Prologue
My life had become a telegraph.
Sirens sounding.
Stop.
Flashes of blue. Splashes of red.
Stop.
The fleeting comfort of his smoky blue eyes.
Stop.
Getting jostled onto the ambulance.
Stop.
Blackness.
Stop.
It was not supposed to be like this.
Elizabeth
Chapter 1
A letter. Is that not how all adventurous tales embark?
I was working down by the gardens when I got the call from my messengers. I secluded myself from my work and exchanged my work gloves for the evening pair as I waltzed through the back entrance of the mansion.
“Here ya go, Miss Elizabeth,” Taylor greeted me, chipper as always. Taylor has always been such a kind boy, delivering messages to all the houses in the neighborhood. Most of the people living ‘round these parts of London believe themselves to be “too good” to associate, not to mention talk or keep a relationship, with a simpleton like Taylor. One of the reasons I have much enjoyed Taylor since I had meet him. He grinned a smile of pure contentment, one that I hoped to one day replicate on myself, as he handing me an ivory envelope sealed by a black nightingale etched in wax. The staple of my closest friend Helen.
“Why, thank you, you young and dashing sir,” I replied, warmth and wit coloring my tone. “I do not know how I would get along without out you, Taylor.”
He blushed. “Well,” he stuttered. “I will be anywhere if you need me,” he finished, taking his leave.
I looked down at the letter. Considering that Helen did not join Taylor in the deliverance, as she was also of sane mind and found no disgrace in communicating with people with not as much of a wealth as we acquired, I deduced that she was still down in her lab, working on her latest task.
We, Helen and I, have been the best of companions practically from inside the womb. Our parents were close growing up as well. When we were conceived, nearly a month’s difference, our mothers became inseparable, shopping, walking up and down the Main Street, chatting at every social gala. My mother went into early labor. She died during my birth. My father was quite devastated. Thanks to Mrs. Wells, I was raised, alongside Helen.
Passing through the sitting room, I found my father conversing with Mr. Timothy Evans. My father, although graying and slightly robust around the middle, is a gentle and wholesome man.His small fortune keeps us in respectable housing and acquaintances.
And then there is Mr. Timothy Evans, a social giant, whose charm and deep pockets have made him quite the catch around the circles of society ladies that I much detest. Timothy has also been courting me, pestering me with compliments that are absolutely penniless and outrageously ridiculous to me.
“Good afternoon, Miss Elizabeth,” Timothy said, turning toward me. “It is lovely to see you,” he continued a smug smile tainting his features, a sickening glint entering his eye.
“Thank you, Mr. Evans. It is pleasant to see you as well,” I replied, as is customary. Of course, it is purely lies, as always. The arrogant posture with which his stance took after disgusted me. As did the smirk that flitted across his lips.
“Hello daughter,” Father bellowed out. “What are you doing at the moment? Would you care to join Timothy and I in conversation?”
“No thank you, Father. I’ve received a letter from Helen and am going to my room to open it,” I told him. “Could you be bothered to send up Claire?” I requested upon second thought.
“Of course, darling,” he smiled back at me, his cheeks resembling those that must have belonged to Saint Nicholas himself.
I went up to my room, or suite as one could call it, and was surprised to find that Claire was already waiting there. “Good afternoon, Ms. Liz,” my faithful maid greeted me. Claire is a sweet girl. She is only 14 but I make sure she is paid more then any other maid whose story has grace my ears.
“Good afternoon,” my voice came out cheerful and happy as I danced over to the cream vanity where my mirror stood. “So, what impressive maneuver have you conducted for my hair today?” I asked, plopping onto the stool.
She chuckled at my exuberance. “I was just going to put a simple braid in it, but you seem a bit too giddy to sit still even long enough for that.” She laughed again.
“How wonderful!” I chirped. The arrival of Helen’s letter had filled me with excitement to find out what hair brained idea she would be constitutioning today.
“And why are you so happy today?” She questioned. That was the funny thing about our relationship. Or, should I say, one of the funny things about our relationship. There were many unusual quirks in our pairsome. We shared witty banter and gossip. We were close, like sisters, though not as strongly as Helen and I. Yet another thing that the snobbish society ladies refused to take part of. They weren’t even as hospitable as I am with Claire as they are to their own kin. “Ah,” Claire released the thick, raven black weight of my braid down my back. “A note from Ms. Wells. I’ll leave you to read it.” There is another example of Claire good instincts. She always seems to know what I need at what times, even if I do not know sometimes.
I looked down at the letter place in my lap, carefully pulling the wax sealant off the thick parchment paper.
My dear friend, Elizabeth, it read.
It brings me great joy to be writing to you about such a discovery as I have made. I have completed my most ingenious invention. It is my most noble feat yet and it is my wish that you will be able to come with me on my journey into the unknown.
Great wishes, your friend,
Helen G. Wells
I refolded the paper and placed it in the small jewelry box that I know that no one will look. Someplace I put secret things. It would soon overflow.
Chapter 2
“Good evening,” Mr. Halls greeted me. “It is lovely to see you again, Miss Elizabeth,” he monotoned.
“Good evening, Anthony. Solid as always, I see,” I joked. We have been playing this game for years now, ever since Helen hired Anthony as her newest butler. Anthony is a little over middle aged with only a few locks of faded hair. I swear, one day I will break through his tough exterior. Although, true to routine, today was not that day.
“Elizabeth!” An elated voice rang out from the stairwell. “You came!”
Her joyous reaction amused me. “Ha ha,” I chuckled. “Helen when have I ever missed one of your insane inventions?”
“Oh, never bother,” she chorused in her velvet like, rich tone. “Come,” she eagerly swayed me toward the basement stairway. “I have so much to share!” This is how she always talked off her work, filled with eager vagueness. Helen had such lightness, such a child-like sense of wonder for the world. She sets her sights on a goal and does not stop until she has reached it. I admire that in her, although, if ever you were to get into an argument with her, then you best be ready for a rumble, even though she may not be correct, she will fight until the end.
Helen led me down to the stone fortress of her lowest level, stopping me in front of nothing but a door, it seemed. “Helen,” I sighed. “Why am I looking at a door?”
“Elizabeth, you have no imagination,” she chastised me for the millionth time, tusking me under her breath. Although I am a journalist here in London, she denies any imagination I may, and do, have. As you might assume, we are both very steadfast. “This is adventure, my friend! We could go anywhere! Anytime! This is the past and future all tied up at your exposure! My dearest companion, this is the invention of our generation and the next to come!”
She laments like this often. Rarely ever do you get a direct response from her. “Helen, I do not have all day. May I have a straight forward answer?” I requested.
“This is a time machine, Elizabeth!” Her face glowed as she told me this last piece of the puzzle. I can only imagine what my facial expression exuded. My guess? Humor. “Elizabeth! I am telling you exactly what is in front of you! Why you are skeptical is beyond me at this point!” She all but exploded.
“Sweetheart,” I soothed her. “It is not that I am skeptical so much as that would be uncharted and dangerous territory had you actually succeeded in what you have foretold.”
“Step through it, prove me wrong!” Her dynamite-like temper flared to life. “Just think of yourself in a future existence.”
“Okay, then,” I said, doubtfully. It is always best to go along with Helen. To be quite honest, she is right a lot of the time. Why she does not claim to be a psychic is past me. Well, I thought. Let us get this over with. Inside, I was secretly hoping this door wouldn’t be anything, that I would walk through it and still be in the drafty confines of Helen’s lab space. I am always a trifle scared when I witness one of her contraptions. But, I never let myself bail out on her. So, I steadied myself, imagined a future extension of myself, turned the knob on the door and walked through. A wall of bitter cold met me there, the bizarre feeling of being pulled and pushed into different shapes as if in psychedelic accompanying.
And then it ended. I opened my eyes to find, halfway sad, validation of Helen’s words. What I saw was not the London I knew. There were many more people here, and not only English, but people from other lands and other skins. The clothing was not the uncomfortable, unpractical hoop skirt dresses forced upon ladies, like myself, in my time, but insultingly short bloomers with tight shirts that brought to my mind the sausages hanging in the butcher’s window on Main Street.
As I slowly took it in, I noticed situations that trouble me in this future scenario. The young ladies seemed to be possessed by small light sources that slid in and out as they guffawed to their friends. “LOL,” was muttered from one girl. “OMG,” from her acquaintance.
“I told you,” came a soft voice from beside me. She watched me, amused by my reaction. “Oh, my precise girl. Did you really think things would stay the same, Lizzie?”
“Well..,” I murmured, reddening at my incompetence.
“Everything changes. Just look down at yourself,” Helen said. I obeyed her and found myself in someone else’s clothes. I had on what seemed to be slacks bound by suspenders over a striped and quite fitted blouse, though, I’m not quite sure I can even call it a blouse as that would require some elegance or grace radiating from it, where this had the opposite. “Look in your pocket,” she instructed. Again, I followed her directions. Located in my pocket was a light source much like I’d seen the many girls carrying, except now I could feel a sort of soft metal covering its base.
“What is this?” I questioned.
“That,” she paused for impact, staying true to the signature Wells pedigree. “Is a cellular device. If you learn how to operate it,” she said, pushing an assortment of, to me, random buttons, causing the resonating light to change and warp into words and pictures. “You will have figured out how to interact with every thing this future has to offer. Here the horseless carriages are even more populous then the ones with horses were in our time. They have mechanisms that create plays out of thin air and let you call someone half way around the world.” She explained, turning, presumably to leave, to a café’s door.
“Where are you going?” I questioned, a slightly timid quiver leaking into my tone. Was she honestly thinking of leaving me stranded on this alien plantation?
“I have work to do,” she responded. “But feel free to stay for a little while.”
“Are you serious?” I sputtered. “How on earth shall I get back?”
“Trust me, you’ll figure that out.” And she left. She should never have done that.
~
I wondered around this new London for quite some time. I took in all the new sights and rituals surrounding me. It did not take me long to realize that, by the appearance given off by this new humanity, love was no longer the only reason for embrace. Walking by storefronts and cafes and street corners, I saw many a young couple smooching with no marital bonds being displayed on their hands.
I kept going until I grew quite weary, continuing to keep my head up and sorrowfully letting it drop. The last thing I remembered was drooping down the wall and crumpling like a wilted flower, losing conscience in a dirty alley corner.
Chapter 3
“Good morning, Miss Elizabeth,” Claire woke me.
I stared, gawking, around my pink dusted room. Nothing was out of the ordinary, all items were in their place, no different then the way I’d left them. My gaze drifted down to my garments, which, it appeared, had transformed form the disrespectful outfit it had displayed, not but hours ago, into my pink satin nightgown.
“Good morning,” I slowly responded, my voice sparse with bewilderment. I watched as a bemused smile budded onto her face.
“Someone is a bit absent minded this morning,” she mused at me.
“You have no idea, Claire,” I exclaimed, falling back onto the bed. “I can hardly remember the events from the last hours,” I said, feigning vagueness. If I told her the truth about what I couldn’t remember, she would surely classify me as a mentally impaired person.
“Ah, but of course you can not.” Her tone was nostalgic and the statement breezed so naturally out of her mouth that, for a fleeting moment, I believed she knew exactly what I was speaking of. “When you sleep, you lose your thought process. Therefore it is only natural not to remember what one experiences while in the realm of sleep,” she finished, looking pleased with herself for providing, what she seemed to think, was an obvious explanation. It was silly for me to have hoped that she would understand. I mean, why should she when I, myself, did not.
I was still deeply submerged in my mind as Claire went along the tasks of the morning, weaving her hands in and out of my hair, dressing me in the corset that twists its ribbons around my torso, constricting my airflow daily.
That was before the door to my quarters opened and in stepped through Helen. Claire quickly excused herself. “Good morning,” Helen greeted me. “I presume you slept well?” She said, her cool tone revealing nothing of her current state of mind.
“I believe I slept well,” I replied, wearily searching her expression for some sort of explanation to our situation. None was to be found. “Though, due to the transfiguration from here to the distant world that you abandoned me in, I am not quite sure what has occurred in such a short time” My eyes delved into her, probing for her to explain how it is I have returned here from the rancid ally corner to the confines of the luxurious four-poster bed.
“I am guessing you are digging for an explanation,” she deduced. “Well, for that, I believe we require a change of setting,” she continued, pulling her trench coat from where it lay upon the base trunk of my bed and fitting it around her shoulders.
“Never a straight answer to cross your lips. Eh, Helen?” I joked, fastening my cape on the nape of my neck and closing the door behind us as we exited the dwelling, plaguing the snow with our footsteps.
~
“Great”, I stated, a bit annoyed at the lack of explanation on our way over. I was looking upon the same scene I’d seen unfold yesterday. “To explain something, your explanation is to, once again, go through the mechanism that caused the problem to which explanation is required. What a marvelous notion,” I mused. I entertained the idea of turning toward home and forgetting the incident with the door all together. But, some sort of curiosity, sparked perhaps by my friend’s strong pride, happiness, and resolve in her work coupled with my writer’s intuition to uncover the truth in mystery, that rooted me to the spot.
“Oh, Liz,” she shook her head, but not in the slightest bit cruelly. “I know your confused and your instincts are commanding your tone, your voice in the form of denial and sarcastic colors.” This is one of the advantages of having such a friend as I’ve found in Helen, as she knows that, although my tone may reveal shocks of annoyance, that my true feeling are but confusion and weariness to the unknown. “Trust me, El,” she said, taking my hand and gesturing toward the door. “It is a much easier way to explain something with visually as well as audibly then it is to with either the one or the other.”
“Obviously the purely visual explanation was lost on me, as you can witness from my current reaction to the previous, or should I say future, events having occurred,” I retorted.
“As I have witnessed,” she chortled. “You are indeed correct. You know,” she continued. “You are very good at making excuses even though your heart is screaming at you to open up, widen your horizons, and live outside of the sheltered little snow globe society has provided to you! True, you have broken bounds, being friends with those not in a ‘circle’ that contains you, scoffing at the arrogant beings that try to degrade the likes of proud, and not in the negative sorts, women such as ourselves, but Elizabeth! You must know that there is a huge bound that make you believe that always being proper and poised is the only way to go through daily life! There is more then that and if you let me show you the wonders of the future world, I can show you how to get past those bounds. They do not hold women down in this new era! We are free to earn more then men! To keep the earning all to ourselves! To marry for love or not at all! Or even for money! To go to college! To receive jobs! We can truly be free in this land!”
“Has anyone ever told you that you, yourself, can spin quite a rant as well?” I slowly responded, blown away by the force, the passion behind which such passion was transfused into anyone she could have given that speech to. I took me a second to recollect myself and reorganize the pieces that seemed to have scattered during Hurricane Helen before I spoke again. “Okay,” I said. “Explain.”
Chapter 4
I would never get used to the feeling of time travel. Warped reality was never supposed to be used as a pathway. We finally stepped outside, meet by, once again, the glaring sun pouring over the café scene. “And we are back,” I muttered, looking once more over the lush green of potted trees and the brightness, pure disrespectfulness, displayed in clothing selection. Everything seemed exactly as it was. If not for knowing that yesterday, we had indeed encountered this scene and if it were the same day, we would be witnessing other versions of ourselves roam the city, or so it was my belief, I would not have been convinced that this day was not the first.
Helen sat down at one of the tables. “So,” she started. “What do you want to know first?” My mind reeled at how she could so tranquil in such absurd circumstance.
It took quite some time of Helen looking at me serenely and me, as only as I could imagine, looking a bit star struck, before my thoughts were organized back into a lesser form of chaos. “Are you letting others use the machine?” Why that was my first question I have not the slightest inclination, but it is what I heard myself repeat over and over again in my noggin.
“No,” she replied simply.
“Then why make such a contraption?” I puzzled.
“For the art of it. Not many a client has come my way as of lately and my day had grown sluggish. Of course, I must make use of my time somehow. Therefore, I bid ado to my time by working on a creation. As to why make this particular invention, well, such a discovery as time travel has been contemplated for years, in fact it is still being contemplated by this generation, and what a glorious thing if it were me that stitch together the ideas into a reality.” Everything that Helen was stating was insane yet when presented with the knack that she was given with words, the entire commotion sifted away into a slightly less jumbled concoction.
“Okay,” I continued, weighting my words before releasing them into the world. “That covers the when and why, and, since the who and the where and the what have been clearly represented in the forms of you, your subterranean level, and a time machine, it seems I have gone over all the basic bases of examination and explanation. So, now, I’m provoked to ask why, in the name of the heavens, did I awake in my bed?”
“Now, that,” my companion worked it through her mind. “Is a thought provoking inquiry.” She thought for a bit more, chewing over what anecdote would best describe. How she thought she would solicit light to this fantasy cleared my realm of knowledge. “Knowing that you are not train in all of the scientific arts, this may sound a bit strained. Tell me, Liz, have you heard the theory that there are multiple dimensions in this universe?”
“Of course I have. My father shows great interest in mocking its ridiculousness.”
“And what do you believe of it?”
“I believe that if such a thing existed, it would not do any damage or good to my life, therefore I did not invest myself in it. I do believe, though, that you are suggesting that these dimensions play into your contraption,” I presumed.
“Very good,” she complimented my intuitions. “They are a key part of my explanation that you’ve been much awaiting. The theory, as I have witnessed, is that with every decision we choose, there is another dimension, like another world, where we choose a different path, no matter how drastic or miniscule that change may be, that spirals until the dimensions are, like now, millions in number. The dimensions range from singular moments to years, all depending upon how many spin offs of an idea that are pursued in that particular dimension. The time machine is not necessarily a transporter through the time more so as it is a stem to the different dimensions.” Once more, her fluidity in such bizarre of a conversation was spellbinding.
“Why have not you told anyone of good standing of this?”
“Why, Elizabeth, you sell yourself short! You are of a spectacular standing in the society’s eyes!” The playful lilt had returned to Helen’s voice as it transferred from serious business tone to the one owned by my oldest and dearest friend.
“Now,” I chastised. “You know that is not what I’m referring to.”
A laugh resonated for her throat, chiming throughout the out of doors café. “Yes,” she answered. “I am aware. Why do I not inform the newspaper is what your asking, I understand. I did not, you are right. I will not, as well. And eventually, I will resolve your apprehension of the matter but for the moment the wheels are still turning in my head and I must return to my home for I’ve told Taylor we would have a conversation.”
“And Iam guessing your leaving me with the same vagueness as you displayed yesterday?” I said, a lamenting note finding my vocal book. It took me a moment to realize a fact I’d overlooked previously. “How is it that you may come and go as you choose but, until I fall into the world of the unconscious, I can not return?” I asked her.
“Magic,” she winked at me, the bell above the ornate white door mimicking her laughter, ringing out with her newly found absence.
Chapter 5
I must have looked confused once more, taking in my predicament, for not 15 minutes into my new spurt of visual exploration did somebody approach me. “Hello?” I jumped as a deep, rumbling yet peculiarly gentle voice reached my ears from behind. I looked up and found a boy, by my guess, eighteen years of age, just the same to match mind. As I, what must have seemed, scrutinized the poor lad I cataloged his features, found his dusk blue eyes, like smoke on the horizon, looking at me as one would observe and extraterrestrial. I stifled a giggle, thinking about how aptly I fit into the term alien, as this was as far away from home as I believed I could roam. This boy was tall and fairly well built with blonde hair that lapped at his eyebrows in such a contrast to the “perfection policy” bringing up to which I’d received, that I was instantly intrigued with this rouge specimen.
Helen should not have left me here. By my view of the position, one could get herself into much of a predicament in this land. Even for the fifteen minutes in which I was left alone, I had heard of horrendous murders and of events plaguing poor young women that are insidious of importance. Suddenly, I was wishing more and more for the tightly warranted life I led decades before.
“Are you lost?” He asked, reining me in from the toxicity cleansing my mind. I had completely forgotten about his existence until he once again made himself known.
“Quite honestly, I do not know where I’d like to go, therefore have nowhere for me to become lost going to,” I said, hoping for maybe even a little spark of guidance as to what to find in this foreign place that was not my home.
He laughed for a beat, a humorous and lighthearted sound. “You need some help navigating the city?” He observed. The statement was said so as not to masquerade as a question and it was presented with such charm and, surprisingly enough from such a strong looking carrier, childlike inquisition that I was intrigued further by this seemingly well meaning man. In such an exceedingly cruel world, I’d never guessed that someone could be kind.
“I would love that,” I smiled back, wishing that I did not look like a complete fool stepping out into the world, taking a stroll for the first time. “Are people normally this generous?” I questioned, warily glancing around at the harshness that seemed to have engulfed my courteous London.
He laughed. “I’m afraid not,” he answered. “You got any place in mind?” He said, gesturing toward the cobblestone path before us.
“Well, I can think of a lot of place, but none that are relevant,” I replied, thinking back to my home and chuckling at even the thought of this generally kind boy in such a prudent situation. Never had a man been so willingly wholesome in my era. He raised a brow to me swiftly, without verbal communication signaling his perplexity.
I cocked my head, asking silently, in return, for him to question me. The boy raised his hands, chuckling, mimicking bowing. The sounds of my laughter jointed with the air. “You’re a bit unique. You know that?” He said.
“I would hope I am not just a follower. And you are not the most typical humanoid I have witnessed either.”
He laughed again, smiling at me. “You have an appealing sense of pride,” he said. Mimicking an old timely accent he continued, “And whom may I say I’m addressing?”
The first thought that crossed my mind was I couldn’t believe this is what I must sound like to others of this dimension. “My name is Elizabeth,” I replied frankly.
“Well then, Miss Elizabeth, I’m Tristain,” he said “Let’s be on our way then.” He threw his arm over my shoulder and I was surprised his arm didn’t fall right through me, as it would an apparition. I was confused about the mix of emotions coursing through me. It was as if I were a small girl marveling at the most eligible bachelors. I was a small part angered at his assumption that draping himself around me was, not only all right, but also wanted. But, then again, if it were not wanted, why did it cause me such delight?
I pondered this question as I drifted off into to abyss of a deep night’s sleep.
Tristian
Chapter 6
When I woke up in the morning, the first thought in my mind was what in the world smells like wet dog. Soon after, I got my answer as my St. Bernard puppy jumped up to me, her thumping tail creating a damp swatch on the blankets. “Cece!” My younger sister yelled, bolting in to the room, bubble bath swabbing her hands and forehead, where she’d obviously wiped in frustration. If you’ve ever tried to bathe a St. Bernard puppy, you can relate to the stress the situation provides.
I groggily went through the morning routine of showering, getting dresses, and running a comb quickly through my hair. Now, don’t get the impression that I’m one of the preppy type, the kind that are always talking about how much money their parents are making or competing for the highest seat in the principle’s high honor roll. Don’t misinterpret, I do get good grades, straight A’s to be exact, not to brag. I’m not one of the wanna-be cool kind, who spend an hour doing their hair just so it’ll look like they just rolled out of bed. I never really go that. Why didn’t they just wake up and go to school? It would look a lot more realistic ten the rat they wear on their heads.
I’m, in my mind at least, a kind of mutated nomad of different stereotypes of the male species. I have the jock gene in me. I play both lacrosse and hockey, although I must admit that hockey is my premiere and preferred sport. I play guitar and write lyrics to my acoustic which slips me into the artsy kid presence, too. And, yes, I’ll say it, I could be part of the populars clique, being as one of the A-list girls at our school actually invited me there once. Of course, I turned down the offer, considering that was of sound mind and was in no rush to become a, for lack of more appropriate wording, rude douchebag I see everyday lounging around the fountian.
“You missed the bus again,” Mom hollered at me as I walked into the kitchen.
“And good morning to you, too,” I said to her jokingly, leaning around her to take a swig of milk from the container.
“Great,” Mom complained. “Now the milk is contaminated, too.” Shea little grouchy sometimes but can’t blame he. She works two jobs, one at the local grocery shop as a cashier and another at a cafe along Main St, London as a waitress, so that she can provide for my sis and I. Dad left just after Cece was born so she never knew him. Thinking back, she’s lucky she never knew him. He was a terrible man. He drank. He smoked. He abused my mother and myself. It’s not hard to understand why I am glad my baby sister didn’t have to endure that. But, it made me stronger and, I guess, for that I’m thankful. If not anything else.
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