I got home that night feeling satisfied and happy with the progress I had made in the afternoon. Aidan dropped me off in his truck; waiting until I was inside the house and waving through the window before he drove away.
He pulled out the driveway so slowly, and then stopped completely as if he had forgotten something and was going to come back inside. His engine revved up again however, and he pulled out without any further hesitations. I smiled and felt an unfamiliar sinking in my stomach at his leaving while he honked his car horn and drove away into the gathering dusk.
My mom and dad aren't home yet, but will be in the next half an hour for sure. I use this time to shower, finish off any homework I hadn't managed to do in class and feed Piper. I'm resting on my bed with the lanky dog stretched over my feet when my mom arrives home from her work at the museum.
I hear her bag plop onto the counter and her keys rattling as they are thrown onto their daily place on the hook before she walks down the passage. The familiar chocolate brown mass of curls and hazel eyes pops around my bedroom corner, her necklace of beads catching the light thrown by my bedside lamp.
"Hey there my Lennie! May I ask what the dog is doing on the bed?" she laughs; rolling her eyes and sits down beside Piper's head, scratching her behind the ears.
I close my laptop, the notes I was writing as historical references for my nocturnal activities sliding off the bed when I sit up and hug her with my arms thrown around her neck. "Hi mom. How was the new item that was shipped in today at the museum? Did it meet your expectations?"
We both pull back from the embrace, my mom kissing my forehead before telling me about the interesting mystery item the Port Greylot Museum has been awaiting for months now to arrive. She has been so excited to receive it, continuously repeating how it would make a lovely and interesting centre to a collection they were doing, which will be named 'Old France' once this final piece is added.
"Oh Elena it was just beautiful! It's the bona fide pocket watch that Napoleon Bonaparte used while he was alive! Its exterior is gold and has been so well looked after that it still works! The interior is a little faded, but that's to be expected for an object that was toted around during war and political discussions and other such important things. Pretty cool right?"
She digs around in her big duffel back, pulling out a colourful picture of the antique clock which seems to be attached to this dull, golden chain.
"It's rather heavy too, for a clock that is. When I checked it out to make sure nothing got displaced or broken during shipping, I could almost smell the gunpowder on it or close my eyes and hear the clanging of swords during battles. Oh, I love old things!"
I chuckle at the excitement lighting up in her eyes. Out of the many people I know, my mom is definitely someone who both enjoys the job she does and feels satisfied with what it gives her, even if one of those things isn't a fat wallet.
"Okay, well I'm going to start supper before your father gets home and leave you to whatever you were doing before I interrupted you with my news." The bed creaks as she puts her feet firmly back on the floor, kissing my forehead again before she stretches and fetches my notes which had fallen down.
"Thanks mom, but I love your interruptions." I reply back, taking the notes from her hand and opening my laptop back up again, the screen brightening and lighting my face like a spotlight. I receive a light ruffling of my hair for my appropriate, non-angst-teenager reply and a light throaty laugh emitting from my mom.
She whisks out of my room, leaving a trail of perfumed clouds in her wake.
Since finding out I am adopted, I've been trying not to act any differently around my mom and dad, but it makes things difficult. That collection of papers right beside me, hidden away, weighs on my mind like the weight of the world must have felt on Atlas' shoulders. Pretty damn annoying to say the least.
I sigh, pulling out the birth certificate package of papers I had stuffed hastily into my draw a couple of days ago, the thick paper and inked words prickling my senses and making me sigh heavily again.
I come to a conclusion then and there, even if I am sitting in a rather ordinary setting with the most ill-befitting appearance for my rather abrupt but tremendous realization.
That woman may not be related to me by blood, but she is my mother in every other sense, no matter what the bundle laying in my hands says. It no longer holds any weight to me, and has the most simple and mediocre effect and quiddity for me it can accomplish...it becomes nothing but a stacks of old papers with words on them.
************************
After a fulfilling supper laughing along with my dad's jokes and stuffing myself with mom's better than decent cooking, I retire to my room. I'm going to allow myself to Crossover, despite obvious hesitations I have towards wanting to do it. The way I see it, is that if I continue to try and hide from it, it's only going to make things harder for myself. Besides, I'm feeling pretty legit after taking down Aidan's 'old man' today and getting to swing around wooden practice swords as a reward for my efforts.
I had put muscle bath salts in to help with the aches and pains of being a bad-ass in training, and my current state of a full stomach, warm blanket, tired mind, wafts of lavender scents from the muscle soak and the gently thrumming rain which has started to pitter-patter on my window is making me feel major sleepy-time vibes.
All it takes is that lovable mutt of mine jumping on my bed and acting as a living, breathing hot water bottle as a final touch to lull me to sleep.
It may have been my imagination and that weird and unusual state of existence when you're half-awake and half-asleep just starting to dream and still semi-aware of your environment, but just as I was dozing off to dreamland with my eyes shutting closed I saw a flash of something through my window.
It was an indistinct, hooded figure, alighted atop my wall like a vulture on a skeletal tree in those movies where they circle dying prey.
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○ Aidan's Point Of View ○
I pull into Elena's street, my mind flashing back to the last time I had been here this afternoon.
There had been an absence of rain back then, even if the looming grey clouds framing Port Greylot had been a rather obvious indication of the wet weather to come. I had also been pulling out of her driveway and not aiming for it.
I can't seem to shake off what I had seen back then, just as I had left and made sure Elena was locked inside before beginning my exit. She had done well this afternoon, practically beaming in the car which was different in comparison to the somber mood she had been under when I had first picked her up for training on Wednesday.
Just as I had been reversing out, something on top of her roof had caught my eye as I was turning around to looking out through my back window. It had seemed like a minuscule bright flash, the type you would see when sunlight reflects off a mirror or sunglasses. When I looked closer, I had been unable to see what could have been the cause of such a thing but reluctantly left anyhow.
The nagging feeling which had taken root from then hadn't seem to dissipate, slowly growing and becoming more of a pain in my ass the more I tried to ignore it. It feels as if I have eaten a pile of rocks, all of which were now lining my stomach and making me feel as if I will sink right through the floor.
And so, here I am. Sitting in a freezing truck, in a damp hoodie, while the rain pummels the roof and windows of my vehicle like an offbeat drum. They say the first step in fixing a problem or wrong-doing is admitting to it, so here it goes: I am having concerning stalker tendencies which the intelligent side of me is concerned about and the brash side is trying to encourage.
I pull up just before Elena's house, parking on the curb close enough to check things out but not close enough that if she or her parents would have to look out the window they would become suspicious.
The knob for the heat in my car is taken in my numb hands, which then turn it to crank it up and try and expel the chill setting into my limbs.
Aidan, you're seriously over-thinking this, you're showing some above par displays of protection for a girl you only just met...
Some heat is brought back when I rub my hands together, shaking my fingers out and breathing warm air on them in a bad Darth Vader impression. It's late, most sane people would be in bed or wrapped up with coffee in this weather, but clearly I'm not in the same definition of normal as others. I don't know what it is about Elena, but since seeing the light disappearing from the depths of her eyes while my hands wrung her neck and she didn't put up a fight I have felt a chord struck in me when it concerns her.
The image of that girl clutching my dad like a hog-tied pig flashes across my mind, her face cracking open with one of those secretive smiles as if she knows something but won't be telling you. I find myself smiling at the thought of it too, but shake it off when I realize that I came here to fulfill a purpose and not think about the way her oceanic green eyes had been filled with a suppressed prideful glint.
I straighten my shoulders which were previously hunched, wiping away at the fog misting up my cold windows where the warmth from the heater has been meeting them. The rain makes things difficult, the ever-changing watery scene I'm trying to look through contorted by the falling droplets which break into smaller ones when they hit the waiting solid objects below them, one of these being my trucks windshield. My wipers are doing a pathetic job, they might as well be off for all the help they're doing in this downpour.
My eyes squint further, trying to see through the hazy scene before me. There appears to be nothing out of the ordinary, but I can't help but listen to the more persistent pulling of my gut urging me to not leave and ignore my fanciful mind with its biased decisions.
She must be asleep by now... I reason with myself, checking the clock on my dashboard for the third critical time since leaving my house.
Maybe I should just turn around and leave, since I must be totally out of my mind right now. I'm supposed to be blending in after moving here...not trying to stand out. I might be part of the Clepsydra but even I know that driving to some girl's house when you firstly barely know her and secondly it's late at night is a bit out of the parameters of acceptable behaviour.
But...the nagging feeling. It's still there.
I moan under my breath, running my hands through my hair with frustration before resting them on the top of my steering wheel. The Clepsydra are known for their intuitive and mysterious sixth sense. I mean for crying out loud, I'm able to sense when people in my immediate vicinity are bad at their core or able to do what I am but for bad reasons. Surely if I'm having some unseen force telling me to do this I should be doing it?
Then the thought occurs to me.
Elena is new to the Clepsydra, and must be sending off some serious aura mumbo-jumbo with her rate of development being almost triple as fast as most Clepsydra when they start out. That's what happens when she isn't around people with her same lineage and abilities from childhood. So, just as I had sensed her aura as a giant smack in the face before even trying to search for it, so other Clepsydra must be having it thrown at them too.
Even those she really, really doesn't want sensing her. Like big bad Alterates looking for an unclaimed Clepsydra to join their ranks and bring her up as their own by scaring her away from the good.
This means that if my gut feeling is bothering me now of all times, when she's most likely sleeping and Crossing Over then there's someone else trying to interfere. I remember her now telling me ever so briefly about the disturbance she had experienced earlier this week. I should have asked her for further details, but there's no time for that now.
I need to Drift across to her and I need to do it quickly. It will be hard in my current state with that knot of worry building and tightening in my chest but luckily I have some of my mom's specialized Clepsydra-approved drugs stored in my cubby hole. Good thing I have a habit of letting my sword tag along in side-kick style wherever I go to, just as my dad had warned me to do.
A snapping sound reaches my ears above the repetitive banging on the rain as I uncap the tablets container. The small, circular pills soon hit the back of my throat, my inexperienced dry-swallowing of the medication making me grimace. After taking a few deep breaths, I rest my head back against the driver's seat, my sword lying across my knees with both hands resting on top of the cold metal.
My mind spreads out, like a net being thrown and trying to see if there are any bright silver fish swimming around. I spot Elena's aura immediately, standing apart like a golden koi among pilchards. I can sense the same swirling and abstract, intangible and indescribable pearly essence from the first time I had sensed her like a smack in the face arriving at school. I mentally inch myself towards it, secretively disappearing down the lit tunnel at the aura's epicentre. There is the feeling of being sucked in, the wave once repelling me back and away now sucking me forward, propelling me into her Crossover.
**********************************
○ Elena's Point of View ○
I open my eyes when I suddenly feel my body rock to the side quickly, my head which had been resting against something soft bouncing to hit it harder with a small bang. My eyes shoot open, my hands instinctually coming up to rub the sore spot on my head. Although I don't see blood from the hit, I do see perfectly curled ringlets of dark chocolate brown almost black hair being held in my fingers.
I look around; finding myself in an enclosed carriage with the interior jolting around like it was a living thing with too much caffeine in its system. The windows have curtains closed over them, and my curiosity is too great a temptation to ignore. I pull them aside slightly, looking outside and see a small, old-fashioned town which looked to belong somewhere in the later 19th century. There are quaint small stores, supposedly family owned if one could judge by the names and figures of those working inside. Other horse-drawn carriages bump around on the dusty, cobbled roads like little black beetles, wrick-wracking over the uneven path while the hoofs of chestnuts or gypsy vanner's echo in a steady tempo.
I hear a rustle as I turn my body to gaze out the window, looking down to see a ball gown- like dress which flares out. It has a wide neck leading to it being off the shoulder, white pretty lace framing the neckline and parts of the skirt which flares out from the rigid, lace-up bodice. I bend over, my curious mind satisfied once again when I feel the need to peer underneath and confirm my suspicions.
Yep, I'm wearing one of those seriously heavy and rigid crinoline. Can anyone say fashion trend gone wrong? Woman in the 1850's and 60's must have not found oxygen a necessary requirement if the tightness of the corset I'm wearing is any sort of indication.
I can feel the weight of dangling earrings and I bring my hand up to gently trail my fingers over the smooth surface of what I think to be pearls. I like the dusty blue colour of the material, but I'm not exactly feeling much love towards the ugly-as-road-kill shoes donning my feet. They're charming in the way a little old lady is while giving you nasty looks simply for being a 'young hooligan', with their petite heels and shimmering fabric.
The carriage comes to a winding halt, the doors being thrown open by a black gentleman wearing a uniform I recognize from my last year's history textbook. He's an informal Union soldier, the outfit not appearing to be well-kept or clean but he seems to be proud to wear it nonetheless. So that answers the question which had been spinning in my mind about which time period I had entered. American Civil War, 1861 to 1865. Time of gunpowder and overboard tea.
"Good Evening Miss Ford, the ballroom is right through the doors on the right. There are other people to assist should you need any further directions."
Miss Ford...Miss Ford....Miss Ford?
The words echo in my mind as I try to wrack my brain for a first name to go with the surname, but my long-term memory fails me at this opportune moment. I am unsure how to respond and so simply clear my throat and nod my head, accepting his hand as I have an unsteady exit out of the carriages interior using its narrow and rickety step in my unappealing shoes. I notice other people stepping down out of other similar modes of transportation, ladies dressed finely and accommodated either by men in fine suits and groomed moustaches or wearing polished, spick-and-span uniforms a step above the one belonging to the man who had helped me down. I look before me, tipping my head back to see a grand building made of an odd but architecturally brilliant combination of marble, stone and bricks, grand double doors the finale to a sweeping, not very steep set of stairs leading up to it.
I begin to climb, needing to lift my weighted skirt in my hands in order to avoid an embarrassing tumble back down the way I had come. The frou-frou of other such silken skirts belonging to different females resounded among excited whispers between couples as they too climbed to the top.
I reached the entry way, walking through into an entrance hall fit for such an occasion I am imagining with all the fancily dressed guests. I must look lost, for another man swings his hand out elegantly to his side in the direction of a set of open glass doors. I turn my head, peering down the long corridor until I see the intended pathway he is pointing me down. I'm not quite sure what in the world I'm supposed to be doing here, but it won't help me standing around and looking lost like the wandering soul I am.
"That way madam. The other guests have already begun dancing from what I can hear."
He said the words in a posh, accented voice. It was as if he was not used to speaking like this, since the odd, rough way he usually spoke slipped through the cracks as his voice guided me in the direction of a ballroom which can only be described as grandeur. Before entering it, I can hear the sounds of a practiced orchestra. Violins and flutes play together with other instruments that altogether remind me of the titillated sounds of a child running happily, filled with the sweet, non-purposeful innocence most children possess at one stage of their lives.
I finally step through into the intended location, my make-up coated eyes not being able to take in all the sights at once and give them the proper attention the details deserve. People are grouped, some standing in bundles while others sit at tables framing the scene on the edges of the room. The centre contains couples dancing in sync, brightly coloured dresses lit up by the chandeliers above and spot-lighting their whirlpool swirling motions. Each pair is in time with the others, all looking like individual parts of a machine working together perfectly. Diamonds and other jewelry pieces glint and wink at me from their superior, showy positions draped over necks or placed strategically in elaborate hair styles, laughter echoing and joining the hustle and bustle of the other low murmurs.
The whole scene looks ethereal, like the perfect painting which had erupted out of the head of an artist. His brush strokes were made carefully and concisely in hues of yellow and gold with strong bursts of red, emerald and indigo when the dancer's dresses spin once again.
There's the sound of someone clearing their throat behind me, and I quickly spin around to see another Union soldier standing upright and regally.
"Evening, Miss Ford. You do look fetching in blue I must say."
I swivel on my heels, feeling my heart jump into my throat. I had been so absorbed in the scenery that I hadn't noticed the unknown male sneaking up behind me. He's not too tall, wearing the same button up, long-sleeved coat, dark blue trouser pants, wide black belt with a shining buckle around his waist and polished work shoes like the other soldiers here, although he seems to have an almost smug and victorious air about him as he looks me over from head to toe.
I'm still a little short of words, doing the first thing I thought appropriate for the situation. I crossed my one leg behind the other, delicately grasping some of my dress in each hand before doing a small curtsy. He chuckled to himself, the exhale of air causing the trimmed hairs on his moustache to stir while his muddy brown eyes narrowed with his gaze returning to my face. A frightened or startled look must have been on my own face, matching my nervous insides, because that's when his expression changed to one of neutral calm. His eyes still glinted with mischief, but perhaps that was just the excitement of the occasion.
Maybe this is Aidan, blending into the surroundings just as I am. There are too many people around for him to openly discuss the fact that he's crashed my Crossover again. Smart move, now at least I can't smack him for scaring me with everyone watching. Hmm...we can always hope for a bit of a talking down to be dealt out later I guess.
I think to myself, the male leaning closer to me and speaking in a low tone.
"Care to dance Miss Ford? A young lady such as you should not be left waiting like a wallflower. You're a rose, a pristine growth of this garden that doesn't belong among these other meager daisies flitting about aimlessly."
His hand motions to a group of non-partnered girls, giggling and gossiping among themselves while sneaking occasional glances at other young soldiers across the room. It reminds me of the plastic, peroxide soaked blondes at my school, who are able to charm their way into the backseat of any jocks car after regular weekend sport's derby's and I find myself instantly not wanting to be associated with them.
I accept his offered hand, shrugging my shoulders and saying my first few words in this Crossover. I mostly hear my own voice, but if my ears were to deceive me it would almost sound as if I had a southern drawl to my words.
"Of course...ah...sir"
The language seemed too formal to me, but I didn't want to be seen as preposterous or rude to anyone belonging to this time. Boy, am I glad for those Strictly Come Dancing marathons I watched with my mom while she was sick during the term break. I feel now that I at least have some ballroom dancing knowledge to work with.
He leads me towards the dance floor, the orchestra striking up with another lively but easily dance-able song. I try to squelch the laugh rising in my throat, imagining what these 'upright' people would think and how they would react to a flash mob of Michael Jackson's "Thriller". We begin an easy waltz, couples all around us gliding around the floor as if they were floating rather than actually dancing.
"So, Aid—"
"Your secret about the letter is safe with me Miss Ford. I won't tell another Union soul about the signature of Brigadier General J.E.B Stuart at the bottom of it. You seem very calm and collected tonight for someone sitting in prime enemy territory."
Right. Definitely not Aidan then.
We weave in and out among the unfamiliar and faceless crowd, no one from any particular textbook, history discussion or even a petty 'famous dead people' blog standing out in my memory. I truly am quite lost when it comes to what's going on with this period other than some common and now obvious knowledge on their fashion, dancing and stiff upper-lipped behaviour....well; at least, that's what I can gather from this crowd.
By some miraculous intervention or twist of fate, I manage not to stand on his toes, trip on my petticoat or fall on my face as I had imagined so many times before the song started. I try to withhold the huge sigh of relief that threatened to burst from my lips when the orchestra finally strung out the last note and the couples bowed or curtsied to their partners.
Apparently though, this guy is terrible at reading body language since after straightening himself back up from his bow, he offers his hand again. I can almost feel the bile working up my throat at the thought of having to do this again.
"That was....thrilling, Miss Ford. Would I be so crude as to ask you for anoth—"
But then he's interrupted when a gloved hand taps him on the shoulder. A taller, prouder male with an upright carriage and sense of strength and masculine vitality about him stands behind the guy, with these dark eyes that looked like they take a piece of light from every source of the room and let it reflect back to anyone who looked back into them. They had a hint of softness and kindness to them, despite his sharp, to the point way he presented himself which led me to believe that there was more to this man than meets the eye.
I blink, his dark brown hair seeming to almost look bronze in the light as he moved to acknowledge my presence, ignoring the other man who had given him a puzzled expression due to his interruption. I try to look into those eyes of his again, the almost ebony pupils flashing a bright green in what I believe to be a hallucinatory state of mine before reverting back to their previous hues.
He speaks, his voice sounding alluring and robust in contrast with my previous dance partners hollow and almost emotionless one.
"Sorry to interrupt Mister..."
"Oh, the name is Frankie Abel, sir. I, um, guess I could let a fellow soldier have a dance with the lovely lady too. It would serve another of our own to be seen with such a fine specimen of sensuousness. I didn't quite catch your name sir, if you don't mind my asking... "
Hmmm....the 'lovely lady' would prefer it if she wasn't referred to as a fancy item to be slung over one's arm to impress others Mister Abel. I think to myself, but keep it quiet since even though my knowledge is limited I am attuned to the fact that feminism and equality among the genders was only just beginning to take route during this period of history.
"It's, ah, Major Joseph Willard. It's a pleasure to meet you Mister Abel."
Major Willard seems a tad unsure of himself as he says it, almost seeming as if he needs to remind himself about his own identity. The smaller, less impressive man however doesn't notice as he pales in complexion a small amount, visibly swallowing past a lump in his throat at the sounding of the other male's rank in the army. He suddenly seemed to fully analyse the badges on this man's chest, his eyes sweeping over him from top to bottom in a not-so-subtle manner.
"P-pleasure to meet you too, Major Willard. Please, do enjoy tonight. I'll leave you and Miss Ford to it then."
The impish male left, his stance shrivelling like a flower which had been exposed to the sun for too long.
The other male watches him go, his eyes narrowing with concern tainting his features before he turned back to me with a dismissive shake of his head. I squint my own eyes, seeing the dark brown pupils turn a brilliant turquoise for a second time with his pale skin darkening for a split second. He smiles, his eyes wandering with a gentle, almost familiar drifting over my face and clothing where the other man's had roamed in an uncomfortable way. Mister Willard's inspection of me feels more relaxed, as if he was trying to piece together the last bits of a puzzle in comparison to Frankie Abel who had been ripping it apart.
I only notice it now, but there's a gentle probing at the back of my mind, a quiet knock on the door of my thoughts with a peeping tom peering in through the mailbox slot. I turn back to the man, his whole face flashing so that another identity was visible before going back to the man who had saved me from another dance with Mister Abel.
"Aidan."
I say it softly, the word uttered with a small exhale which showed a snippet of my relief before my brows furrow together.
"Nice to see you Elena. You don't make a bad looking Southern Belle." The face of Mister Willard disappears, his identity which had previously been hidden to me as a Clepsydra falling away with my recognition of him. I know for certain that while I am looking at a face which had become so easily recognizable with its chiseled features, everyone else in this room must still see the face of Major Joseph Willard.
How he was here, or a better question would be why he was here wasn't something which could be discussed so openly when we were surrounded by people. I am able to piece together how he must have found me in a moment, since I think that my aura would have tipped him off if he was searching for it. I looked up into his face, feeling a strange twist in my stomach at the sight of him in a uniform. If I'm honest with myself, I would have gone and enlisted straight away if a poster boy like him had been staring out at me from a sign pasted onto street walls asking for military volunteers.
He looks good in military colours, that much is obvious.
"Glad you decided to save me from the fate of another dance with dear old Frankie. I'm pretty sure his hands couldn't have been any sweatier if he had just run a marathon with leathers gloves on."
He gives a throaty laugh at this, the sound of his strumming vocal cords making a shudder go in waves down my back thrillingly.
"Well, don't think me such a saint just yet. I did come into your Crossover uninvited for a reason I may have placed more importance on than was necessary, since you don't actually seem to be in danger and are in fact handling yourself quite well. Besides..."
He bends at the waist, crossing one arm over his abdomen as his head inclines towards the ground. How is this world fair in allowing for him to look good while seeming like he's bending down to pick up something he dropped?
Oh, right. Because the world is never fair and gets sick enjoyment out of dropping the bomb on unsuspecting teenage girls that they can travel back in time.
"....I'm about to do something which may make you regret my arrival."
He grabs my hand gently, tugging me a short distance to the dance floor in the middle of another waltz. Aidan twirls me around, somehow maneuvering me so that I end up faced in the right direction already in step with everyone else.
His mischief filled voice said with laughter in its syllables reaches my ears, the words making me smile instead of nervous as I had been before.
"Care to dance, Elena?"
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