Time After Time (30 page)

Outside, I made my way to the end of the street and caught the bus to the state library. Even though I made it a rule to never cut class, today was an exception.
Besides
, I told myself, rationalising to my guilty conscience,
I’m doing research
.
Important research
.

An hour later, the bus dropped me at the front of the state library, and I stood for a moment, staring up at the large, grey building, feeling anxious and tiny before it. Swallowing hard and telling myself I didn’t have anything to lose, I went in.

The foyer was busy with people milling about everywhere. I located the service desk and joined the queue, jiggling nervously from foot to foot.
Get a grip
, I berated myself,
There’s nothing to be nervous about
.

Finally it was my turn.

‘I’m looking for books on this topic.’ I held out the reference for the librarian to examine.

‘Third floor, dear. That’s where all that stuff is.’ From the tone of her voice I guessed she didn’t think much of the subject and probably thought it should be housed in the attic.

I smiled at my unintended association. Perhaps if it had been stored in the attic, then Penelope might have found it.

I caught the elevator to the third floor and located a free desk, where I dumped my things. Then I sat back in the chair and deliberated. Did I really want to know? Did I really want further proof that my theory of reincarnation was correct? It was okay to suspect that the reason behind all this was reincarnation, after all, I wasn’t the only person in the world who claimed to remember their past lives, but did I really want to know?

Then I remembered Rem. The way he’d stared at me so intently, how he’d kissed me, and how ominous he’d sounded last night, the air around him icy and chill. I remembered Penelope, so in love and happy, unaware that Sebastian, at any moment, would destroy everything.

I swallowed hard. For Penelope, I feared, time had run out.

Minutes later and without even thinking about how it happened, I was back at the desk with a pile of solid, dusty books in my arms. Most of them resembled old encyclopaedias, the ones my Gran used to have lining the shelves of the study.

I opened the first ancient-looking book and began to read.

These crackpots had spent their entire lives researching reincarnation. They’d interviewed countless people who claimed to remember past lives, and through hypnosis they had helped many more remember. Of course, none of the psychos had any proof; after all, what proof could they possibly have?

I felt a little despondent as I read through the various texts, which all espoused the same type of thing. Not everyone was reincarnated, just those who had lessons to learn. Some people were reincarnated together repeatedly, throughout history, replicating old relationships that needed closure.

Like Sebastian and me.

Like Marcus and me.

Like Sebastian and Marcus?

I shivered. Then there was Lilly, who was somehow embroiled in it all too.

Randomly picking a book and scanning through its list of contents, I turned to its first chapter. The book was by a woman recalling her previous life as a London debutante in love with a young man who left her broken-hearted. That was why she’d been reincarnated—to reconnect with him.

I felt like gagging over the Mills and Boon saga. Surely they could’ve conjured up something less clichéd than a tragic love triangle.

Heath. Penelope. Sebastian.

Returning to the shelf where I had drawn the books from, I let my fingers trace along their spines when one suddenly caught my eyes.

Henry Broadhurst, Esq.

I blinked, my heart hammering to a standstill in my chest.
Harry?

Anxiously I yanked the book from the shelf and raced back to my desk.

The cover was worn and dusty, the letters of its title old-fashioned and boxy.
Lessons of the Soul
, they read.

It was unmistakable. Harry had written a book on reincarnation.

I opened it, my eyes roaming slowly over each page. In the front was a dedication. For me. Well, not
me
, but for Penelope Broadhurst. My heart caught in my throat. Broadhurst, not Lockwood, which meant that Penelope hadn’t married Heath. Everything had happened before they could even claim a moment of true happiness. Penelope had run out of time.

Feeling sick to my stomach, I read the dedication.

To my forever beautiful and innocent cousin, Penelope Broadhurst, a victim of the vicious cycle of life. May she one day learn the truth about her past—for it is only when we face the truth that we are set free. It is for her, for her future, that I write this book
.

There was more.

And to Jane Smith, who sees so much and whose wonderful insight and abilities have helped significantly in this research
.

I blinked.

It was all too much of a coincidence. Why would Harry have written such a book? And what were the odds that two hundred years later I would read it? And Jane Smith…I remembered the way Jane had looked at Penelope all those times. Had she ever managed to tell Penelope whatever it was she had to say?

But she’d told someone. She’d told Harry.

The question was,
what
had she told Harry?

Turning the page, I ran my fingers down the list of contents, my blood running cold. A myriad of names, the very same collection as the ones printed in the front of my journal, swam before my eyes.

Orla, Claire, Maria, Katherine, Antonia, Prudence, Vivienne, Veronica, Elizabeth,
Penelope
.

I couldn’t breathe. Oh god, Harry had written about them. He knew about
everyone
.

With trembling fingers, I turned to Orla and began to read. Then I flicked to Claire, then Maria, then to Kathleen, reading just the first few paragraphs. Then to Prudence, Vivienne, Veronica, Elizabeth, and finally, Penelope. I didn’t read the whole of each chapter, they were too long. I just needed to see if they matched my recollections. My memories. My dreams.

They did.

Flicking back to the contents page, I stared at the other name, the last name. The one that didn’t appear in my journal. Rebecca. Terror coursed through my veins.

It was the only life I didn’t remember and the one that mattered most, according to Rem. The ancient one. Rebecca and Anthony.

The urge to flick back to the chapter on Penelope and read about her was strong, but I didn’t think I could bear it. I was already having trouble breathing and was shaking all over. Plus, having seen Heath’s tombstone and the dedication at the front of the book, I knew what had happened.

Sebastian
had happened.

Instead, I turned the pages, flicking past all the chapters, all the stories, to the very last one. The one I didn’t know.

With my heart thrumming anxiously in my chest, I began to read.

And kept reading, until my eyes were bleary and my head spun.

As I read the story,
my
story, I felt ill. Nausea at the facts scrawled across the pages roiled my stomach.

Nausea at what I did.

Marcus could never know. No one could ever read this.

Rem knew. And he loved me still. It was unfathomable.

I sat with my head in my hands for a long time, staring at the open book. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it all. Snippets of the story lodged themselves in my mind, but the tale read like an encyclopaedia, flat and emotionless.

Rebecca was beautiful…sold as a slave to a rich man named Cyrus who planned to institute her in his household…As part of his household…not a wife…She was desperate and Anthony was in love with her, she knew it. A Roman legionary, he had a bright future. He was expected to go far within the Roman Army; he had already caught the eye of the Emperor and was to marry the daughter of a rich merchant
…

But Rebecca lured him…seduced him
…

She recruited him into helping her escape, which he did, expecting they would be together forever…Then, in order to save her own life, she betrayed him and turned him over to the Army for helping a slave escape…He was punished cruelly
…

I was aghast as I read his punishment, and I had to cover my mouth to keep from gagging. Those were cruel, cruel times.

Yet he loved me still. He continued to show up in each life, trying to make me love him, to make me remember. And when I didn’t, when I
couldn’t
…he killed me. Yet he knew; he
knew
I’d betrayed him, left him, and still he kept coming, time after time.

It was black and white. Rem should
hate
me more than anyone. I did. I hated what I’d done, hated what he’d suffered because of my selfishness.

Feeling wretched, I lowered my head to the book, inhaling the musty smell of the pages. Harry had done well. Jane Smith was cleverer than she’d been given credit. She must have become stronger than her mother.

But that wasn’t all. Harry had garnered and recorded the facts, sure enough, but he’d missed something, I was sure of it. It couldn’t be so simple. It didn’t feel simple, not at all…

Closing my eyes, I felt the world tilt slightly, felt myself slip, like I was falling asleep. Only I wasn’t sleeping. I was remembering.

The air was thick, and I waited inside the small tent anxiously, nervous and afraid for what would happen should I be caught, but I knew there were no other options
.

He was here soon enough, striding through the curtains, the sight of his broad, muscled frame pulling the air from my lungs. He was magnificent
.

‘Becca.’ He reached for me, and I fell into his arms, the smell of sweat overwhelming me
.

‘Kiss me.’ I tilted my head up and parted my lips. A low growl escaped his throat as he lowered his head
.

His lips were firm and hot, and I slowly let myself be devoured by him, relishing the hardness of his body, the way his arms encircled me and pulled me within his world. It was where I wanted to be
.

Arching against him, I traced my fingers over his arms, which were slick with perspiration from his training. He would be leaving for battle in just a few days, and I was to be sold soon after. I was running out of time
.

His mouth left mine, running hot kisses down my throat, and his fingers pulled at the clasps in my hair, letting the curls tumble free to my waist. Pulling back, he gazed down at me, his eyes heavy-lidded, his expression dark and sensual. ‘You are so very beautiful, Becca,’ he murmured
.

I smiled, knowing that in only a few moments he would do anything for me. Anything. ‘And I am all yours.’

I tugged at the clasp on my tunic, and it pooled at my feet. A few more moments and he would do anything
.

Opening my eyes, I stared blankly at the shelves around me, seeing nothing but the image of Anthony—Sebastian, Rem—and sensing nothing but the way I felt when he had touched me. When he had touched Becca.

I couldn’t breathe.

Meredith was waiting for me when I arrived home that afternoon.

‘Did you cut class?’ she demanded, looking more shocked than angry as she launched straight into attack mode.

I shrugged. ‘How did you know?’

‘Marcus rang me,’ Meredith informed me. ‘He was worried about you. Said you were sick but that when he tried to get hold of you, you weren’t answering your phone and weren’t at home either.’

‘Oh.’ I pulled my phone out of my bag and switched it back on. Immediately it started to trill with messages. Beth. Marcus. Laura. Meredith.
Rem
.

‘Well? Where have you been? You obviously aren’t sick.’

‘I had to go to the state library for school,’ I explained, bristling slightly under Meredith’s interrogation. ‘I didn’t want to go at night and couldn’t wait for the weekend.’ I felt slightly irritated with Marcus for his obvious betrayal.

Meredith’s face faltered and I hesitated. I’d been gearing up for an argument or confrontation, and I was disappointed it was about something so benign. I felt hot and itchy, like I wanted to shout and rail at someone, but it wasn’t fair to do so to Meredith. None of this was her fault.

It was mine.

‘Well. I suppose that’s okay, but you really shouldn’t cut class, Abbie.’

‘It’s no big deal,’ I told her. ‘I’ve never cut before, and I’m not likely to make a habit of it.’ I paused before swiftly changing the conversation. ‘Why are you home so early anyhow?’

‘We have an appointment this afternoon.’

‘Oh. That’s right.’ My face fell as I remembered. The therapist meeting. It was the last thing I felt like doing, but there was nothing to be done about it. ‘Let me just get changed and—’

‘Stay like that,’ Meredith said. ‘You look nice. You’re really pretty without the makeup.’

I made a face. I’d only gone barefaced because I didn’t want to draw attention to myself on the bus and in the city, ditching school and all, but now that I was home I felt the need to smother my face. It somehow made me feel stronger, safer. ‘I’ll just be a minute,’ I told Meredith, disappearing upstairs.

‘And how are you feeling, Abbie?’ Dr Evans was asking. ‘How are the antidepressants going?’

‘I’m not taking them,’ I replied quite firmly. ‘I’m not depressed.’

Dr Evans frowned, looking quite the stereotypical psychiatrist with his pointy beard and round spectacles.
Dr Freud eat your heart out
. ‘What do you mean, you aren’t taking them? I see here you’ve had a refill.’

I shook my head. ‘No. You must have me confused with someone else.’

His frown deepened. ‘That is not possible, Abbie. We are very careful here. No, I can see already they are working just by the change in your appearance.’

‘But I’m not taking them,’ I replied quickly, before my mind churned over his words. I’d refused to take them. Meredith had insisted they were important. She had backed off but was watching me all the time; only that morning she had come to see how I was ‘feeling’. And the dreams had stopped.

I felt sick as realisation dawned on me. She wouldn’t! Meredith wouldn’t have been so sneaky, so devious and sly, as to dose me with antidepressants without my knowledge, would she?