Breathe. Breathe.
My legs wobbling, I carefully rose to my feet and looked around, squinting against the blinding sun.
I didn’t know anything about the Spanish-American War. The newspaper said Santiago de Cuba at the top, so I assumed that was the city I was in.
I thought of the soldiers on the hill, and my mouth fell open. Those had been real soldiers? I had almost been shot?
My breaths intensified again, but I shut my eyes. No! Calm down. Think.
As if on autopilot, my right leg kicked up and I grasped the dirty end of my shoe, pinching my toes. I inhaled deeply, feeling the stretch in my leg. My eyes closed and I held the pose for a full minute. Then I dropped my foot and stretched the other leg, all the while counting my breaths. Fifteen . . . Sixteen . . . Seventeen . . .
My heartbeat calmed to an easy, soothing rhythm. I exhaled, long and slow and released my foot.
“I’m in Cuba,” I whispered, “a hundred years in the past, surrounded by people who don’t speak English.” I mentally cursed myself for not forcing José to teach me more Spanish.
I folded the newspaper and pocketed it. Three deep, calming breaths washed over me, calming me once more.
“What would Kismet tell me to do?” I asked myself. I drummed my fingers against the denim of my jeans as I contemplated. “I have magic, but I can only Push things.” My eyes widened, and my heart slammed against my chest in realization. “A clocktower!”
Determination pulsed through me in waves of renewed energy, and I strode out of the small market and back to the more enormous and intimidating buildings. I gazed up at each one, hoping to see some kind of giant clock face on any of them. They seemed like the most likely candidates since they were the grandest buildings. The sun beat down on me, and within minutes, I was covered in sweat again. Exhaustion, dehydration, and hunger tugged at my worn body, and my purposeful steps faded to a sluggish trudge.
Small mountains peered above the horizon, and the streets sloped up and down as I walked. My feet throbbed in protest from the constant movements and hills. Mosquito bites covered my arms, and I scratched at them, gritting my teeth against the pain.
Panting, I headed down a narrow road of coral-colored bricks, my sandals clapping noisily with each step. The grandness of the buildings slowly diminished, the architectural grandeur fading into more simplistic and unassuming homes. Most were one or two stories, and the balconies were dull and boxy, unlike the decorative ones from earlier. Along several balconies were lines of clothes hung out to dry. The roof tiles were chipped or missing, and some of the rust-covered doors hung on only one hinge.
My feet stuttered to a stop, and I groaned. There wouldn’t be a clocktower in this area.
Dread coiled through me as I turned around and headed back the way I’d come. I passed the market where I’d fainted and some kind of courthouse with mighty pillars like the ones at the Parthenon. A flag fluttered faintly in the wind outside the courthouse. I glanced up at it, and my heart stopped.
There! Behind the flag was an unmistakable clock face. My eyes trailed down, following the tower to see where it rested. A few blocks behind the courthouse.
“Okay,” I said, trying to rouse my limbs with another healthy dose of determination and adrenaline, but I was spent. I exhaled, my cheeks puffing out from the breath, and strode onward.
I stumbled up the wide, dirt road between the courthouse and other downtown buildings, glancing up at the flag every now and then to get my bearings. When the flag disappeared behind other buildings, I stopped, uncertain. But in the end, I knew I had to continue on no matter what.
Within a few minutes, I finally approached the clocktower. Its pearly white granite glinted in the sunlight. A large window with red shutters rested near the clock face. The tip of the narrow monument was decorated with ornate red tiles and a small square balcony with a flag rippling in the wind.
The clock face indicated it was almost noon. I stretched out my arms and took a deep breath. Angling my fingers toward the clock face, I Pushed.
Feeble magical vibes tickled my arms but did nothing else. I was too weak.
I dropped my arms in frustration and took several more deep breaths. Calming my racing heart, I aimed my hands again, closed my eyes, and Pushed.
Something large and metallic groaned. I opened my eyes and found I’d Pushed one of the clock hands backward.
My arms fell by my side again, and I grinned with relief. Now I just wait for help to arrive.
I approached the bottom of the clocktower and sat with my back against it. Reaching into my pocket, I unfolded the newspaper and held it over my head to block the sun.
After several minutes of using the newspaper as a shade, I finally perked up at the sound of soft footsteps. Ripping the newspaper off my head, I hastily rose to my feet to greet my rescuer.
A girl about my age with long, brown hair pulled into a braid stopped in her tracks when she saw me. She squinted at me, and then her eyes widened. I could only imagine what she inferred from my appearance. Not only was I wearing pants, which was probably unheard of in this time period, but I looked like a forest monster.
The girl continued toward me, her long brown skirt flowing in the wind. Her eyes darted up and down the road as if searching for witnesses before she finally stood in front of me. She looked me up and down again, her mouth turned downward in distaste.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
I closed my eyes with relief.
