A Tale of Two Centuries

real in a way they hadn’t before.

Lucas hesitates before picking up his notebook and narrowing his eyes to read his tight scrawl on the page. “Domenico Bencini,” he reads before lifting his eyes to me. “Ring a bell?”

My stomach clenches, but whether it is from surprise or fear, I do not know.

In my mind’s eye, the image of a tall man enters, his dark brown hair shot with gray. The premature color makes him appear older than his thirty-two years, but from the air in which he carries himself, the proud angle of his jaw, this man revels in that fact.

The D’Angeli and Bencini families have long been a part of the same social circles, attending the same dinner parties and events, so of course I know Domenico. I recall even being subjected to a dance with him at a recent ball. (Luckily, my feet recovered with time.) And although the two of us never really held a conversation other than the most basic of pleasantries, I have always thought him…amiable enough. Quiet. Reserved like Father. Only where Father is kind and has a wonderful sense of humor, Domenico is, well, boring.

Could it have been a love match that brought us together?

I try to picture myself kissing him and shiver in disgust.

No, definitely not.

“Domenico enters into government?” I ask, not completely surprised. He wasn’t a member when I left, having just reached the required age for some of the smaller offices, but the senior Bencini has long been in service and has groomed his eldest for the same his entire life.

“Yeah.” Lucas consults his notebook again. “The Tre Maggiori.”

My eyes widen, and Lucas turns to the others to explain. “My friend said they were the highest executive offices of the Florentine Republic, which is why we lucked out. Because this guy was so powerful, his birth records were saved, along with some of his personal letters, which made our job a lot easier.”

Austin’s stiff nod makes the hair on the back of my neck rise, and I almost ask Lucas to stop. But then uncontrollable curiosity takes over, and I say, “Tell me what you learned.”

Lucas grabs his notebook, settles back in his chair, and begins telling us—telling me—all about the life I may or may not ever have. “From what we can tell, Alessandra never had any children. It was common back then for fathers to declare their children, especially their sons, in the records as early as possible just in case they ever wanted to hold a public office. And in Domenico’s personal letters, there are also several mentions of—” Lucas looks away and scratches the side of his neck. “Miscarriages.”

My hand flies to my throat.

I always imagined myself with a large family. At the very least, two children like my parents had. A daughter named Lena with my auburn hair, pointy chin, and sense of wonder, and a son named after my father, Marco, with his dark eyes and strong sense of duty.

As the reality of Lucas’s words crash around me, I cannot help but mourn that dream and the children who will never be. At least not in that life.

Beside me, Cat blows out a breath. “Wow.” She squeezes my hand and glances at me but then quickly away, instead choosing to look at Austin sitting across from us as she says, “Well, I guess we found our loophole.”

Even in my disoriented state, I register his hope-filled nod of agreement.

Cat grabs Lucas’s notebook out of his hands and reads over his notes. “I mean, if Less doesn’t have any… I mean, if the line ends with her, then history can’t change that much if she stays.” She glances up. “Right?”

This last question she directs at Lucas, who mumbles a soft, “Bingo.” Then he lifts his chin in my direction and asks, “Alessandra, are you okay?”

I open my mouth and then close it, my mind an endless tumble of thoughts. But in the midst of my confusion, I know there is still one thing I have yet to learn. So instead of answering I ask, “Did Domenico’s letters say anything about me?”

When Lucas’s first response is to bite the corner of his lip, obviously hesitating, I regret the impulsive question.

“There was a brief mention here or there,” he says, dragging the words out as if reluctant to reach the end of what he has to say—another bad sign. “There are a handful of letters he wrote to you when you were staying with your family. Apparently your father became very sick, and you moved back home for a short time to help your mother take care of him”—he clears his throat—“before he died.”

Father.

As I try to grapple with this impossible reality, Lucas stops to scratch the side of his neck…and I realize that there is even more to the dreadful story. The story of my life. “What are you not telling me?” I force myself to ask, my heart still with my father.

Lucas leans back and runs his fingers through his hair. “There’s also a letter to your brother about…about how you died.”

Cold fingers of dread creep down my spine.

I swallow the fear and push it back where it belongs, roiling in my stomach with the rest of my emotions. It sounds like someone else’s voice coming out of my mouth when I ask, “How?”

Lucas folds the top corner of his page, not looking at me. “He told Cipriano that you contracted a fever shortly after returning home from your father’s deathbed and died of the same breathing ailment a few weeks later.”

I nod, not exactly sure why because none of this even feels real—it is as if we are discussing a character in a book. But I need to react somehow. “And how old was I when I died?”

“Thirty-five.”

Lucas says it matter-of-factly, no hemming or hawing over the cruel facts that took my life, and I appreciate his honesty. It was what I asked for, after all.

Thirty-five. It may not be a terribly long life, but it is longer than some. My cousin Patience’s parents died much younger than that from an epidemic. And while it does not sound as though I lived the great life of possibility that I could here, the Alessandra in the history books seems as though she lived a good life. She was taken care of, provided for, and had a husband who wasn’t altogether awful. She had connections and society.

And at least for a short time, she had her family.

My heart begins to hurt.

It’s strange. I know I just heard about my life, or rather my future (past?) life. I know that I am sitting at a table in a library in the twenty-first century, trying to find a way so I can stay here. I know there’s a chair under me, a ceiling overhead, and friends all around. But inside, I feel numb. Almost as if I’m in a dream, or watching the world outside myself. My thoughts are fuzzy, and I can’t seem to grasp what it is I should do next.

I want to hug my father, even knowing that doing so is probably what got me sick in the first place. I want to comfort the strong man who always comforted me, who always sang me songs when I had a cold and bought me dresses to cheer me up. I want to go back home and make sure he knows how much I love him…but will my presence change the outcome or save him? Will I be doing it for him, or for me?

Closing my eyes, I lower my head into my opened hands.

Choosing the right path is suddenly much more difficult than I imagined it would be.

“Stop it,” Austin says, his raised voice startling me. “I see what you’re doing. You’re reverting to that girl you used to be, aren’t you?”

“No, I—”

“Yeah, you are. I get that you love your father. I mean, it’s no secret I hate mine, but I love that you care so much about him. But you’re doing it again, worrying about everyone else and what’s best for them. For once, can’t you think about what you want? Or do you even know?”

“Austin, it’s just not that simple.”

“Yeah, it is,” he says, his voice suddenly desperate. “And if you can’t figure that out, all this”—he sweeps his arms out, taking in the library and beyond—“will be gone. Reyna’s holding a ticking clock, and it’s getting louder. It’s so freaking loud it’s like a time bomb, counting the seconds until you’re gonna be forced to choose. And you will have to make a choice, Alessandra. There’s no getting out of it. So tell me, what do you want to do? Stay here with me?” he asks. “Or go home to