods at the ticket in Bishop’s hand. “And your keyword is ‘the London Exhibition of 1862.’ All right?”

We nod.

“Any other questions?”

“No,” we say.

“Well then, off you go!” She waves. A long patio of stone, perfect for running, stretches before us. Bishop holds the relic ticket in his hand and the keyword in his mind. Combined, they’ll transport us to the moment the relic and keyword crossed paths in history. Bishop gives me a gentle tug, and we run across the courtyard hand in hand.

The usual happens. Behind us, Olde Town folds up like a wave. The floor that we once ran over hovers above for several moments before crashing down, smacking us into a time-traveling wormhole.

The ride doesn’t make me sick like it used to. In fact, I find a strange peace in the transition. A blinding light appears at the far end of the tunnel. Like a magnet, we’re pulled forward and spit out. We land on a patch of dirt, where several students gather.

“Come, come, move out of the way before the next team pops through.” Gabe beckons.

“Sera, over here!” Macey waves in our direction.

As we approach, I notice something different. Macey and Xavier are holding hands. I flash her a grin, happy that she’s finally chosen one of the boys and put the other out of his lovesick misery.

She rolls her eyes, knowing full well what I’ve zeroed in on. “Come on, Xavier.” She pulls him away before I can say anything. She turns and whispers, “We’ll chat later.”

“I hope so!” I call after her.

“What was that about?” Bishop asks.

“She’s finally picked one.”

“One, what?”

“Ya know, one of her team members. They’re both in love with her. She finally chose one.”

“Attention, everyone!” Gabe interrupts our conversation as he engages the crowd of students. “Now that you’re all here, please remember a few things. It’s 1862, not true time, my lovelies. Mingle and have fun exploring all that the exhibition has to offer, but please observe from afar with minimal interaction. Consider each exhibit and how it’s changed our society. The inventions, the technology, the arts here have shaped the world you and I know. It’s a very exciting time,” Gabe says with exuberance.

“We meet back here in three hours. Please set your timepieces.” Each team complies.

“And most of all, have a fabulous time!” he says, clasping his hands.

A few teams at a time, we walk toward the Exhibition Hall. Many people linger in the building’s vicinity. There’s a feeling of busyness, which I can only compare to the excitement of Times Square in New York. Instead of yellow taxis and honking horns, horse’s hooves clip-clop, kicking up clouds of dust. Ornate buggies clatter and clank behind them.

Bishop and I stand in the entrance line. Looking around, I admire the grand exhibition building. Large arched windows wrap the facade. An oversized dome soars above the roofline, reaching for the sky. Several flags, mounted on poles, whip and crack in the breeze.

The line moves briskly toward a grand arched entrance where an attendant waves us in when Bishop flashes our gilded ticket. Upon entry, the stifling air surrounds us. So many people cram into the space that it’s uncomfortable. I pull at my high lace collar, loosening the fabric.

Bishop tugs my arm, guiding me into smaller exhibit area. Thankfully, there are less people, and it’s cooler here with the windows propped open. The corridor arches several stories high. A banner hangs from the ceiling, emblazoned MACHINERY IN MOTION.

We’ve entered an industrial exhibit area. About fifty stands have nothing but sewing machines. Each machine has its own special design, but it’s easy to pick out the designs that work best. These are the ones that resemble the sewing machines we have in true time.

As we stroll, the machines become larger. Steam engines blow smoke into the air, printing presses show the speed at which a book can be printed, the Platt Brothers demonstrate textile manufacturing. We’re amazed to see plastic, or at least the first manmade version of it, at its debut.

“There’s a similar exhibit in the Science Museum in London, in true time,” Bishop tells me.

“It’s actually more interesting to observe the people. Their faces say it all,” I say and point to a group of men huddled around a steam engine. “Look at their expressions.” I giggle. “They’re in awe of these machines, as if they’re magic.”

“‘Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic,’” Bishop recites. At my confused look, he adds, “Arthur C. Clarke.”

“That quote makes me think of science fiction, space ships, robots, and stuff. But I guess that speaks to any time in history, not just ours.”

“Indeed, it does.” Bishop wraps my hand around his arm.

We step into a new section. There’s art, sculpture, literature, music, and fashion from every imaginable place on earth. Beautiful urns and jars stack high. Exquisite jewelry glitters behind glass display cases, cases so beautiful and ornate, their woodworked craftsmanship should be appreciated as well.

We explore for a couple of hours, admiring everything. But after so much walking, I’m tired and sore from carrying the weight of the dress. We sit on the edge of an enormous, intricately carved fountain.

Bishop flips through the guidebook and sighs. “Clearly, we’ll never see everything,” he says as he snaps it shut.

“No, but maybe we can come back another time, just the two of us.” As I say the words, I see Perpetua some distance away, strolling with Stu. She turns in our direction and smirks when she sees us. No doubt, she’s remembering the dirt she thinks she has on Turner and me. With a calculating expression, she promptly turns and heads our way.