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How am I supposed to tell him about the day he left home and never returned?

How am I supposed to tell him how, because of it, my once vibrant mother, strained by her new role as a single mom trying to make ends meet on a meager income, slowly faded away like a photograph left out in the sun?

How am I supposed to explain that I spent the following years filled with such anger and resentment toward him, I devoted myself to scrubbing my mind of his memory, only to have it all come flooding right back the moment I entered Arcana?

What are the right words to explain to someone—on their twenty-first birthday, no less—that in fewer than two decades from now they’ll be murdered in an ancient necropolis in 1741 France?

Though I should’ve expected a conversation like this, chalk it up to yet one more thing I failed to rehearse.

My dad must read the distress on my face because he’s quick to lift a hand and wave it away. “It’s okay. Really,” he says, his expression grave, but his voice is resigned to a fate that was never his to control. And I’m stunned by his effort to comfort me when it’s me who should be comforting him. “Now,” he goes on, scrubbing a hand over his face and leaning closer to me. “Why don’t you tell me more about this Arthur Black—”

At the sound of muffled voices coming from the other side of the door, and the soft, mechanical whisper of a key sliding into a lock, my dad’s voice fades as his gaze darts past me and zeroes in on the entry.

“It’s my roommate, Mark,” he says, his expression morphing into one of concern. “We can’t talk here. I need you to come with me—quickly!”

The definitive clunk of the dead bolt retreating seems to echo through the small space, and before I can ask, my dad’s already leaping from the couch, grabbing hold of my hand, and pulling me out of the small living space and down the short hall.

“In here,” he whispers, ushering me inside the room just as the front door bangs open and Mark calls out, “Honey, we’re home!” followed by the unmistakable sound of Elodie’s laugh.

I look at my dad, eyes wide with alarm. But he just moves toward the overflowing bookshelf that sits against the far wall.

Then, with a deliberate tweak of one of the books, the entire unit swings open, revealing a dim, narrow passageway that beckons from beyond.

“What is this place?” I whisper, watching as a complex tapestry of emotions flits across my dad’s face.

“Come,” he says quietly, urging me to follow.

With my pulse quickening and my heart pounding with anticipation, I shadow him into the dark.

Do you believe then that the sciences would have arisen and grown if the sorcerers, alchemists, astrologers, and witches had not been their forerunners?

-Nietzsche

5

My heart races as we plunge into the shadowy corridor, the comforting light from the room fading behind us as the sounds of Elodie and Mark calling to us from the apartment recede into silence.

“Where are we?” I ask, my voice shaky as I squint into the dark, rubbing my hands briskly over my arms. The chill in the air is seeping straight into my bones. “What exactly is this place?”

“Think of it as a sort of sanctuary where we won’t be disturbed.”

My dad strikes a match, releasing a sharp tang of sulfur that pierces the stale, musty air. When he goes about lighting a series of candles, I can’t help but notice the way the flickering flames cast eerie, dancing shadows across the room.

From a basket, he retrieves a soft wool throw and tosses it to me. As I wrap it around my shoulders, he says, “This place is safe, known only to me, a handful of other Timekeepers”—his eyes latch onto mine—“and now you.”

My curiosity piqued, my eyes drink in the sight of exposed brick walls and floor to ceiling shelves overflowing with arcane tomes, aged scrolls, and a myriad of mystical artifacts that practically hum with ancient secrets.

My dad turns his attention to an ornate chest. His hands, I notice, tremble slightly as he opens it to retrieve a complex ancient relic.

In an instant, a wave of recognition floods through me. “The Antikythera Mechanism,” I whisper, voice thick with the nostalgia of childhood memories.

“So you recognize it?” He hands it to me, and I’m instantly overcome with a surge of emotion as I cradle the object in my palms.

“I used to play with this as a kid,” I tell him. “But only when Mom was away.” I half grin at the memory, though honestly, I could just as easily cry. As I steal a glance his way, I’m struck by the surreal nature of this entire situation, and I know I need to acknowledge how weird this must make him feel. “What’s it like,” I venture, my voice tentative, “to hear me talk about shared memories that are still in the future for you?”

He smiles wryly, rubbing a nervous hand along his jawline. “Strange,” he says. “Though the very fact that you’re here tells me how badly I must’ve failed.” The grin slips away, instantly eclipsed by a long, dark shadow that crosses his face.

“Failed?” I squint, wondering what it is that he’s getting at.