Damn.
I’m going to have to get used to the fact that it’s February. Not November. I slide my brand-new charm bracelet onto my wrist. My mom bought it for me. She’s here. In Boston. Staying at the Omni Parker House, of all places, until a spot opens up at McLean, which has the best damned bipolar treatment program in the country. And it’s only eight miles west of here.
She cried when I called her from the hospital. She’s sorry, I’m sorry, and while we have miles still to go toward fixing our relationship, McLean is a start. A twice-daily dose of lithium is a start. My sincerest apology is a start. The joint therapy and PTSD counseling our government is springing for is a start. And the one charm hanging from the bracelet is the biggest start of all. It’s a bird. Not in a cage. Free from the weight of its past and soaring into the future.
I’ve been down this road before with my mom, but this time it feels different. This time I think she has a shot. I have a shot.
I grab the edge of the dress and puff it out before slipping down the stairs as quietly as I can. Two female investigators are in the library on the computer, but they don’t even glance up at me as I walk by. Perfect. It’s as good as empty.
Except that it’s not empty. I take a few steps, my heels click-clack against the hardwood floor by the stairs, and Abe sits up from behind the back of the couch.
My feet grind to a halt, and I gasp as he makes eye contact.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Um, I live here,” he says.
My mouth drops open. “You mean you’re staying? You’re going to be in Annum Guard from now on?”
“I think that’s what I just said.”
“But what about Ariel?” I didn’t dream that, did I?
“Ariel said one thing,” Abe says with a smile, “but my dad said another. My dad knows about the Guard. Always has. I guess he’s a little resentful that Ariel refused to let him join. My dad thinks it’s a great honor, and the physical risks aren’t nearly as bad as they were a generation ago. I have my dad’s blessing.”
“And you live here now.” I repeat the words, but my brain is having a hard time processing them.
“Seriously, were you always this bad at listening?”
I run. I pick up the edge of my damn dress and I run. Straight to Abe. I fling myself into his arms and throw my hands around his neck.
“You’re here,” I whisper. “You’re really here. To stay.”
Abe slips his arms around my waist and touches his forehead to mine.
“I thought you were going to break up with me,” I say.
“Never.”
I press my mouth into his. I’ve missed the soft feel of his mouth, the tenderness of his kiss. I don’t know how long I stay there, entwined with him. For once I don’t care how much time passes.
Soon enough, Abe pulls away. “What’s with the costume?”
“Oh.” I look down at the dress and all of its restricting layers and bones. “I have one last mission before I can put this whole experience behind me.” I hold up the plain brown bag I’ve been clutching.
“What’s that?” Abe asks.
“Penicillin I swiped from the hospital.”
“Isn’t that a felony?”
“Possibly,” I say. “But it’s for a good reason. There’s a little girl in 1782 who needs this. And I promised her I’d help her. I won’t be long. Wait for me?”
Abe smiles. “Always.”
He slips his hand through mine and walks me to the gravity chamber. I enter the code they gave me that morning—seriously, they change the codes around here every twelve hours now, and let’s not talk about how many forms I had to fill out to get this mission authorized—and the room opens to blackness.
I give Abe’s hand a squeeze because I know he’ll be right here when I get back. Like he promised. Like he always will. And then I leap.
Author’s Note
I’m not sure how old I was when I first started figuring out that some of the history that filled my schoolbooks was a partial, if not total, fabrication; but this discovery stayed with me for a while. It even inspired many of the events in this book. I tried to stay as close to true historical accuracy as I could, but there were a few instances where I fudged the truth for the sake of narration.
In the Boston Massacre scene, I have James Caldwell and Samuel Maverick running to the location together, under the impression there was a fire. There’s no indication in history that Caldwell and Maverick knew each other, much less that they ever spoke during the massacre. And while it’s true that both boys probably would have assumed there was a fire when they first heard the church bells ringing throughout Boston, by the time they reached the Old State House—the location of the Boston Massacre—they had already realized what was going on and joined the mob.
But my biggest fabrication in the Boston Massacre scene lies with Patrick Carr. Not much is known of Carr’s history. There’s no indication that he was married with a family, so it’s certainly not true that he was there with his young son. But it is true that Carr, being from Ireland, was used to political mobs and would have known instantly the danger of the situation. It’s also true that Carr’s deathbed account of the massacre was perhaps the most important piece of evidence in the subsequent trial (and acquittal) of the British soldiers. (Legal trivia: Carr’s testimony is one of the first recorded instances of the dying declaration hearsay exception used in an American courtroom.)
Also, I tried to keep the events and timeline of the notorious Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum heist as close to accurate as I could, but I have to admit to embellishing the security system in place at the time. The museum did use electric eyes that were hooked up to alarms, but they were not audible alarms that would have rung throughout the museum. This detail was added to the book just for dramatic effect. None of the artwork stolen that night has been recovered, although the FBI recently came out and said they know who was behind the heist. As of my writing this, however, no suspects have been identified.
Next, the scene where Iris causes Senator McCarthy to miss a cab is a complete fabrication. Senator Eugene McCarthy was a real person with a long, winding (and pretty fascinating) political career, but the vote he was late for and his exact residence were fictions of my mind.
Finally, there is no indication that any member of the Dallas police force was in the school book depository at the time of the Kennedy assassination. What is true is that Lee Harvey Oswald, after killing the president and fleeing the building, encountered Dallas officer J.D. Tippitt on the street. By that time, police were already on the lookout for someone matching Oswald’s description, and when Tippitt confronted Oswald, Oswald shot him four times, killing him. The police officer portrayed in this book is not meant to be Tippitt, however. This is just a bit of trivia.
Any other historical inaccuracies that might be revealed are, unfortunately, simply errors on my part.
Acknowledgments
I have just now realized that writing an acknowledgments section is harder than writing a book. So many people contributed to this story in so many ways, and I worry that I won’t be able to sufficiently express my gratitude.
But I’ll try.
First, thank you to my agent, Rubin Pfeffer, for taking a chance on a wide-eyed newbie, for whipping this book into shape, and for finding the perfect home for it. And to my editor extraordinaire, Marilyn Brigham, thank you for loving these characters as much as I did and for polishing their story until it shone. And to this book’s copyeditor, Andrea Curley: you did a tremendous job, and I can’t thank you enough.