“It does not matter. We will not be coming back here.” He guided them under an archway into a cramped lane between two buildings. The pounding music was reduced to a distant pulse behind them. Samuel put a hand to her back, and they stopped in the dark passageway that smelled of sour wine, stale flowers, and piss.
“This isn’t the best neighborhood, Samuel,” she said and held the baby closer under her coat as a sudden chill fell over her.
“It will improve in a moment,” he answered and raised his chin to point down the alleyway.
Caroline looked up to see a white mist building in the passage, growing more opaque by the second and climbing the walls to leave a white rime of ice on the ancient bricks.
“I don’t know about this. You didn’t say—” she began.
“Don’t worry about Stephen. He’s more suited to this sort of travel then you are,” he said in an even tone.
“I’ve followed you without questions. Well, without many questions. But this—”
“It is the best place to hide. It is where you and your child will be safe. You live through time now, Caroline. There is no turning back.” His hand pressed into her back gently.
She drew the coat tighter about Stephen to hoard their body heat together and stepped into the clinging fog. Her breath was visible now. She glanced upward and through the pale swirling haze caught a glimpse of rings above her, gleaming black rings dripping with frost. They were traveling through some version of the field generator created by her and her brother, a copy of their invention constructed by unknown hands in a time and place strange and foreign to her.
“How—” she began.
“No questions,” Samuel said and took her hand to draw her through the field.
She emerged from the mist weak and disoriented and deeper in the alley. Samuel took the baby from her and cradled it in one arm while guiding her from the chilling cloud into a courtyard lit by a single gas lamp. Caroline gulped air and fought down the urge to vomit. She was still gasping as her head cleared. She gestured for her child. Stephen was placed in her arms, and she saw that he breathed easily. His eyelids fluttered a bit, but he was still restfully asleep.
“See, he is virtually unfazed by manifestation just as I promised,” Samuel said, and Caroline thought she saw a fleeting smile of reassurance.
“When is this?” she said, looking about. The courtyard was broad and lined about by dark buildings. But now she saw that empty flower beds lined the borders and a pair of bare fruit trees stood on an island at the center. The smell of wood smoke filled the cold air. Above the rooftops, smoke rose from flues into the starry sky. The persistent drum of recorded music was gone to be replaced by a dull rhythmic sound from an unseen source. It was the tramp of boots—many boots. She realized at once that the white noise of street traffic was absent. Looking up, she saw that what she could see of the sky was not lined with the contrails of passenger jets.
“1871. Winter,” Samuel said.
“We transited through time without a waystation step between,” she said.
“I will explain more later. For now, we must move to cover.” He took her elbow and walked her across the courtyard, leaving the icy cloud to dissipate behind them.
He hurried her along cobbled streets empty of all but a few high-wheeled carriages and small columns of marching men. She wore a cap pushed low on her head, and he warned her to keep her face down as they moved swiftly from shadow to shadow.
“There is a curfew,” Samuel said, holding her hand to guide her across the street.
“Is that usual?” she said and clutched the baby closer.
“Paris is under martial law. France is at war.”
“And you thought this was a good place to bring Stephen and me?”
“War is the best place to hide,” he said and drew her under the awning of a hotel. He placed his shoulder to the door and popped the lock with a sudden thrust to swing the doors open.
They hustled into the dim lobby of a middlebrow hostelry that brazenly called itself Hotel Exemplaire. She sat cradling Stephen in a shady corner while Samuel banged on the desktop to rouse the registrar. Caroline heard him explain in fluent French that they were traveling from Canada on business and their luggage had been stolen. There was an argument too swift for Caroline to follow that ended with Samuel producing a thick sheaf of bills.
The registrar went silent at the sight of all the franc notes. Money changed hands, and Samuel returned to the lobby to take her upstairs. At this late hour, there was no bell staff to take them to their room. All as Samuel had planned, she imagined.
The room was a cramped suite with a sitting room and boudoir with a vestigial balcony over the street. There were no closets, as was the custom of the day, and no private bath or toilet, as was also the custom in bourgeois establishments such as this. There was a bowl of fruit on a table in the sitting room and wilting flowers from the day before drooped in a vase.
Caroline couldn’t help but think what the furniture in this room would be worth back in The Now. Here they were common tat. One hundred and fifty years hence, they were valuable antiques.
“What now?” she asked.
“What do you mean?” Samuel said.
“I have a baby, no diapers, no change of clothes for either of us and no clothes that are in period anyway,” she said. “I need basic toiletry items for me and Stephen. And I’ll tell you right now that I’m starving. And if I don’t eat, then Stephen goes hungry too. That’s how that works.”
“I am sorry you’re hungry,” he said. “I will pick up things in the morning if you
