Across Eternity Read online

  I slide it on my finger and it fits perfectly—as if it was meant to be mine all along. “But…wasn’t it in Paris? You haven’t been to Paris once since I returned, aside from the night you came when I was out with Luc.”

  “I got it last year, before you left,” he says. “And then, when I thought you were dead…I buried it. Under the hay bale. Stupid perhaps, if this farm will no longer be ours soon as you say, but I couldn’t stand the thought of anyone else wearing it.”

  I press my mouth to his. “Now we just need the annulment,” I tell him.

  “Wear it now anyway,” he says. “I dare anyone alive to tell me you are not my wife, wedding or no.”

  28

  SARAH

  1940 arrives. Everyone toasts to a new decade and, in town, people have already begun to move on with their lives, as if the uneasiness with Germany was a brief moment of ugliness that has nearly passed. We continue preparing to leave, however, and offer Jeannette the farm in our absence. It means she’ll have fresh milk, fruit and eggs for the children, but it still feels like we haven’t done enough to keep them safe.

  Marie spends so much time at the church that I worry she will balk at leaving too, but when I press the topic, she changes it entirely. It seems only fair to leave her alone when I’m so immeasurably blessed. Cecelia, who now sleeps in my old room upstairs, smiles all day long and makes every waking hour a happy one for me. Each day, I see a little more of who she will become, and a little more of who Henri will be as a husband and father. When I watch him give Cece her evening bottle I marvel that I ever believed I could marry someone else.

  I want to relish every moment we have together, yet my approaching return to 1989 weighs on us both. I need to maintain the ability to travel forward because there may be times when we want to know what’s coming down the road or when the ability to skip ahead could help or even save a life. And it’s best that I do it before the war begins in earnest and it’s just me and Marie, alone in the British countryside.

  As much as I hate the idea of leaving, it bothers Henri far more. It’s a small source of friction between us, just like those nightmares I won’t discuss, and I wish I could fix it.

  “What will you do there?” he asks one night, though I am not leaving until the end of March, still a month away. His face is grave, as if we’re discussing something far more serious than a two-week trip.

  I shrug. “I really don’t know. Why?”

  His glance flickers away. “I was just wondering.”

  “It was more than that,” I reply. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  He holds my gaze. “What aren’t you telling me?” he asks in turn. I see hurt in his eyes and look away. I wish, so badly, that I could answer.

  * * *

  In the middle of March, a letter arrives for Marie. She tears it open right there in the doorway, and then staggers backward, holding onto the small table in the entryway for support.

  “Marie?” I ask. “What is it?”

  Her eyes fill. “Edouard’s been sent away,” she whispers.

  Henri’s head jerks toward her. “Sent away where?”

  “They wouldn’t tell him,” she says, staring at the words on the paper as tears fall freely. “He says a priest from Reims arrived this morning to take him to see the monsignor in Paris, and he was told to pack his things.”

  Henri rises, flinching as he pinches the bridge of his nose. Slowly, his eyes go to hers. “Why,” he asks, with something unhappy and dangerous in his voice, “would he write you personally about this? Because Edouard must have done something wrong to be sent away like that, and it seems very suspect that he found time to write you, of all people.”

  She raises her head from her hands. “You’re still married and living in sin with another woman! How dare you judge anything he does?”

  “I’m not a priest,” he says, nostrils flaring. “And your overreaction right now leads me to think he wasn’t acting like much of a priest himself.”

  She raises her chin. “He loves me,” she says. “He asked the church to replace him here so we could be together. There’s no shame in it.”

  Henri holds a hand to his forehead, appalled. “God, Marie,” he says softly. “He’s a grown man. He didn’t need to ask anyone’s permission to be with you if that’s what he wanted. Did he...take liberties?”

  Tears stream down her face. “You just don’t understand! I knew you wouldn’t!”

  “Answer the question,” he demands between his teeth. “Did he, or did he not, take liberties?” He makes no effort to disguise the violence underlying the question.

  “No,” she says, and then she runs from the room and up the stairs, weeping and heartbroken.

  “Dieu,” says Henri, collapsing onto the couch. He glances up at me. “Did you have any idea?”

  I bite my lip. “I suspected. She’s been in love with him for a long time.”

  His jaw falls open. “And you didn’t tell me? If I’d had even a hint I’d have put a stop to it, believe me. And if I discover he laid a finger on her I’ll see that he regrets it.”

  I roll my eyes. “Yes, it’s truly astonishing that I didn’t run right to you with my suspicions. You’re handling it so well.”

  “How am I supposed to handle it?” he exclaims. “I’ve dedicated most of my adult life to keeping my sister safe and hidden so she can fulfill the prophecy, only to discover the parish priest has been wooing her and making false promises before he left town! What if they’d run off together? What happens to your precious circle of light then?”

  I know he’s just frustrated, and worried, but none of that will help the situation. “First of all, it’s not my circle of light. If you’ll recall, I’m not even interested in time travel. Second, what you and your mother wanted was for her to be able to make her decisions without influence or pressure or baggage, and that’s what she did, didn’t she? Or did you only want her to make decisions influenced by you?”

  “He’s a priest,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “If she’s been carrying on with a priest then perhaps she needs me to influence her decisions. But you just expect me to say nothing?”

  “What good would it do at this point anyway? Edouard is gone.”

  He leans forward, his forearms to his knees, and stares at his clasped hands. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it,” he admits. “We’ve been in this little bubble, you and me and Cece. Marie’s been a ghost here for months and I’ve been so focused on my own happiness I didn’t notice.”

  I squeeze his hand. “She didn’t need you to notice, nor would she have wanted you to. She isn’t as fragile as you believe, and she deserved a chance to lead a life of her own design for once. She still does.”

  He sighs. “Fine. But if I find out they had relations, Edouard is a dead man.”

  I restrain a smile. “Yes, relations before marriage would be appalling. Something you would never do.”

  He narrows his eyes. “It’s different with us. I’m not a priest. And I would marry you tomorrow if I could.”

  “It sounds as if Edouard would marry Marie as well.”

  “But I’m not a priest!” he says again, irritated and amused at once.

  “I’m well aware,” I reply, scooting beside him. “No priest would say the things you do in bed.”

  His eyes slant toward mine, his mouth tipping into a reluctant half-smile. “And you love every one of them.”

  “I do,” I reply, pressing my mouth to his jaw. “So have no fear. I will never take up with a priest.”

  “I never realized it was something I had to worry about prior to today,” he says, pulling me toward him. “But thank you for letting me know.”

  * * *

  For the next week, we see little of Marie. She continues her duties at the church but spends most of her hours at home on the cusp of tears, and every time the post arrives she dives for it, only to retreat, small and broken and disappointed when there is no letter from Edouard. It’s a terr
ible time to go to 1989, given the way my trip has Henri’s nerves frayed, but I can’t cut it any closer to the day we leave for England than I already have.

  The night before I go, Henri and I lie in bed, unable to sleep. He makes love to me with a desperation that borders on violence, again and again. Yet early in the morning I can sense something that remains dissatisfied in him.

  “What is it?” I ask, lifting up on my forearms to see his face.

  He stares at the ceiling, thinking hard before he finally voices what’s in his head. “Whatever it is, whatever it is you won’t tell me—does it have to do with someone in your own time?” he asks. “Is it the musician?”

  My stomach sinks. I hate that he’d even think it. I hate that I can’t tell him the truth. “No,” I tell him. “Nothing ever happened with that musician and I only brought him up to make you mad.”

  “Then why won’t you tell me what it is?”

  I could. I could risk it. But how would he respond, if he knew what I did? If he learned that the people responsible for his mother’s death and his sister’s captivity share my blood? It would change things. A piece of him, even if it was a small piece, would start to distrust me, just like my mother did.

  “Because I like the way you look at me now, and I’m not sure you still would if you knew.”

  His lips press to the top of my head. “I will love you no matter what you tell me, Sarah, I swear it.”

  I wish I could believe that. I just don’t.

  Just a few hours later, it’s time to go. I feed Cece, memorizing the solid weight of her in my arms, still heavy with sleep. She smiles around her bottle and reaches for my face. My eyes sting. How am I going to leave her? How am I going to leave Henri?

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” I tell her, my voice rasping.

  Henri walks me to the barn and I say the same thing again, this time crying in earnest.

  Time travel is so much easier for me now that I have my aunt’s spark, but we both know, after my time in 1918, that there are no guarantees. That anything could go wrong in my absence, on his side or mine. “I love you and I will wait as long as it takes,” he says, begging once more to be forgiven for something I forgave long ago.

  “I know,” I reply, kissing him once before I let my body go light. The impulse to return to my own time hits me as hard as ever, but it’s tempered by my sadness at leaving him. Even when I’ve completely disappeared, I can see him standing there, staring at the space I just vacated, his face bleak, and I have to force myself to go.

  29

  SARAH

  When I reach 1989, I land with ease for the first time. I’m still in the barn, though it’s now quite modern, and once I’ve confirmed that no one is around I scurry to the woods for the clothes I buried there years before.

  It’s technically spring but still feels like winter, and I’m thrilled to find warm clothes in place of the ones I left—including a Burberry coat, hanging from a branch. No sooner am I dressed than a limousine pulls up and Cecelia climbs out, shielding her eyes from the sun, looking for me.

  She’s dressed impeccably, as always, in a coat and dress that match—designer, I’m sure—and stiletto heels. That she is the same baby who pressed her tiny palm to my face only a few hours ago absolutely stuns me, but I can see it, in the set of her mouth and her eyes, even in the way she glances around.

  “Cecelia,” I whisper from behind a tree and she smiles and hurries forward, wrapping a big coat around me.

  “You have teeth now,” I say, and my eyes fill with tears.

  Her eyes well over too. “You have no idea how wonderful it is that you finally know who I am.”

  I shake my head. “You shouldn’t have saved me the last time,” I tell her. “It could have gone so, so wrong.”

  “You’ve already saved my life once,” she says, “and not for the last time. Don’t ask me not to keep you from harm when I can.”

  We both climb into the back and I smile again. “I can’t get over the fact that it’s you. I just fed you a bottle. Your father says hello.”

  She swallows and then she smiles. A brief smile, a flicker. “Does he?” she asks.

  She changes the subject. Maybe she does so because her father is alive and she speaks to him daily. Or maybe she does so because the subject is painful and she doesn’t want to give too much away.

  I lean back against the plush leather, tired but not exhausted the way I’ve been in the past. I couldn’t time travel right now, but it feels like I won’t need ages to recover, either. “Do you know how long I’ll need to stay?” I ask. “How long it takes me to get all my ability back?”

  She smiles at me fondly, and it’s as if our roles are reversed. “A little over a week,” she says. “But try to make the most of your time here. You’ve never gotten to enjoy Paris when you were completely healthy.”

  We’re entering the city now, bright and pristine, old and modern simultaneously. And it’s perfect, but I don’t want to be here. I want to be home with Henri and our daughter. “I just want to get back,” I tell her. “Once we leave for England everything’s going to change and—” I shrug. “Our lives are very peaceful now. I’m not sure they’ll stay that way.”

  She continues to smile pleasantly. Am I imagining the strain I see behind it?

  We pull up in front of the flat where I stayed the last time, and Philippe comes out to open the door. “I’ll see you again before you leave,” she says.

  “You’re not coming in?”

  She squeezes my hand. “As much as I’d like to, I think it’s best I don’t. I see you trying to read the future in every word I say, like a child who says she doesn’t want to know what’s in the box but keeps peeking inside anyway.”

  I hesitate. “Do I want to know? Will I regret not asking later?”

  She shakes her head. “There is not a single thing about your life you would change, Sarah,” she says. “Your life will be filled with more magic than you can possibly realize.”

  * * *

  The next morning, I am shepherded out of Cecelia’s flat early in the day for another of her beloved spa appointments. My skin is waxed and scrubbed and steamed until it shines, and then I’m led back to the car and taken to yet another spa to get my brows done and my hair cut. I know Cecelia well enough by now not to argue. She’s so used to her modern-day life that she doesn’t realize a hot shower and some tropical fruit alone seem like the height of luxury to me.

  After my haircut, I ask Philippe if I can walk back to the flat and he agrees, though I know he’ll be following at a distance. The brisk air whips the coat around my legs, and I breathe deep, happy and sad at once. I want to be here, but I miss Henri. I miss our daughter. And time spent without them can only be bittersweet.

  I turn the corner to Rue Courtalon. The limo is in front of the flat already, and as I step off the sidewalk to cross the street, I stumble to a sudden halt. There’s a woman beside the building, staring intensely at the limo...and I recognize her. Even though I only saw her once, very briefly, I recognize her face.

  I recognize the malevolence that seems to radiate from her, just like the last time.

  She’s the time traveler who followed Cecelia and me in the park, the last time I was here. I remain frozen a moment too long, and then I dart across the street. I have no plan in mind. I just know she’d better have a damn good explanation for why she’s following me. She was watching the limousine, but when the car I jump in front of lays on its horn, her head jerks in my direction.

  Her nostrils flare in disgust, her eyes narrow, and then she begins to run.

  She’s already turned into an alley by the time I reach her side of the street, and I know it’s a lost cause. If we go to that alley we’ll only find a pile of clothes once more. Philippe is by my side within seconds. “It would make my job easier if you wouldn’t throw yourself in front of cars for the remainder of your stay,” he suggests.

  “I’m sorry.” I hug my arms to my chest.
“I don’t suppose Cecelia would allow me a gun during this visit?”

  He laughs. “Not if you intend to start shooting women who just happen to look on when a limo pulls up to the building.”

  It’s nothing I can explain to him, but she didn’t just happen to be here. She’s watching us. And I want to know why.

  At my request the next morning, Cecelia comes to the flat once more.

  “I understand you’ve been using my pillows for target practice since yesterday,” she comments, trying not to smile.

  It would be hard to deny since there’s currently a knife sticking out of one. “Just the bedroom pillow. It’s not expensive, right?”

  She laughs. “I wouldn’t care if it were. My issue is more with the fact that you are suddenly feeling like you need to defend yourself. I fear you’ve hurt Philippe’s feelings.”

  I take the seat across from her. “I saw that time traveler again yesterday,” I admit, twisting my hands. “She was watching the limo. I guess she was waiting for me to get out. And I know this will sound paranoid, but she’s bad. I can feel it. She needs to be stopped.”

  I see a hint of knowledge in her eyes. And concern.

  “Did I tell you about her?” I whisper. “During my visits as you were growing up, did I ever mention this girl? Or have you seen her lurking around?”

  She gives me a single terse nod. “I’ve noticed her once before. And yes, you’ve mentioned a time traveler following you in the past.”

  “Is there anything you want to warn me about?” I ask.

  She meets my gaze. It’s only a moment before she smiles and tells me there’s nothing. But I saw it.

  She hesitated first.

  30

  SARAH