Page 11 of The Book of Lost Hours

“You were awfully quick getting that book,” he said, unperturbed by her silence. “You beat me to it.” He smiled. Straight, white teeth behind rose-colored lips. The two years had changed him. Some of the softness of early youth had gone from his features.

“Are you from Russia?” he asked.

“Germany,” Lisavet said at last. Her voice sounded cagey and frightened.

“You speak English?” he said, delighted. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I didn’t realize anyone else was here.”

“You were following the Russian, too?”

“Yeah.” He gave a small grimace.

He rubbed the back of his head and Lisavet realized that he had grown out his hair. The loose copper curls suited him more than the buzz cut.

“I’ve never seen someone else trying to save the books before,” he said.

“Me either,” Lisavet said, giddy at the knowledge that they were talking. Two living people having a conversation. “Besides you, I mean.”

“You’ve seen me before?”

“Once.”

He both smiled and frowned at this. “And you didn’t say hello?”

“Well, I… no. I don’t talk to…” She paused, realizing she shouldn’t say timekeepers, but not really knowing why, then finished, “… strangers.”

“Well, let’s fix that.” He stepped forward and extended a hand. “My name is Ernest. Ernest Duquesne.”

Lisavet stared at his hand. She wanted to take it but found herself hesitating. What if she passed right through him? At last, she reached for it. Their palms slid together, one warm from the gloves and flames, one cool to the touch. Lisavet felt the sensation clear down to her toes.

“Ernest,” she repeated.

“Well? Aren’t you going to tell me your name?”

Another round of panic. She hadn’t said it out loud or heard it spoken by anyone but Azrael in eight years.

She shook her head. “No.”

Ernest’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh? Why not?”

“Because you’re a timekeeper.”

Ernest laughed at this. “And you aren’t?”

Lisavet didn’t answer. Ernest stopped laughing. He looked down at their joined hands and then at her left wrist that clutched the salvaged pages to her chest. He let go in alarm.

“Oh. I’m sorry, I… you’re not… dead, are you?”

“No! At least, I don’t think I am.”

Ernest’s expression grew more and more quizzical. Lisavet began to wonder if she should have lied. Something had shifted in the air between them, and she hadn’t experienced enough of human interaction to know what it was. She stepped back and pointed to the book cover still dangling from his hand.

“Can I have that?”

He looked down at it as though he’d forgotten it was there. “This? It’s just an empty binding.”

“I know. I need it.”

His blue eyes passed between her and the cover several times. “Only if you give me that,” he said, gesturing to the papers.

“What do you want them for?”

“I need them,” he said with a slight shrug of the shoulders. “It’s an even trade. The pages for the cover.”

Lisavet hesitated. “Are you going to burn them?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

Ernest squinted at her. “What does a German girl want with the memories of an American?”

“I didn’t know they belonged to an American,” Lisavet said, mirroring his body language.

“Then why did you save them?”

“Because they’re memories.”

“So?”

“So they were worth saving.”

This struck him in a way that told her she’d caught him off guard. He took a small step forward and she prepared to step back, but he was just leaning, one arm draped against the shelves beside her.

“Well, Germany, I guess we’re at an impasse,” he said.

“Guess so.”

“That’s a shame. And here I thought Versailles really meant something.”

What did France have to do with anything?

She was about to ask when suddenly he lunged forward.

He stole the pages right out of her hands, quicker than lightning.

She cried out in surprise, the sound piercing the time space and echoing.

He ran from her. She tried to follow but he quickly outpaced her and disappeared around the corner.

When she finally caught up, he was gone.

Disappeared into the shadows. She looked down to find the empty cover of the book at her feet.

She bent down to pick it up, examining the flower stamped into its center, certain he’d dropped it on purpose. An even trade.

Moments later, Azrael appeared at her side. “Are you all right? I heard you shout.” She nodded and he looked down at the empty book in her hands. “Where did that come from?”

Lisavet shrugged carelessly. The way Ernest had. “An American timekeeper dropped it.”

“An American? You should be careful with them. They seem to be on the verge of war with the whole world these days. Very dangerous.”

Dangerous , Lisavet repeated in her head.

Over the years, she’d begun to realize that Azrael used that word to describe just about anything outside of the time space.

Thoughts, feelings, emotions, even Time itself were all dangerous.

She began to wonder if what danger really was, if what it really meant, was living.

Maybe the only truly safe thing was death.

Ernest Duquesne was alive, she thought, a small thrill running through her.

His lungs drew breath, same as hers. His hand was solid and pulsing with life.

His eyes full. As deep as oceans, as alive as an entire lifetime’s worth of moons.

If living was dangerous, then he was the most dangerous thing there was.