Page 17 of Across Time

Marie pouts. "You just know you’d lose.”

He returns to his book. “Yes, or perhaps I just don’t care to repeatedly witness my own sister running around in the dark naked,” he replies.

"It must have been so fun, growing up with a sister," Marie says dreamily.

There's a small pit in my stomach. Did I momentarily forget? "I was the only time traveler in my family, so it wasn't as fun as you might be imagining."

"But did you play tricks on them at least?" Marie asks, eyes alight. "Once I learned how, I used to jump in and hide things. My mother would be cooking and I'd practice sneaking in to move her stuff." She laughs. "Do you remember, Henri? She used to get so angry with me."

His mouth lifts at the corner. "As I recall it led her to blame you anytime anything went missing."

She sighs. "Well, yes. But it was fun at the start at least."

"My household was very different than yours. My mother doesn’t look on time travel as much of a gift."

“But why?” asks Marie.

Because it’s the reason my sister is dead, I could tell her. But even that isn’t it entirely. My mother hated time travel long before Kit died. For as far back as I remember, it’s been as if she could see this evil inside me, something I couldn’t alter or eradicate. I’m not sure I’ll ever understand it, but I keep hoping that if I can stop using the gift, she’ll be able to care a little bit. “She believes it does more harm than good,” I reply quietly.

“Nonsense," Marie exclaims. "You and I are like Rapunzel! We can spin straw into gold if we choose."

I glance at her and then around the room. Buckingham Palace this is not. She sees my look and frowns. "We have money. My mother, and now Henri, are just ridiculously concerned with spending it. They think it will draw attention. If it were up to me we'd be living in a mansion overlooking the Seine, and I'd have a servant for every finger and toe. But you could do that, once you’re home.”

I flush. "That's not how I want to live. Once I'm done here, I'll never travel again."

"That's right," says Henri, with a touch of acid to his voice. “The perfect Mark will meet your every need and time travel will become a thing of the past."

Mark. The mention of him cuts me sharp as a chard of glass. I haven’t thought about him once all night, and I should have. He leaves for Nepal tomorrow and this would have been our final evening together, one I’d have loved though he’d probably spend the hours begging me to come with him, begging me to give up my virginity, or both.

“You seem to enjoy making Mark sound like some mercenary choice on my part,” I snap, angry at Henri and also myself. “Why is that?”

“Because,” he replies, “you’ve never said anything to imply he’s not.”

My mouth opens to argue and I close it. I don’t have to justify anything to a farmer who’s going to live alone for the rest of his life. But thank God I’m nearly ready to leave.

9

It’s another few days before I feel rested enough for the journey home, the hours enlivened by a constantly time-jumping Marie, who appears in the kitchen without warning, reminding this earlier version of Marie to warn a friend about standing too close to the stove, or to go check on Madame Brun’s sick baby and persuade her to take him to the doctor. It had never occurred to me until now that it was even possible for time travel to be used for good, but it doesn’t change how I feel about my own ability. I’m every bit as eager as I ever was to be rid of it.

I spend my final day with the Durands doing something no one would consider restful: laundry, which is an unbelievable pain in the ass in 1938. Marie and I are stuck indoors all day long, using a scrubbing board to clean every single shirt and dress and undergarment individually. The water is in heated copper tubs and the room is damp as a sauna the whole damn day.

“Jesus,” I say, wiping my brow on my sleeve. “Don’t washing machines exist yet?”

Marie shrugs, indifferent to the idea. “It’s not so bad.”

“Marie, we could wash all of this—all of it—in one hour without scrubbing a single thing. You can’t tell me that doesn’t sound like an improvement.”

“I doubt it works as well,” she replies.

“It works better.”

The next time Henri comes to the pump, Marie walks to the front door and calls to him. “If washing machines have been invented,” she tells him when he walks over to us, “I think I’d like one.”

“Tell the little thief to keep her suggestions to herself,” he replies.

He steps inside just as I’m grabbing the tub of dirty water to dump it. His hands fold over mine as he takes it from me. “Please don’t tire yourself today. You’ll need all your reserves to make it back safely tomorrow.”

“A washing machine would allow everyone to save their energy,” I reply with a small smile.