Extracted by Tyler H. Jolley & Sherry D. Ficklin
EMBER
People talk about the stream like it’s an actual river, but it’s not. It’s more like a wind tunnel where everything blasts past you so quickly it’s impossible to see anything but the streaks. It looks even more daunting now as I stand outside it alone for the first time. It is beautiful. Terrible. Breathtaking.
The edges of the stream are a sort of thin membrane. It’s easy to imagine, as Mortimer says, that the time stream is a living creature. Most of the time, I’m just sort of thrown in when I rift. This is the first time I’ve ever taken the time to really see it, but now that I do, I can see the subtle pinks and blues of the plasma all around me. I can feel the thrumming harmonies weaving through each gust of wind, whispering to me like lullabies.
Moving purely out of instinct, I step through the outer membrane and into the stream. I’m suspended there as time rushes past me. It’s almost like flying.
Thinking only of where and when I want to go, I feel myself being pulled back against the tide whipping past me. The force pulls at my skin. It’s tugging my hair from my head with such power I think every strand will be ripped from my scalp. The air is like a million little pinpricks eating away at me. I can’t breathe from the pressure coiling around my chest. If one were able to stand in the middle of a tornado, I imagine it would feel something like this.
“Location verified.” Tesla speaks in my ear, but I can barely hear him over the rush of the stream.
I reach out, feeling the wind with my fingers. I’ve never felt so connected—so complete—as I do inside the stream, as if I walk around the rest of my life only half born. I was created for this, my mind confirms. The stream is a piece of me and I of it. The Tether feels heavy on my arm, an anchor dragging me down. For a moment, I wish I could strip free of it and merge with the stream completely—just give myself over to its siren call.
Yes, my mind whispers, this is the place. With a regretful heave, I force myself out of the stream, landing on my hands and knees in the soft grass of Central Park. No one seems to notice my abrupt appearance, thank goodness. I’ve landed off the main path behind a tall oak tree. Standing up, I dust myself off.
Tapping my earpiece, I whisper, “Tesla? Time and date verification.”
The voice responds, “Verified. September sixteenth, nineteen ninety-six.”
Trying to look nonchalant, I walk around the tree, scanning the park. A few people jog the path cut through the trees, some just walk, and two children play Frisbee with a yellow dog. Then, a flash of light catches my eye. Flynn is sitting casually on a green bench not far from me, his glasses glinting in the bright sunlight. He holds two paper cups in a cardboard container, smiling brightly, with one arm draped over the back of the bench. Bringing his empty hand up, he touches his ear and mumbles something I can’t make out.
I’m so excited to see him that I run to his side, feeling like I want to fly. Sitting beside him, I cross my legs and lean back, unable to hide my wide smile. I’ve done it. I’ve as good as passed my final test. He hands me a cup without a word. I take a sip. It’s dark, thick, and bitter.
“What’s this?” I ask, gagging down the hot liquid.
“Coffee. It was very popular in the twentieth-century.”
I look down at the cup and make a face. “I can’t imagine why.”
He chuckles as I sniff the beverage. It smells better than it tastes, that’s for sure. “It’s an acquired taste.”
“So, just out of curiosity, where am I in your time stream?” I hold the cup with both hands and lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees.
“You’ve been in the Institute for a few weeks, recovering mostly. Doc says you are healing amazingly well. As a matter of fact, I get to show you to your room when I get back.” Flynn crosses his legs at the ankle and smiles. “It’s actually really good to know you make it this far.”
“So you haven’t given me my first key yet,” I mutter, more to myself than to him.
Why did I need to bring it with me? I take another sip of the horrible liquid.
“What key?” he asks, looking at me from over the top of his glasses. I flush, pulling the key out of my vest.
“This key. You gave it to me the day Doc released me.”
“Really?” He plucks it from my fingers, examining it in the light. “Hmmm. Interesting.”
“What?”
“I’ve never seen anything like this, Ember. And I was just about to rift back to the Institute.”
“What does that mean?”
He looks at me. “Do you know what a Fixed Point is?”
“A point in time that cannot be changed or altered,” I recite from one of our lessons, proud to know it stuck.
“Do you know how to create a Fixed Point?”
I shake my head. “I didn’t know you could create one. I thought they occurred naturally?”
“Some do. But they can also be created.” He holds up the key. “To lock—for want of a better term—a point in time, you have to create a loop. For example, by giving me this key, you have created a loop in time. This key now only exists from the moment I give it to you until the moment you give it back to me.” He slips it into the pocket of his long jacket. “Thus the loop is closed; everything that happens inside that loop is fixed. The timeline between us is permanent. Unchangeable.”
“That sounds intense. But where did the key come from then? The first time?”
“It’s enough to make your head ache, isn’t it?” he asks with a smirk. Then, taking a long drink, he stares off to the horizon before turning back to me.
“Time protects itself like any other living thing. It’s very rare for a Rifter to be able to create a Fixed Point. It’s not something that should be done lightly. However, if I don’t take this key now, then I won’t ever give it to you. I’ve altered our history. Perhaps not for the better. Do you understand now why we don’t deliberately try to create Fixed Points? How dangerous they could be?”
I nod, but I don’t know why I needed this to happen. This isn’t something Rifters tend to do, especially not on purpose. But my mind flashes back to the cafeteria and I realize, at some point, I will do it on purpose, despite Flynn’s warning.
I’m not sure whether to be impressed with my future self for figuring out how to pull it off or ticked at myself for doing something so obviously dangerous. If I’d refused and not brought the key, what would’ve happened? I wouldn’t have learned the method for creating a Fixed Point, and Flynn never would have given me the key. How would that have changed my timeline? Would it have, somehow, changed our friendship? My brain is reeling so hard I have to clamp it down before I explode.
“So, does this mean I’m a full-fledged Rifter now?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light. So many things are weighing on me like bricks in my belly—not the least of which is my bizarre future behavior.
His smile falters. “Not quite. There’s still something you need to do here. You didn’t really think it’d be that easy, did you?”
“What is it?” I ask, my own smile falling around the edges. Yeah. I sort of did. I make a mental note to kick Ethan later.
I hear a burst of static crackling through his Earwig, but there’s nothing in mine. Tesla is talking to him, from his own time.
Flynn frowns as he listens but says, “Confirmed.”
He motions to the tall building across the street. It’s a lovely old hotel, the kind that almost looks like a castle. “In that hotel, there’s a wedding today. Lauren Cartwright is marrying Lord Brandon Hunter. But, something goes terribly wrong. Today, the bride and her groom die, the maid of honor goes missing, and the best man has a nervous breakdown.”
I try not to let him see the shiver that rolls up my back. “What am I supposed to do?”
He looks at me flatly. “Save whoever you can.”
I blink. That means changing history, something we are never, ever supposed to do. “Are you sure?” I ask, not wanting to question him,
He nods. “Better do it fast, too. That wedding begins in an hour.”
I drop my coffee and run, cutting through the park and across the street. The inside of the hotel is even more amazing than the outside. The walls are polished marble, and a large crystal chandelier dangles above my head like a glass snowflake. Everywhere, the scent of freesia floats in the air from tufts of the delicate flowers scattered all over the lobby. From the corner of my eye, I spy the concierge.
“Excuse me,” I say, trying to look impatient. “Can you please direct me to the bridal suite?”
He blinks, his clean-shaven face making him look no older than ten. His expression sours. “And who, may I ask, is inquiring?”
I look affronted. “Look, you call up that idiot wedding planner and tell her that she better have a very good reason for dragging me out of a meeting to rush down here and let out a wedding dress because she couldn’t keep the bride away from the petit fours at the rehearsal dinner. This is completely not my problem. You can either direct me up there right now, or you can tell her to kiss my—”
I don’t have to finish before he’s looking like he just swallowed a lime. “Of course. She’s in room seven-fifteen.”
I murmur thanks and spin on my heel so hard my hair flips behind me.
“Just a second,” he yells, chasing after me. I tense, sure I’m busted. When I turn again, he holds out a small plastic card. “You’ll need this to get the elevator to stop on the bridal floor. We secured it to keep out the media.”
I take the key and wave my hand. “Of course. Thank you.”
Trying not to break out into a sprint, I head for the elevator, stick the card in the slot, and make my way up to the seventh floor.
As soon as the doors slide open, I know I’m in trouble. The floor is teaming with ladies in expensive dresses. Some are in matching pale-pink taffeta dresses that make them look a bit like ballerinas, and others are in an array of designer duds. My brown leather pants and waist cincher are making me stand out like a sore thumb. People are pointing and whispering. I swear under my breath. I need to find a way to blend in, or I’ll be kicked out of this group before I can even make contact with the bridal party.
To my left, a door opens and a maid steps out, her arms full of sheets. I catch the door behind her before it closes and step inside.
“Housekeeping,” I call out. No response.
Though the room has been recently cleaned, it’s still a disaster. Makeup and jewelry are scattered across every available surface, clothes are draped over chairs, and even a few things are hanging from the curtain rod. The room is a small suite, so not the bride’s at least. I walk in a little farther. Beside the lounge is a rack of dresses. I walk over, looking at the tags. Designer, for sure, but not anyone I’ve ever heard of. And from the looks of them, a full four sizes too small. Who in the hell wears a size zero anyway?
I comb through the rack until I find a short, silver number that ties up the back like a corset. It might be my best bet. Grabbing it, I head for the bathroom and make a quick change, stuffing my clothes in an empty trash can and tying up the bag. Thank the heavens I have small feet. I slip on a pair of flat, black shoes from the closet. They are a little big, but they’ll have to do. Taking a second to wind my hair up into a bun, I secure it with a few clips, pulling a few pieces out around my face as some of the ballerinas had done. I apply a little lipstick, just for good measure. The whole process takes less than five minutes.
I slip back into the hallway and toss my bag of clothes into the garbage chute. If I have time, I can dumpster dive for it later. If not, well, at least no one will find it.
Following a set of ballerinas, I make my way down the hall. The wallpaper has an antique floral pattern that almost gives the illusion of being outside in a spring garden. Between that and the freesia, I feel like I just stepped into a Martin Johnson Heade painting.
As soon as the thought crosses my mind, I almost laugh out loud, remembering the day we learned about the artist and how Ethan had remarked that we’d never, ever need to know any of that. I make a mental note to tell him.
Following the pink girls into room seven-fifteen, I have to struggle not to look as awestruck as I feel. The room is massive—lots of open spaces and Oriental decor, large antique room dividers and comfy-looking sofas. A few ladies are sharing a bottle of champagne in the main seating area. A man dressed all in white is softly playing the large grand piano in the corner of the room, and a few of the ballerinas are munching on a platter of crudités and chatting. From the back bedroom, another ballerina approaches, only this one is in a warm golden-yellow rather than pink. She glances over, seeing me, and stalks over.
“I have a dress like that,” she says. “Freddy Ford, Fall Collection?”
I nod.
She shifts her weight on to one foot and puts her hands on her hips. It’s a pose that reminds me a lot of Kara.
“I was told it was one of a kind.” She’s glaring now, her stare drilling into me.
My mouth twitches. “It’s a knockoff,” I whisper.
She tilts her head, accepting my answer but not looking happy about it. “It’s a good one. Who are you, anyway?”
I hold out my hand. “I’m April. I’m here with the wedding planner.”
She looks at my hand, but she doesn’t take it. “Uh-huh.”
“Have you seen her?” I ask, not having to fake looking nervous.
She turns to the pink girls. “Have any of you seen Diane?”
They shake their heads.
One of the ladies on the lounge speaks up. I can tell from the slur in her voice that it isn’t her first glass of the bubbly liquid. “They are doing the bride’s pictures down in the rose garden.”
The golden ballerina turns back to me. “Shouldn’t you know that? I mean, you have one of those headsets.” She points at my Earwig. I reach up and touch it gently.
“Yeah, it isn’t working. That’s why I’m looking for her. To let her know.”
She gives me an unimpressed look and walks over to the other bridesmaids. As I turn to leave, I hear one of them chuckle and say, “Greta, you are such a brat.”