Page 6 of The Book of Lost Hours

He knitted his eyebrows in equal annoyance. “Watch your tone, Miss Duquesne. You may come back inside. I’m about to assign tonight’s homework.”

Amelia tucked the sleeve of her cardigan back over the watch and stood up. The words to the poem that Moira had quoted at her were suddenly in her head, as clearly as if the woman were standing beside her.

Between the idea and the reality…

A strange, prickling sensation traveled from the top of Amelia’s head clear down her spine.

… falls the shadow.

She passed through the door to reenter the classroom, and then the world upended itself.

At first, she heard someone shouting. Then a thousand someones, all calling out at once.

Voices echoing into an abyss that she couldn’t see, yet she could feel it, her whole body teetering on the edge of an invisible precipice.

And then she was falling, crashing down through darkness and shadows.

There was a rush of hot air and suddenly she was no longer falling.

There was no impact, no abrupt stop. Her feet were back on solid ground as though they had always been.

She opened her eyes, hearing the stretch of her own breath.

In front of her was a silent cavern. Two walls on either side of her, stretching up.

A murky pool of shadows danced in her periphery.

As her eyes adjusted, she saw that the walls were actually shelves, extending forward in a maze.

She grasped desperately for the watch, spinning the crown again, palms sweating.

She stepped backward and felt her foot catch on the edge of the doorframe.

There was a jerking sensation along her spine, as though someone had attached a string to her waist, and then a lift until her feet hit the ground a second time.

She kept her eyes closed, afraid to open them and face whatever might be in front of her. The silence was gone, swept away as quickly as it came, and instead she heard wind brushing against fallen leaves like a whisper, a metallic click…

“Not so good at following instructions, I see.”

Amelia’s eyes flew open.

She was standing in the cemetery. The sky was overcast but bright with morning. Her uncle’s grave was before her. To her left, Moira Donnelly blew a long column of smoke up into the air, eyes on her own watch.

“We’ll have to work on that,” she said, lowering her wrist and fixing her dark eyes on Amelia.

Amelia let out a loud, desperate breath she’d been holding since the instant she’d tipped over the edge.

How long ago was that? Hours? Seconds? She wasn’t sure.

Everything was the same as it had been that morning.

Her shoes soaked from the damp grass, the raindrops hitting her face, the open grave with the casket still visible.

“W-what’s happening?” she asked, looking desperately at Moira.

A smile twinged the edges of Moira’s red lips. “You tell me.”

Amelia tried to breathe but every time she tried to draw a breath it stuck in her throat.

“I don’t understand. Is this… are you… what time is it?”

Moira took a drag on her cigarette before answering. “About thirty seconds past eight in the morning.”

Amelia’s eyes nearly bugged out of her head. “But I… it was just…”

“I did warn you not to wind it.”

“I know. But I was in the hallway, and then I went through the door and…” Amelia paused to draw breath. “And then…” She trailed off.

Moira raised her eyebrows. “And then?”

Amelia shook her head, lost for words. “I don’t know.”

It was a blur. The falling, the shouts, the abyss.

Moira tossed the cigarette to the ground and reached for Amelia’s wrist. “Well, I suppose we’d better get you back.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Back to the right time.” She had begun fiddling with the crown of the watch. “When you leave here, wind the watch again and a door will appear for you that will take you back to your classroom. That should do the trick.”

Amelia tried to pull away and Moira slapped her wrist sharply. “But I thought… Aren’t you going to take it?”

“I’m afraid it’s a bit late for that. We’ll talk again later.” There was a small snap as Moira pressed the crown into place. “Off you go then,” she prompted.

“But I… how?”

“Any passageway will do. A door, or a gate, or—” Moira broke off, glancing around at the deserted cemetery. “Here’s another poem for you, if you can guess it. Walt Whitman. ‘Entering thy sovereign, dim, illimitable grounds… As at thy portals…’?”

In her upturned state, it took some time for the poem to gather itself in Amelia’s head. Moira had placed the lines out of order. But Walt Whitman was one of her favorites.

“… also death,” she finished.

Moira gave her a broad, catlike smile. “In many religions, graves are portals, too, my dear. Doors to a world that lies within our own, but beyond it.”

Amelia made a small squeaking noise. “I don’t understand.”

“Watch your head,” Moira said.

With one hand, she shoved Amelia backward into the open grave.

W HEN A MELIA had vanished from sight, Moira let out a sigh.

This might be more complicated than she’d thought.

She took her time getting to her next destination.

In the parking lot, she shook out her umbrella and dusted the rain from her coat.

Her car, a bright red Cadillac with a black top, was one of the many things about which she was particular, and she didn’t want to track water into it.

Having a car at all was a status symbol in a city like Boston.

Having one so clean and cared for was another.

Above all, Moira wanted to be someone whose competence people didn’t question.

She was entirely self-sufficient. Her own money, her own apartment.

A career with the State Department rivaling that of many men.

She had earned her place, but she knew many of her colleagues still viewed her as the smiling, demure, compliant secretary to Jack Dillinger that she’d been when she’d first started ten years ago.

Now she had Jack’s old job and some of those same men were her subordinates.

They respected her as their boss but that didn’t mean they weren’t still keeping an eye out. Waiting for her to slip up.

So Moira made sure never to falter. They wanted compliant so she gave them stubborn.

They wanted demure so she gave them cunning.

They expected smiling, so she gave them cold, impassive, blunt.

Someone who did not need assistance opening her car door and who might sooner bite your hand off for getting fingerprints on the finish.

Each day, she made sure her appearance was immaculate.

She kept her dark hair trimmed just beneath her chin and avoided the bright dresses worn by the wives of the men she worked with.

Instead, she wore trousers or pencil skirts cinched in at the waist, heels with pointed toes, and turtleneck sweaters in dark colors.

And never, under any circumstances, did she go to work without applying charcoal eyeliner and curling her lashes with careful precision.

That morning, she wouldn’t be seeing any of her colleagues, but still looked the part as she sat outside Pembroke Academy’s main administrative building.

She smoked yet another cigarette while she waited, keeping one arm propped against the open window.

It was still early. From her seat, she could just make out the office where Amelia Duquesne would be meeting with the dean in a few hours.

As it turned out, the only person of any real importance in Amelia’s life now that Ernest was gone was the dean himself.

He would decide what to do with the sad little orphan.

Moira watched him pull into the parking spot a few rows down.

He was a stodgy, balding man in his late fifties, clad in tweed and elbow patches.

He got out of the car, holding a stack of portfolio folders, a leather bag slung over one arm.

As he shut the door, the strap of his bag slipped down to the crook of his elbow and in his effort to fix it, he lost his grip on the files.

They flew out in all directions, catching in the wind and tumbling across the parking lot.

He cursed loudly, dropping his bag on the ground to chase after them.

This was her opening. Taking one last drag, Moira flicked her cigarette away and began fidgeting with the crown of her watch.

Just a half-quarter turn and time shuddered back.

The papers sprang up from the ground back into the dean’s arms. His bag affixed itself properly on his shoulder.

Moira clicked the crown into place and got out of the car just as he was doing the same.

“Dean Hodgkins?” she asked, heels striking pavement as she made her way over to him.

He looked up. The bag slipped. He reached for it. But this time, Moira took the folders from his hands before they could fall.

“Let me help you with that,” she said.

Moira maintained eye contact, allowing a brief pause for him to assess her, watching his expression.

It was strategic as much as it was amusing for her.

How he reacted now would tell her all she needed to know about how this conversation would go.

After a beat she held out a hand, shifting the papers into one arm.

“So sorry to catch you like this. My name is Moira Donnelly.”

Dean Hodgkins startled like a frightened bird, scrambling so he could shake her hand properly. “How do you do? I’d introduce myself but… well, it seems you’ve got the upper hand here.”