Page 98 of Disturbing the Dead
We’re on the south side of Princes Street, and I’m trying so hard not to think of all the times I’ve walked along here with Gray and Isla, Simon and Alice, even Annis, who dragged me there two weeks ago shopping, because Isla refused to go and I soon discovered why. Shopping with Annis was like going to a restaurant with that one friend who always sends something back. She’d—
I yank from the thought. None of that.
None of what? Memories? I’ve accepted that I really did pass through time, which means those aren’t scenes from a dream. Am I going to box them up permanently? Hide them on a shelf in hopes I’ll forget where I left them?
“I’d like to go up,” Mom says.
I startle from my thoughts to realize she stopped. I follow her gaze up to see the Gothic splendor of the Scott Monument.
“Come,” she says, taking a credit card from her pocket. “I’ll buy tickets.”
My knees lock. I look up, and I remember this past spring, Gray and me climbing the steps after dark, following our first visit to Queen Mab.
“Mallory?” Mom doesn’t even look back, just waves, like I’m twelve again and dawdling. “We’re going up.”
My feet drag the whole way, first to get the tickets, and then climbing those steps. I hear the clang of them underfoot, and it’s 1869, a warm June night—
None of that.
I steel myself and continue up while focusing on everything that screams twenty-first century. The honking cars. The trams rattling down the middle of the road. The tour buses, and the tourists, so many tourists.
Stay in this time. Don’t let my mind wander. Don’t remember. Don’t break down.
When we reach the viewing platform, I stay by the steps, but Mom steers me to the railing. Then, as Dad moves up to my other side, Mom murmurs, “I know where you went.”
I glance over sharply.
“Your nan told us everything, and she made us promise not to mention it until…” Her voice catches but she clears her throat. “Until she was gone. That was best anyway. I wanted to focus on her, and I also needed time to… process. I’ve been doing that, processing and investigating and trying to wrap my head around it.”
“You don’t need to,” I say, my voice a little brusque. “It’s over, and it’s nothing we ever need to talk about.”
“We never need to talk about something that had a profound effect on my daughter?”
“I’d rather not.”
She’s quiet. Dad reaches for my hand, squeezes it and holds it. We look out over the city.
After a moment, Mom says, “Every time we drive past this monument, you look up at it, and your face… It breaks my heart.”
I stiffen. “We really don’t need to discuss—”
“You came here, back then. Tell me about it.”
I say nothing, just set my jaw, ignore the ache in my throat, and stare out.
“Mallory? Just… talk to me.”
I shake my head. “Can we not do this? Please? You don’t believe I actually traveled through time. Don’t humor me. Please.”
She lays her hand on mine, gripping the railing. “But I do believe. I have to.”
Dad murmurs, “‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’”
My eyes fill at the Sherlock Holmes quote, but I manage to smile at him. “Pretty sure time travel is the very definition of impossible, Dad.”
“Mmm, not according to some very intelligent people. People much smarter than me.”
I lean against his shoulder, and before I can hold it back, I blurt, “I called Dr. Gray a consulting detective once, and now he’s using it, and I feel like I owe Sir Arthur Conan Doyle a huge apology.”
