Rachel Harris - A Tale of Two Centuries

I shake my head, impatient for her answer. Cat never confided the exact year she was from, but I know the era. And if by chance Reyna sent me to my cousin’s time, it is possible I could have a helpmeet through this worrisome journey of the unknown.

The woman scrunches her nose, and when she replies, her voice is high-pitched and questioning, as if she herself is not quite sure of the answer. “The twenty-first?”

Just as I dared to hope.

I clap my hands and do a little dance, enjoying the comfort of the peculiar slippers on my feet. Reyna’s cryptic message flashes in my mind, as though the very words are floating in the air, and I grin so wide it hurts.

Alessandra, the adventure that you seek is full of possibilities. But always remember where your real strength lies.

Cat’s time is a time of opportunity, freedom, and passion—a world full of possibility.

And now I am here, too.

Overcome with emotion, I throw my arms around the woman’s neck and kiss her ruddy cheek. She pats me awkwardly and leans back, a wobbly smile on her face. “And you’re sure you’re all right?”

Looking at the world around me with new eyes, I nod emphatically. “I am perfectly and wonderfully happy. Thank you for asking.”

A beep blares from the frenetic road, and the woman bobs her head toward the sound. “That your ride, honey?”

A disgruntled man waves his hand from inside a yellow horseless carriage, then pins me with an annoyed gaze. “Meter’s running, lady. Done enough sightseeing yet?”

With a glance behind me to confirm no one is there, I point to myself. “Are you referring to me, sir?”

He exchanges a look with the actress beside me that I cannot read, and the woman smothers a grin. She pushes me toward the carriage. “It is warm for January. Maybe it’s best you get along home now and rest.”

Though the word home sounds comforting, the idea of getting inside the modern form of transportation is positively terrifying. I clench my fists, and Reyna’s missive crinkles. I swallow. “I-I believe I was told you would take me where I needed to go,” I say hesitantly.

I slide him the visibly trembling note through the open window, and he yanks it from my fingers. He reads it, scowls, and juts his thumb at the back of the carriage. “So? You getting in or what?”

I frown. The future appears filled with unpleasant people whose manner of speaking is even stranger—and more improper—than my cousin’s was.

The woman squeezes my shoulders and mutters a good-bye. Determined not to give way to feelings of desertion, I stare at the door and wait for the coachman to come around and help me in. When he merely settles deeper into his seat and a footman fails to appear, I realize he expects me to get in by myself.

Well, then. Perhaps chivalry cannot exist in a world of female equality , I ponder, studying the unfamiliar frame of the carriage . But if women of this time can do this, so can I.

How hard can it be?

Lifting my head high, I run my hands along the cool, solid frame. I cannot find a door pull. I press harder against the metal and scratch at the glass window to no avail, then squat to study the apparatus closer. My driver sighs from the front.

I choose to ignore his ill manners.

On closer inspection, I discover a hand-sized metal indentation. The intricate detail is impressive, a truly modern marvel. With a triumphant grin at my discovery, I curl my fingers around it and yank. My reward is a gratifying creak.

“Aha! Figured it out,” I proclaim, climbing onto the springy, cracked seat.

My coachman does not appear sufficiently impressed.

The cloth inside the carriage reeks with a disharmonious blend of sweat, food, and something undefinable, and the floor where I place my feet is filthy. But neither the coachman’s aloofness nor the unappetizing smell and dirt surrounding me can quell my pleasure.

I am well on my way to acclimating to this strange new world. My cousin would be so proud.

Keeping my back straight so as not to lean against the seat, I watch the man turn a dial, causing the music pouring from the front of the carriage to increase to an uncomfortable level. He grips a tattered wheel with both hands and looks to the left. The carriage lurches with a sudden powerful jerk. My head slams into the greasy window.

My pleasure dampens.

A shrill shriek emanates from below our carriage, and we advance with a jolt, moving faster than should be humanly possible. I brace my right arm against the dank seat in front of me and clench the stinky cloth of the seat behind.

“Sir, must we travel so fast?”

The coachman meets my gaze in the mirror above his head and rolls his eyes. I lick my lips and try again, raising my voice to be heard over his dreadful music. “Surely this is unsafe! Kindly remember you have a lady as a passenger.”

If it is possible, the horseless carriage actually gains speed. Deciding it best not to antagonize the man any further, I clamp my jaw and watch as my cousin’s world flies past my window in a dizzying blur of confusing gadgets, scary transportation, and indecent clothing. I hold on for dear life.

What feels like hours later—but what is probably much shorter—the stomach-roiling ride ends. Exactly how long we careened through the hazy streets of Hollywood I cannot say. I was too busy keeping the contents of my stomach off the already grubby floor and doing my best not to notice the distressing speed, sights, or creeptastic sounds of the future.

After the first few minutes within the flying carriage, I fastened my eyelids shut and centered my thoughts on Cat, praying as my body jerked back and forth that her home was our final destination. And as we now roll to a stop, it is with a heavy heart that I slowly crack my eyes open to take a peek. A large, pointed gate sits in front of us, a swirling letter C inscribed in its center.

Joy floods me. If he were not so vile, I would kiss my maniacal coachman.

Crawford.

Cat’s last name is Crawford.

Before the notion is even fully thought, I yank the metal handle and throw open my door. Peeling my feet off the sticky floor, I practically leap from my seat, eager to feel solid ground beneath me again. Beyond the gate, a two-story white building looms tall and proud, and instinctively I know my cousin waits inside. I take a step toward it.

“That’s gonna be twenty bucks, lady.”

And lurch to a stop.

The man extends an open palm, and his meaning becomes clear. “Ah, yes.” I pat my shiver-inducing trousers and shove my hands inside a pair of pockets I find on either side. I am certain that I do not have any bucks on my person as even one such animal would hardly fit in the carriage with us, but perhaps fate has left me with something. Then I pause. “ Twenty , you say?”

In my time, twenty florins could buy a home. Things have certainly changed in the last five hundred years.

When my hands leave my pockets empty, I am not surprised. Mama never allowed me to carry florins in town, and it appears as though I am fresh out of any bucks . The coachman’s eyes narrow disdainfully, and I chomp down on my lip. “L-Let me just step inside and get that for you.”

The gentleman—if that term even applies—watches, suspicious, as I stagger to a small gate off to the side. If this is not Cat’s home, then I can only hope it belongs to a benevolent stranger with currency to spare.

I hesitantly close the gate behind me and cross the paved ground to the front door. Lines string across the sky from wooden posts, and two glass-encased torches glow from the exterior walls. I have no idea what any of it is, but it is all extremely fascinating.