Page 48 of The Book of Lost Hours

Inside was exactly what she had been hoping to find.

Her coat, her father’s coat, was folded neatly atop a box labeled with her initials.

Her real initials. Her fingers curled around the door to steady herself while she reached out with her other hand.

She touched the soft brown wool, suddenly feeling as though her hands belonged to someone else.

Beneath the coat, the box was filled with notes that Jack had taken from Ernest over fifteen years ago.

Among them were the drawings Ernest had done of her face, the notebook where he’d chronicled every encounter they had, along with all his theories.

The files closest to the top were slightly different.

Reports from Brady and Collins. And of course, notes from Jack himself.

Taken during the two years he had kept her locked away in the psychiatric ward.

The final file, kept on the very top of the pile for easier access, was labeled Amelia Duquesne.

The file itself was already alarmingly thick.

The bastard, Moira cursed under her breath, her hands shaking as she retrieved it.

Deep down, she had known that he suspected there was something different about Amelia.

Moira had seen the look in his eyes the first time he’d met her nearly a decade ago.

But she hadn’t known about this. Moira set the files aside. Those weren’t what she was here for.

There was a final box in the safe. This one needed a second key, the smallest one on Jack’s key ring.

Her hands shook as she opened the box, already imagining that she could hear it.

Her father’s watch had stopped ticking years ago from lack of use.

Moira ran one hand over the crystal, the patinated brass.

The hush of Time gathered in the back of her head, and she tapped one fingernail against the pocket watch.

It began ticking once more, springing to life like a child coming home.

She smiled to herself as she lifted it from the box.

A light in the hallway flipped on. She frantically returned the files and slid her father’s watch into her pocket, closing the safe. She slung the coat over one arm and straightened up just as the door opened.

“Patrick,” she said, fixing a passive expression on her face.

Patrick Brady stood in the doorway, looking at her strangely.

“Hello, Donnelly,” he said. “I thought you were in Boston.”

“I was. Jack needed something.”

Brady took a step into the room, looking down at the coat. Moira shifted slightly, adjusting her lapels to cover more of the bloodstains.

“Must have been pretty urgent to send you all the way here in the middle of the night.”

“It was,” Moira said with a curt smile. She was the director of the Temporal Reconnaissance Program. She didn’t need to explain herself to him. Even if he did work for Jack and not her. “If you’ll excuse me, I should get back.”

She tried to step around him but Brady blocked her way.

“Aren’t you supposed to be looking after Ernest’s kid?”

“It’s none of your business what I’m supposed to be doing, Brady,” she said, glaring at him. “By the way, what are you doing here so late?”

“Oh, you know. Waiting for a call.”

Something cold settled in the back of Moira’s throat. “A call?”

“From Jack. He rang late last night and said some things were about to go down in Boston between Ernest’s kid and that Russian boy.

Said he was going to call me tonight at some point once everything was all said and done.

Said I should wait around until he did. To make sure nothing went wrong.

” Brady paused, eyes flickering down to her shirt, the bloodstains just visible. “You see… he had some concerns.”

Moira reached behind her. She seized the lamp from the desk and swung hard at Brady’s head.

He ducked and the lamp shattered against the wall.

She ran from the room, feeling the pull of Time stirring in her chest. She thought about Amelia in the time space and resisted the urge to stop Time, knowing that the chasm only grew each time she did.

She shut the door to Jack’s office behind her and slammed the keys into the lock before Brady could recover his balance.

He began banging on the door, cursing her by name, her real name, as she fled.

She made it to her car and pulled out of the parking lot, following the signs for Manhattan.

A MELIA WOKE to the sound of birdsong.

Sunlight streamed in through the crack in the floral curtains, filling the little room with warm golden light.

The room itself was tiny, with sloped ceilings and a window at knee height.

She was lying on a ragged old rug beside a bed.

Her brain felt fuzzy, and it took several moments for everything to click into place.

She was in a memory. Amelia forced herself into a seated position, her neck sore from sleeping at an awkward angle.

Anton was nowhere to be found. She listened closely for any signs of what era they might be in.

Anton hadn’t told her last night, and she had been too exhausted to ask.

Out the window was a golden meadow dotted with wildflowers.

It was summer. Somewhere provincial. She could hear muffled voices below, the creak of old hinges, and then the sound of children laughing.

Amelia descended the ladder to the floor below.

The house was much smaller than she expected.

Three rooms in total, including the loft where she had been sleeping.

A little kitchen with a stove but no sink.

She still didn’t see Anton. The children’s laughter grew louder outside so she followed the sound.

Soft summer sun nestled against her face as she stepped out.

Ahead of her, just beyond a little gate, four young children—three girls and a boy all younger than ten years old—danced around a tall man who must be their father as he carried two empty buckets.

He called out to the youngest in Russian, a little girl who was lagging behind.

Her brown curls bounced as she ran on infant legs to catch up to them.

Amelia’s eyes fell on a figure sitting beneath a sprawling oak, arms resting on his knees.

Anton. Amelia cut across the grassy meadow toward him.

He didn’t look at her until she was right in front of him, his eyes on the children.

She sat down in the grass beside him. Birds flew in and out of the branches of the oak over their heads, twittering their morning songs. This place was peaceful but beside her, Anton seemed on edge.

“Where are we?” she asked.

For a minute, Anton remained quiet. “Russia,” he said at last, trilling his r with a bit more emphasis than usual. “Nineteen fifty-five.”

Amelia followed his glassy gaze to the children running up the hill after their father. Her eyes fell on the boy of about six or seven with sharp dark eyes and clumsy long limbs.

“Oh, so this is—” She broke off as Anton’s shoulders tensed. There was another pause. “Is this your…”

“Yes,” Anton said before she could finish. He pointed. “That man over there is my father. The girls are my sisters.”

“Where’s your mother?”

“She died in childbirth two years before this day.”

Amelia looked back at the littlest girl, struggling to keep up with her siblings. “I’m sorry,” she said faintly. I lost my mother too , she wanted to say.

Anton frowned. “There is no reason for you to be sorry. You do not know me. I am a stranger to you.”

“Where are your sisters now?” Amelia asked.

Anton’s face darkened. “Dead.”

“All of them?”

“My father was a timekeeper before he was killed by the Americans. Our life was better then. Normal. My father was saving up money to send me to America on a school exchange program. I used to be very good at math. But… well, then he died, and it was all over for me. I was forced into the timekeeper program in his place. The government put me through their three-year training regimen in Moscow. By the time I was allowed to contact my sisters again, they were gone. Nobody could tell me what happened to them. Later, I learned they had died of starvation in an orphanage.”

“Starvation?” Amelia asked.

Anton shrugged. “It is common in places like this.”

Amelia looked at the three tiny girls, tripping over themselves with laughter. “Why did you decide to come here?” she asked. Clearly this was difficult for him. Such a vulnerable thing to share with a total stranger.

“I wanted to see it again. I always wish that I could experience these moments a second time. I dream about it always. Back then, I didn’t know any of this was worth cherishing.”

There was such pain in his voice. The joyful shouts of the youngest girl rang out again, followed by the father’s laughter.

“ Remorse is memory awake ,” Amelia murmured quietly. Too quiet for him to hear, or so she thought.

“What did you say?” Anton asked.

“Oh. Nothing.”

“No, what was it? Something about a memory?”

“It’s a poem. By Emily Dickinson,” Amelia said sheepishly. “?‘Remorse is memory awake / Her companies astir / A presence of departed acts / At window and at door / its past set down before the soul / and lighted with a match’—” She broke off, blushing at the strange look he was giving her.

“Is pretty,” Anton said, considering it. “How do you know it?”

“I memorized it when I was younger. This… time walking… it made me think of it.”

“This is what you think about when you are on the run from the US government?” Anton asked, sounding amused. “Poems?”

“Sure, don’t you?” she asked sarcastically.

Anton chuckled. “I am Russian. We destroyed all our poets with the rise of communism and the ones that are left tell only of the glory of the state. None of these remorseful memories of windows and doors.”

“I’m sure it seems stupid to you,” Amelia said, looking away. “But it’s how I handle difficult things.”