1
Sarah’s Mother - 1966
Her eyes open slowly. In the dim morning light, she sees him, the man she brought home last night, searching the floor for his clothes. Alexander. That’s what he said his name was. He looks like a movie star, but she can’t really explain the depth of her attraction to him. He’s at least twice her age but it’s there, even now, when he’s clearly planning to sneak away.
“You’re leaving?” she asks.
He raises a brow. “It seemed best.” His accent is slight. Where did he say he was from? Sweden or Norway. She shouldn’t have drunk as much as she did when they were talking. “As I recall, you’re getting married this afternoon,” he adds.
She sits up, pulling the sheet to her chest, suddenly cold. “You knew?” They were together for hours last night and he never hinted at it, just plied her with wine and questions about her family until they wound up here, shedding clothes.
His smile is cruel now, not charming the way it was a few hours ago. “It’s how I found you in the first place.” He pulls a folded newspaper clipping out of his wallet. Her wedding announcement. “Poor Peter Stewart. Does he think you’re a virgin, Vanessa? He’ll be in for a bit of a shock tonight, won’t he?”
She is speechless, watching him shove the clipping in a pocket.
“Why did you do this?” she asks. “What is it you want?”
“I was here for information and simply partook of what you offered so freely,” he says. His eyes flicker over her. “You’re lovely but soulless. I can’t explain the attraction...perhaps it’s the time traveler in you.”
That chill goes straight to her spine. He was dangerous before, but this is a different sort of danger entirely. "Time traveler?” she asks. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She meets his gaze, daring him to challenge her.
“I can see it in your eyes,” he says, sitting beside her on the bed and leaning close. She’s furious and yet he can feel the way she wants to yield, as if the desire for him is in her DNA. And maybe it is. He understands little about how that gene they share works, but he knows it contains multitudes no one has yet discovered. “You’ve tried to stop, I’m sure. But it’s still there. Do you think not using it makes you better than that sister you hate so much?”
Her fist tightens around the sheet. Iris. Ruining everything, even when she’s no longer here. Suddenly she remembers all the questions he asked about her family while they were drinking. Probably for reasons less benign than she thought. “What does my sister have to do with anything? She moved to Paris over a year ago.”
He pulls something from his jacket pocket and hands it to her. It’s a picture of Iris, sepia-tinted and wearing an old-fashioned dress that sweeps the floor. A man stands behind her with his hand on her shoulder. What was Iris thinking, allowing herself to be photographed like that?
“That’s my father with her,” Alexander says, “not that I’d actually call him father under the circumstances. It was taken in 1918, just before they held my mother captive and allowed terrible things to happen. Based on your hatred of your sister, I doubt you’re surprised by that.”
She isn’t. Yet Iris was always her mother’s favorite. It enrages her even now. “And you decided to punish me for it? You could have gotten me pregnant.”
He gives her an arrogant smile. “Punish? As I recall, you enjoyed it, many times over. You were as drawn to me as I was to you, and believe me, I did not want to be drawn to anyone related to your sister.” He rises and walks to the door. “But if it really bothers you, just rewind time and undo the whole thing. Because we both know you can.”
She says nothing as he walks out of the room.
She swore two years ago she’d never time travel again, and now God is testing her resolve. So she will endure this memory, and her regret. But she won’t get pregnant. It was just one night, and she’s going to do the right thing from now on.
God just wouldn’t punish her like that.
2
SARAH
Henri.
He comes into the house just after Marie has left for town. It’s early fall, still warm, and his shirt clings to him from a morning’s labor, unbuttoned to mid-chest. Want kicks sharply in my stomach and I swallow, trying to force it away. My hunger for him is excessive, incessant—it needs to be kept in its place. “I was about to see if you wanted lunch,” I tell him.
His mouth lifts, a hint of a dirty smile. “I think I need a bath, little thief,” he says, closing the distance between us. “And I think you need one too.”
I start to reply when I hear it—that shrieking noise again, like a hand inside my skull, squeezing and twisting. Make it stop, I try to say, but my tongue won’t obey my commands. That noise is pulling me back, somewhere else, somewhere I don’t want to be.
My eyes open to find that I’m in a windowless room where the noise is worse, louder. I sit at a long table, surrounded by blank-faced women spooning something in their mouths, empty-eyed yet desperate. Stew. It sits in front of me as well, its taste on my tongue though I’ve no memory of eating it.
I understand their desperation. Something inside me cries out for the contents of the bowl, as if it’s oxygen and I’m short of breath. My spoon rises to my lips almost without my consent, my hand shaking with desire.
But why? The question slips forward alongside the craving. Why do I want this so badly? Why am I even here?
For a moment I see Henri’s face. Picture his eyes, intent on mine, worried, begging me for something, as if my answer means everything to him. I shudder with relief as the spoon hits my tongue and the tension finally eases. I feel closer to Henri, now, less bothered by that endless shrieking overhead. Even at the worst of times, he looks at me as if I’m something worth fighting for, something precious. That wounded part of me, the one that still hasn’t shaken off my mother’s hatred, heals a little more with each moment he’s near.
I watch as he unbuttons my dress, as his fingers slide down my collarbone, then dip to the base of my breasts. There’s the smallest sound from his chest—a quiet groan, full of need.
“What if Marie comes back early?” I ask, but I make no move to stop him.
He laughs. “Then she will learn not to come back early.”
A snap of pain between my shoulder blades jars me. The blank-faced women surround me again and something presses hard against my spine.
“Eat,” a man grunts behind me. “Been here a month. Shouldn’t need to be told.”
My pulse jumps at the words. Even hazy and half-asleep, something inside me panics. I’ve been here a month? It’s not possible. I don’t even remember how I got here in the first place. I pick up the spoon, glancing quickly at the faces nearest me. Beautiful faces, with eyes only time travelers possess. They don’t seem to notice me or each other—they only care about the stew. My head is too foggy to make sense of it, but I know something’s wrong. I force myself to put the spoon back down, sweating with the effort.
I want this too much.