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She settled on the bed next to his feet, keeping far enough away that she wouldn’t be tempted to touch him. “I think it’s time we start figuring out what our next move should be. We need information. I’m thinking about going out. I could find the library or—”

“I have a better idea,” Harte told her, already lifting himself from the bed.

Esta couldn’t dissuade him, and within the hour, he was bathed and dressed in the clothes she’d stolen for him. The pants and shirt hung a little more than they should have from his thin frame, but with the way he’d been improving over the last couple of days, she knew it wouldn’t be long before he filled them out.

With his dark hair slicked back, his face cleanly shaven again, and the modern cut of his pants and jacket, Harte almost looked like he’d stepped out of an episode of one of the old-fashioned shows he’d been watching. His color was better, and he couldn’t hide his anticipation at the idea of leaving the hotel. As much as Esta wished she could convince him to stay and rest a little more, she couldn’t really refuse.

Once they were out of the hotel and into the briskness of the late-fall day, Harte paused for a second to look around, his expression filled with something akin to wonder. He’d been watching the city from the windows of their fourth-floor room, but now that he was out in it, Esta wished she knew what he was thinking. She’d grown up in a world even louder and faster and more modern than this one, but since Harte had spent his life with gaslights and horse-drawn carriages, the cityscape before him must have felt like stepping onto another planet.

Harte didn’t seem thrown off by it, though. Actually, Esta thought he was handling everything surprisingly well, considering. As he’d convalesced in the hotel room, he seemed to take the changes around him in stride.

They took a bus over to Grant Avenue, and from there they cut through the streets of Chinatown to reach the neighborhood known as Jackson Square. Chinatown was bustling with tourists and denizens alike. They walked along beneath buildings topped with pagoda-like roofs, while red lanterns hung on wires that crossed the streets and ornate dragons curled around streetlamps painted bright seafoam green. Harte stopped.

“What is it?” Esta asked, panic sliding through her. “Are you feeling okay?”

“What happened to this place?” Harte said with a hushed awe in his voice.

She hadn’t noticed at first, but now that she really looked around, she understood what he was referring to. Grant Avenue was a wide street, filled with distinctive architecture and ornate flourishes. It was the Chinatown of movies and postcards, but it wouldn’t have been there fifty years before. It certainly wasn’t the Chinatown that Esta had seen from a distance, trapped behind a barbed-wire barricade.

“I’m not sure,” she told him. “Time passes, I guess. Things change.” It wasn’t a good answer, but it was the only one she had to give.

Together, they walked up Grant Avenue, and Harte’s worry eased into curiosity. Esta tried not to be too obviously amused at the way Harte marveled at the changed world. They turned onto Washington Street and then wandered north on Montgomery, until Harte came to a stop in front of a two-story brick building at the corner of Montgomery and Jackson Street. According to the historical marker out front, it had once been a bank built by William Tecumseh Sherman, the Civil War general. It wasn’t a bank any longer. It seemed to house offices of some kind.

Harte stared up at it, frowning thoughtfully. “This was where the Committee’s headquarters used to be,” he said. “At least, I think it was. I thought the building was bigger.”

“It might have been at one time,” she told him. “At some point, there was an earthquake. It might have knocked part of this building down.”

“Maybe…” He frowned, staring up at the building. “I’m sure this is it. I had the Dragon’s Eye in my hands, and I was almost home free.” His expression faltered.

“You did the right thing, Harte.” She wanted to reach for him, but since the day before, he’d been careful to keep a certain amount of distance between them.

“I let it go.” He turned to her, his expression bleak.

“You saved your brother’s life,” she said softly. “But, Harte, even if this is the same building, the crown can’t still be here.”

Harte looked like he wanted to argue, but Esta explained how she’d stolen the Dragon’s Eye from the Chinatown in New York in the 1940s—nearly a decade before.

Harte listened, but she could sense his stubborn determination. “You said that St. Louis was different because of the train derailment we caused, right?”

“I’m not sure what that has to do with—”

He shrugged. “Maybe something has already changed the path of the Dragon’s Eye.”

“I guess it’s possible,” Esta admitted, even if she didn’t think it was likely.

“I know you think I’m wrong,” Harte told her. “But the fact is, we don’t really know how this all works, do we?”

“How what works?” Esta asked.

“Time,” he said. “We don’t know how our actions affect the course of history. We’ve seen that they do, but we can’t predict the effect of the things we’ve done—or might still do. Not really. Even trying to undo what happened in St. Louis… We don’t know if it’s actually even possible. You’re just guessing and hoping you’re right.”

“I’m not just guessing,” Esta told him, hating that he was closer to the truth than she wanted to admit.

“I didn’t mean to start an argument.” Harte let out a ragged breath. “But you have to admit… When I came here in 1904, I did something that hadn’t been done before. It’s possible that changed something. It’s possible that the Dragon’s Eye could still be here.”

“It’s been fifty years, Harte.”

“If it’s not here, then we haven’t lost anything but time, and with the Quellant, you can always steal us more of that. But I think we should go in and take a look,” he said, pointing to a sandwich-board sign sitting on the sidewalk that advertised an exhibition within. The offices seemed to be for some kind of historical society that had a museum open to the public.