Page 19 of The Book of Lost Hours

AMELIA WAS QUIET ALL through dinner. They were having soup that night, as they had both other nights since Moira had appeared in her life.

Amelia got the sense that she wasn’t a very skilled cook.

If she’d had the energy, Amelia might have complained about it, but a bone-deep weariness had set in, and it was all she could do to lift the spoon to her mouth and swallow.

“It’s normal,” Moira said after ten minutes of pure silence between them.

“What is?”

“Feeling foggy after you’ve been in the time space. Your consciousness is used to experiencing only one temporal reality and you’ve just forced it into a different one. It goes away after a night of sleep.”

“Oh,” Amelia said, dipping her spoon back into the bowl.

“Did everything go all right in there? You seem on edge.”

“Well, maybe that’s because someone pushed me out a window today.”

Moira’s eyes slid to her and then back to her bowl. “I’m sorry for that. I lost my temper. There’s a lot riding on you finding the book and if we don’t—”

“Yes, yes, the world as we know it will fall to pieces. I get it,” Amelia said sharply. She didn’t want excuses, she just wanted for all this to be over.

They ate in silence for a while. Amelia rubbed her arms to fight off the pervasive chill.

“Feeling cold is normal too,” Moira said. “Hot baths help. If you want me to, I can draw one for you after dinner.”

“No thanks.”

“Are you sure? The first time is always…”

“I don’t need you to take care of me!” Amelia snapped, throwing down her spoon. “You’re not my mother, so just leave me alone!”

Moira let out an exasperated sigh and pushed back from the table. “Fine. Have it your way. We’re going on a little outing tomorrow to visit a colleague of your uncle’s, so be ready to go by ten a.m.”

“An outing? What colleague?”

“Ten a.m.,” Moira repeated. She picked up her bowl and dropped it into the sink before leaving the room.

Amelia heard the door to the first-floor guest room open and shut.

She left her bowl on the table and went up to her room, slamming her own door behind her.

She hugged her arms to her chest, feeling a chill settle deep into her body.

A bath would be nice , she thought begrudgingly.

She climbed into bed without changing out of her clothes.

The hot ache of tears was building behind her eyes, but she refused to cry.

As tired as she was, she couldn’t sleep.

Every time she closed her eyes, they popped back open.

After an hour of this, she sat up and turned on the light.

The house was silent. Moira must have gone to bed.

Amelia reached for her backpack on the bedpost and took out the three poetry books Moira had left for her.

She surveyed the covers and then selected the thickest one.

Aurora Leigh , by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Nestling back into the pillows, Amelia began to read until her mind quieted and she slipped into sleep with the book still propped up in her hands.

O N THEIR way into the city, Moira smoked a lot . Amelia kept count in her head, realizing that this was the first time she’d ever seen Moira nervous.

“So. Who is this person?” she asked.

“His name is James Gravel. He’s a timekeeper.”

“He works for the department too?”

Moira blew smoke out the window and tossed the butt out after it. “No. Not all timekeepers work for the government. There are a few who operate independently, using watches passed down over generations.”

“But my uncle knew him?” Amelia noticed that Moira’s shoulders tensed, her hands gripping the wheel of the Cadillac more tightly.

“Yes. He was in contact with James, just as he was with most of the other American timekeepers. He tried to recruit him once but… it didn’t work out.”

“Why not?”

Moira took a long time to answer her this time. She dug in her purse and lit another cigarette, steering the car with her knee. “James has a different ideology regarding the time space.”

Amelia could tell there was something she wasn’t saying, but she didn’t know the right questions to ask.

And she really wanted Moira to stop smoking.

She sat back and looked out the window. When they exited the highway, Amelia sat up a little straighter.

The buildings in this part of Boston were not as well kept.

Peeling paint on the doors. Cracked sidewalks.

Windows missing their shutters or curtains or, in some cases, glass.

“Where are we?” she asked.

Moira turned the car down a street lined with crowded brownstones and shop windows and said, “West side.”

They parked in front of a pawnshop. There was black iron caging in the windows, protecting a stash of jewelry and old collectors’ items. Moira turned off the car and Amelia started to unbuckle her seat belt. Moira didn’t move.

“Amelia… Perhaps I should warn you. Your uncle was on good terms with James but that doesn’t mean all of us are.”

“Oh. Are you?”

“No. In fact, I’m afraid it’s rather the opposite. He and I… well, the department believes he is a part of the rebellion I told you about. I’ve been investigating him for over a year now.”

Amelia looked at the pawnshop and then back at Moira. “Does he know we’re coming?”

“No, he doesn’t.”

Encountering Moira at all was a jarring experience, but encountering her without any kind of warning, the way she herself had…

well, that didn’t feel like the wisest of decisions.

They got out of the car, stepping into cool October sunshine.

Moira showed no trace of nervousness now; in its place was the sharp, intimidating demeanor Amelia was more accustomed to.

Eyes scanning, head held high in a manner that was almost regal.

Demanding authority. She had dressed the part, too, wearing a long black coat and heels sharper than knives. Her lipstick was a deep, dangerous red.

On the steps of the building next door, two elderly men with knobbed knees and tufts of gray hair eyed them from the stoop.

Amelia recognized them immediately as retired busybodies who made it their business to know exactly what was going on in the neighborhood.

Their eyes glossed over Amelia, seeming to find her misplaced but nonthreatening.

Moira, on the other hand… her they scrutinized heavily.

It was clear that they recognized her, or at least knew her type, and could smell the trouble she was bringing a mile away.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Moira said, starting for the shop.

“Shop’s closed on Sundays,” the younger one said sharply. “Come back later.”

“He’s got the kids home,” the older one added as if that might deter her.

Moira’s lips curled. “That’s all right. We’re just here for a chat.”

The two old men exchanged glances. Amelia followed Moira down a set of steps that dipped below the sidewalk beneath the shop.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t just…”

Moira shushed her. “Don’t worry, he’ll see us.”

She knocked on the door loudly and stepped back. Moments later, a woman answered, holding a small boy in her arms. She kept the chain on the door, peering out through the crack cautiously.

“Yes?”

“You must be Edith,” Moira said in a honey-sweet voice. “My name is Moira Donnelly. I’m here to see your husband.”

Recognition flickered in Edith’s eyes. “Is he expecting you?”

“I’m afraid not. We’re here to ask a few questions about the murder of Ernest Duquesne.”

Moira slipped a hand into her coat pocket and withdrew a badge. Amelia was almost as surprised as Edith by its appearance. The little boy in Edith’s arms began fussing and she moved him out of the line of sight.

“One moment,” she said.

The door closed and there was a sound of the chain being removed before it opened to let them in.

She told them to wait and went into the next room.

Inside, the apartment was cramped but immaculately clean, containing two rooms and a small galley kitchen at the back.

Amelia could hear hushed voices in the next room. The door opened.

James Gravel was a tall man, with dark skin and tightly coiled hair.

His face carried a certain heaviness to it as he surveyed the two of them standing in his living room.

He was not wearing a watch, but Amelia got the sense that this was intentional.

Something seen was something that could be taken.

“Hello, Mr. Gravel,” Moira said, giving him one of her conniving smiles. “Nice to see you.”

“Your boys were already here last week,” James said coldly. “I already told them I don’t know anything about what happened to Ernest.”

“Yes, I know. But unfortunately none of us believe you. Seeing as you were the last person to see him alive.”

Amelia let out a small gasp. The sound drew James’s attention to her.

“Who’s this? Did Jack get tired of trying to indoctrinate the rest of us and start recruiting kids instead?”

“This is Amelia. She’s Ernest’s niece,” Moira said, putting a hand on her shoulder.

James gave Amelia a look that was half bewildered, half angry. “That’s real messed up,” he said, glaring accusingly at Moira. “You’re dragging her into this too?”

“Ernest left his watch to her,” Moira said with a shrug. “He wanted her involved in this.”

“Bullshit,” James scoffed.

“You don’t have to believe me, James. I’m not here to try and extort you for information.”

“That’s a first,” he muttered under his breath.