Page 2 of Across Time

What I know about Marie-Therese Durand, thanks to my sister’s hints and a long day at the library, is almost nothing: she was born in 1918, and lived on the outskirts of Saint Antoine until 1940. There is no record of her beyond that, and I don’t know if this means she died during World War II or if she simply left home—given it’s the year France fell to Germany, either possibility seems likely.

The cab comes to a stop in front of some massive industrial farm. There are thousands like it back home in Pennsylvania, but I’d expected a quaint farmhouse, not huge silos and aluminum siding. I suppose my mistake was expecting anything in the first place, since I’m going into this blind.

This, right now, is my last chance to back out. I pay the cab driver and climb from the car. One last jump, I swear to myself, and I'll never, ever do it again.

The sound of the door closing feels unsettlingly final. And with what lies ahead of me, it’s entirely possible it is.

2

When I pictured pre-war France, I envisioned sun-dappled fields of lavender that would capture me like a fragrant cloud. But that is Provence, not Saint Antoine, and I've landed indoors despite my best efforts. I hit a hay bale so hard I flip over it—I’m pretty sure I’ll never master a graceful landing—and I know before I even open my eyes that I will find hay wedged into my hair, my mouth and...other parts. This hay has now hit more bases than Mark ever has.

On the bright side, the barn I’ve landed in is not the modern one I saw only moments before. It’s old enough that the wood has warped to let sunlight into open spaces. I see no trucks, hear no machinery.

As I force myself to stand, I feel the deadening fatigue setting in, my head fogged as if I have one of those colds that puts you to sleep for days. My limbs are growing heavier by the moment, weakness setting ever faster into my bones. A cow not four feet from me bellows a warning, and I can't even summon the energy to jump in surprise.

And I'm hungry. My God I'm hungry. If I could just eat, I tell myself, I'd have the energy for this. I spot an apple sitting on a stool five feet to my left—small and dull, barely fit for livestock, but right now it might as well be a large pizza with a side of cheese fries.

I grip the stall door and take one small step on trembling foal legs, but catch movement outside before I can take another and dive back down to the hay, trying not to cough as I inhale the dust around me.

It’s a man who’s entered. I can tell by the heaviness of his tread, the certainty of it. He moves through the barn and a bucket clangs against the metal hinge of the stall next to mine. There is a moment of silence, during which I hear no movement, no breath. "Ici," he says—to the cow I assume—and then mutters something else in French that I don't quite make out as he sets the bucket down.

The steps recede, and after a moment of silence I rise, forcing myself, one foot in front of the other, toward that apple. I’ve never wanted anything more in my entire life. Just as my hand closes around it, the man steps back inside the open barn door, this time pointing a gun straight at my head.

He is about Mark’s age and handsome—a lock of dark hair falling over his forehead like some old Hollywood film star. Though I freeze in surprise, it’s hard to picture him as a killer. I’m more bothered by my nudity than I am his gun.

“Pourquoi etes-vous ici?” he demands. He wants to know why I’m here.

Good question, I think. I wish I knew. I'm too exhausted and unsettled to form a reply in French. "Can I... Give me your shirt."

His eyes flicker downward. I guess he didn’t notice I was naked until I pointed it out. My hair covers my breasts and my hands cover the rest, but he looks unsettled anyway. “I think not,” he replies in perfect, British-accented English. “In order to give you my shirt I’d have to put down my gun.”

It’s illogical, but his British accent sounds sort of posh and James Bond-ish and puts me at ease. Granted, lots of villains in James Bond movies have British accents too, but they generally don’t look like this guy.

"I'm looking for Marie? Marie-Therese Durand?" I explain. “Do you know her?”

I wait for a sign of recognition. Instead his eyes narrow and he raises the gun higher, pulling back the hammer. "There is no one here by that name," he snarls. "You need to go back where you came from."

I sway on my feet again and grab the stool to hold myself steady. "Please lower the gun," I whisper.

A hint of softness passes over his face before he blinks it away. He grabs a horse blanket hanging off the wall and throws it at me. "Are you ill?" he demands.

I somehow manage to catch the blanket and wrap it around me, but the effort of standing up on my own is getting to be too much. With each moment that passes I feel a bit further away from him, as if I'm sinking fast in a deep, dark lake.

"No. Please just let me talk to Marie-Therese and then I swear I’ll go.” I meant to sound stronger, more forceful, but it feels as if I'm speaking to him from under water.

"Again, there is no Marie here," he says. "So you can go right now. Don't think for a moment I’m reluctant to use this gun.”

I don’t entirely believe him, but even if I did, I wouldn’t have the energy to obey. I'm barely remaining on my feet.

"Please," I beg. "I can't...I'm too—" I reach for the wall and use it to stay upright. If I allow myself to fall asleep right now, I'm not certain I will ever wake up.

Footsteps approach and from around a corner comes a shockingly lovely girl about my age. I recognize her from the photo I found, the one that led me here, and my hunch is confirmed: she is a time traveler. Our looks are what set us apart, and though I’m blonde and fair, while she’s brunette and olive-skinned, there’s a similarity between us as well, in the symmetry of our features and in our eyes, which are backlit, as if a fire shines just beyond the pupil.

"Mon Dieu," she whispers, staring at me as if I'm a ghost. She hisses at her brother in rapid-fire French and he lowers the gun.

My mouth opens to tell her why I’m here. But I pitch face first to the ground instead.

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