Quinn’s room. Or she could just end up invading her new friend’s privacy and be a truly horrible person.
“I’ve gone too far already,” she said, glancing around. There was no one to agree with her, or give her any reason not to do it, so she opened the envelope and slid out its contents.
The paper was odd, with its torn edge dotted with neatly placed holes and blue lines running all across it. The message written on it was preposterous and made her head spin even more than it had in Quinn’s room. It couldn’t be real. It was just something to do with the books of plays that were along with it in the box. Pure fantasy, nothing more. But it was made out directly to Miss Burnet, her name was on the envelope as well. Catie sat on the floor, reading it over and over until she’d memorized it, feeling sicker with every pass of her eyes across the page. Who was Miss Burnet? What was she?
Her eyes blurring with tears, she hastily put everything away, too distraught to remember to keep order or count wraps of the string. She shoved the hateful box back under the bed and staggered to her own room. The party was now a distant memory, as if it had happened months ago and not just that evening. Catie knew she had to deal with her new information, but she couldn’t make heads or tails of any of it at the moment. As much as she wanted to find Quinn and make him tell her everything was fine, she knew she could no longer trust him. If Lachlan was still alive and by some dark magic gone to another time, if Miss Burnet herself was a part of it, neither one of them could be trusted.
When she got to her own room, she collapsed on the bed and burrowed under the covers, dejected and shaking. A new, devastating idea grew until it surpassed every other bleak thought in her head. What if Lachlan was in trouble? What if he’d been coerced into leaving them? She tossed and turned until the sun glowed through her curtains, then finally fell asleep, hating everyone.
Chapter 9
Lizzie paused in front of the alley and looked up and down the street. It was extremely dangerous for her to be out so far past dark, and the little knife in her pocket didn’t seem as comforting to her as it did during the day. The closest light seemed miles away, not a soul in sight, and the shadowy depths of the alley seemed to go on forever. If she had to go down it, she decided she’d rather just go back to the house and await further instructions. No information about getting home could lure her into that smelly passage. She turned to leave, so spooked she was about to break into a run, when a skinny man stepped from the alley. He stopped a respectful distance from her and nodded a greeting.
She took a step away. He wasn’t much taller than her, and he looked sickly, pale and angular in the moonlight. One of his buggy eyes twitched at her and he swept his black knit hat off his head and clutched it to his chest. His clothes weren’t right at all, and against her better judgement she leaned in to get a closer look. He wore an oversized tuxedo jacket over a ragged sweater, which was jammed bulkily under a striped waistcoat, the only thing that could have remotely been from this time. On his lower half, it looked like he had on tight fitting jeans tucked into motorcycle boots. All the air left her lungs in a shocked wheeze.
“Who are you?” she gasped.
He smiled and slapped his hat back on, then dug in his jacket pocket to produce a card. “Solomon Wodge,” he said, surprising her further by sounding like a posh Cambridge professor. “My calling card.”
She took the card, and unable to read it in the dark, tucked it into her sleeve. “When are you from?” she hissed.
“Whenever I want,” he said, staring at her disconcertingly.
Frustrated and feeling the edges of fear, she clenched her fists at her sides. “Why did you want me to meet you here? Is there a new message from Lord Ashford? Is he still going to be able to make
“I’ve gone too far already,” she said, glancing around. There was no one to agree with her, or give her any reason not to do it, so she opened the envelope and slid out its contents.
The paper was odd, with its torn edge dotted with neatly placed holes and blue lines running all across it. The message written on it was preposterous and made her head spin even more than it had in Quinn’s room. It couldn’t be real. It was just something to do with the books of plays that were along with it in the box. Pure fantasy, nothing more. But it was made out directly to Miss Burnet, her name was on the envelope as well. Catie sat on the floor, reading it over and over until she’d memorized it, feeling sicker with every pass of her eyes across the page. Who was Miss Burnet? What was she?
Her eyes blurring with tears, she hastily put everything away, too distraught to remember to keep order or count wraps of the string. She shoved the hateful box back under the bed and staggered to her own room. The party was now a distant memory, as if it had happened months ago and not just that evening. Catie knew she had to deal with her new information, but she couldn’t make heads or tails of any of it at the moment. As much as she wanted to find Quinn and make him tell her everything was fine, she knew she could no longer trust him. If Lachlan was still alive and by some dark magic gone to another time, if Miss Burnet herself was a part of it, neither one of them could be trusted.
When she got to her own room, she collapsed on the bed and burrowed under the covers, dejected and shaking. A new, devastating idea grew until it surpassed every other bleak thought in her head. What if Lachlan was in trouble? What if he’d been coerced into leaving them? She tossed and turned until the sun glowed through her curtains, then finally fell asleep, hating everyone.
Chapter 9
Lizzie paused in front of the alley and looked up and down the street. It was extremely dangerous for her to be out so far past dark, and the little knife in her pocket didn’t seem as comforting to her as it did during the day. The closest light seemed miles away, not a soul in sight, and the shadowy depths of the alley seemed to go on forever. If she had to go down it, she decided she’d rather just go back to the house and await further instructions. No information about getting home could lure her into that smelly passage. She turned to leave, so spooked she was about to break into a run, when a skinny man stepped from the alley. He stopped a respectful distance from her and nodded a greeting.
She took a step away. He wasn’t much taller than her, and he looked sickly, pale and angular in the moonlight. One of his buggy eyes twitched at her and he swept his black knit hat off his head and clutched it to his chest. His clothes weren’t right at all, and against her better judgement she leaned in to get a closer look. He wore an oversized tuxedo jacket over a ragged sweater, which was jammed bulkily under a striped waistcoat, the only thing that could have remotely been from this time. On his lower half, it looked like he had on tight fitting jeans tucked into motorcycle boots. All the air left her lungs in a shocked wheeze.
“Who are you?” she gasped.
He smiled and slapped his hat back on, then dug in his jacket pocket to produce a card. “Solomon Wodge,” he said, surprising her further by sounding like a posh Cambridge professor. “My calling card.”
She took the card, and unable to read it in the dark, tucked it into her sleeve. “When are you from?” she hissed.
“Whenever I want,” he said, staring at her disconcertingly.
Frustrated and feeling the edges of fear, she clenched her fists at her sides. “Why did you want me to meet you here? Is there a new message from Lord Ashford? Is he still going to be able to make
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