Page 7 of The Book of Lost Hours

Moira smiled to herself. The scene played out smoothly.

Two characters in a movie meeting for the first time.

She lied and said she’d tried to call his office, but no one had answered.

He made a joke about his secretary’s incompetence, which Moira pretended was funny.

She beat around the bush as long as possible, complimenting the school, praising its reputation.

All the while she maintained perfect eye contact.

By the time she got to the point, she’d gathered everything she needed to know about him.

He liked her. He was fooled by her false amiability.

And most importantly, he was attracted to her.

She could tell by the way he tucked his left hand out of sight to conceal his wedding ring, and the way he leaned forward slightly as she spoke, hanging on every word that fell from her carefully painted mouth.

This conversation was going to go just fine.

A MELIA LANDED on her back, eyes shut, in the middle of the dark, silent place.

She scrambled to her feet, gasping for air, and searched wildly for this alleged door Moira had talked about.

The narrow passage was before her, the walls on either side reaching up high over her head.

In her panicked state, she realized the walls were actually shelves laden with old leather books.

She almost stopped to investigate until she heard the sound of footsteps somewhere beyond her line of sight.

She frantically spun the crown of the watch and ran for the door that appeared before her, twisting the knob without a second thought.

She fell through to the other side with a shout, gripping the sides of the frame tightly in both hands.

Her body trembled and she refused to open her eyes, fearful that she might have ended up somewhere else again.

Her ears barely registered the sound of snickers coming from the room until Mr. Markham said her name.

“Miss Duquesne?” he asked. Not stern but worried. “Are you all right?”

Amelia looked up at him, struggling to place herself.

She scanned the classroom. The mocking faces of her classmates.

She glanced at her feet to find them standing on familiar tile.

Then, hesitantly, she glanced back over her shoulder, expecting to see the dark place full of bookshelves, but instead finding the hallway with its single desk. She let out a sigh of relief.

“Miss Duquesne?” her teacher asked again. “Should I call the nurse?”

“No,” Amelia said breathlessly. “No, I’m fine.”

She scurried to her seat and collapsed into her chair as Mr. Markham moved to the front of the room to announce the night’s assignment.

She looked down at the watch still bound to her wrist. It was no longer ticking backward.

It must have been a dream, she told herself.

She’d fallen asleep waiting out in the hallway.

Maybe she had sleepwalked her way to the door, her body reacting while her mind fled reality.

It had happened before. When her mother had died, she had gone through a bout of sleepwalking that lasted months.

A number of times Uncle Ernest had found her, standing by the front door, eyes half closed and flickering behind her lids.

Whenever he woke her, she spoke in rapid, hushed tones about walking through a narrow, shadowy hallway not unlike the one she’d seen, pursuing the faded image of her mother.

She might have convinced herself that it was all a dream. Until Moira Donnelly showed up again, standing outside the cafeteria at lunch. At first Amelia tried to ignore her.

“Amelia,” Moira said loudly, drawing the attention of several others around them. “Come here, please.”

Amelia stood rigid, arms braced tightly over her books, trying to decide whether or not to listen.

“If you don’t come now, I’ll just find you later,” Moira said bluntly. “Difficult to hide with hair like that.”

Amelia let out an indignant huff and stomped her way over spitefully. “What do you want?”

“I told you we would talk later.”

“So talk.”

Moira frowned at her. “Are you always this rude or am I just getting special treatment?” She took her car keys from her purse and held them up. “How about lunch?”

“What?”

“So we can talk. There’s a place not far from here that serves excellent pastrami sandwiches.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you. Besides, I have class after this.”

“No, you don’t. You have a free period after lunch.”

“Why do you know that?” Amelia asked in annoyance.

“I asked the dean for your schedule.”

“And he gave it to you?”

“Not at first. But then I told him that I was your distant cousin, flown in from London to come look after you now that your uncle is gone, and he handed it over.”

“You are not my cousin.”

“No, of course not. I am, however, your only option. Before I showed up, that dean of yours was ready to call child services to come pick you up and take you to a group home. So really you should be thanking me. Now come on. If you don’t want lunch, then I’m taking you home.

I’ll make us some coffee and we can chat. ”

“Home?” Amelia repeated, exasperated.

“To your uncle’s house. It’s only an hour from here, right?”

Amelia started to protest again, and Moira cut her off with a wave of her hand. “Don’t worry about school tomorrow. I talked to the dean, and we agreed it was best if you take some time off. To give you time to grieve. Now come on.”

Amelia folded her arms stubbornly. “You pushed me into a grave.”

“ You didn’t listen. I wouldn’t have needed to if you hadn’t wound the watch.”

“So… that was real?” Amelia asked, curiosity getting the better of her.

“Quite.”

Amelia stared at her.

“There’s a lot to explain,” Moira said, turning to face her on the sidewalk. “But the first thing you should know is that your uncle was not a communist.”

Through all the confusion still rattling around in Amelia’s head, relief came like a beam of sunlight through the clouds.

“He wasn’t?”

“No. But he was murdered by one.”

B Y THE time they reached the house, it had started raining again.

Moira pulled the car up to the curb and leaned down so she could get a better look out the passenger side, eyes scanning each gable and window.

Beside her, Amelia was still sulking. Her state of shock had lasted long enough for Moira to shuffle her over to her dorm, but the attitude had resurfaced the moment Moira had begun trying to help pack her things.

Amelia had declared that she needed no help, haphazardly shoving cardigans and wrinkled shirts into a bag.

The only thing Amelia took any semblance of care with was the stack of poetry books she took from the shelf above the desk.

Old, worn copies of Whitman, Yeats, and Byron. Those she carried tightly in both arms.

On the drive to the house, Amelia had taken up a militant silence in spite of the many questions Moira was sure she had. Amelia was proving more stubborn than Moira had anticipated. She wanted answers, but she didn’t want them from her.

“Shall we go in?” Moira asked.

Without a word, Amelia got out of the car, slamming the door behind her. Moira rolled her eyes and followed, stopping to retrieve the bag of clothes from the back seat. By the time she reached the porch, Amelia was staring at the door.

“What’s the matter?” Moira asked.

“I don’t have a key,” Amelia mumbled.

Moira pulled a set of keys from her pocket.

She smirked triumphantly at the incredulous look Amelia gave her.

Inside, all the curtains were drawn, the house shrouded in a dark cloak of mourning.

Moira flipped on the hall lights, eyes sweeping the entryway.

The house was as she expected. Old, but well-kept.

Tidy, but overcrowded by shelf after shelf of books.

“How very… stuffy. Don’t you ever open the windows?”

“Moisture is bad for the books,” Amelia recited, sounding more like Ernest than she ever had. “Creates mold.”

Moira started walking toward the kitchen. “At least open the curtains, won’t you? No wonder you’re so pale.” In the kitchen, she made herself right at home, pouring water in the kettle on the stove. “Coffee?” she asked.

“What? No. Aren’t you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“Oh, are you talking to me again?”

“You said we would talk.”

“And we will. Over coffee,” Moira promised, holding the kettle up to show her.

“I’m not supposed to drink coffee,” Amelia said defiantly. “Uncle Ernest doesn’t let me.”

“He’s not the one offering, I am,” Moira pointed out. There was a pause. “I can make you tea instead if you’d prefer, though I’d rather not. I hate tea.”

Amelia exhaled in annoyance. “Coffee is fine.”

Moira smiled at her. “Have a seat.”

Amelia slid into the chair at the table.

Moira busied herself with the kettle. As it boiled, she investigated the cupboards, which were almost completely barren.

The milk in the refrigerator was spoiled.

She would need to go shopping. And soon.

This realization brought about her first real hesitation about the situation she had orchestrated.

What did teenage girls even eat? Moira herself subsisted on a steady diet of coffee, cigarettes, and cold sandwiches.

Adolescent girls needed real food. Three square meals a day.

Fresh milk. Vegetables. She could feel Amelia watching her from the table as she measured out instant coffee into two mugs.

Were fifteen-year-olds even supposed to drink coffee?

Moira poured equal measures of coffee into two mugs and set one down on the table. “We’ll have to drink it black. Seems the milk’s gone bad.”

Amelia only nodded.