Page 21 of The Devouring Time

Holding my breath, I risk a peek out.

Three trucks with covered beds have pulled up outside. When the driver of the lead one climbs out, it takes me a moment to recognize him without his butler’s get up.

It’s Myers, dressed in overalls and a denim jacket as though he’s here to do some physical labor. My breath stutters at the sight of him, the memory of the needle and…

“We’ve gotta make do with the hand we’re dealt,” he’d said that day. Meaning me. They’d wanted James, but they had to make do with me.

More men pile out of the trucks, and he barks orders at them, though I can’t hear what he’s saying at this distance.

“Damn it,” Adrian says quietly.

I move away from the window, every sense attuned to the activity outside. “I don’t think we want them to find us.”

“Agreed.” Still, he remains where he is, sneaking peeks over the windowsill every so often. After what feels like several long minutes, he says, “I think they’re going through the cellar doors into the basement.”

It seems as though the house isn’t as abandoned as it appears. The basement at least is still in use.

The last time I’d seen Myers, he’d assaulted and drugged me. I doubt I’ll get off so lightly if we meet again now. “We need to get out of here without being spotted.”

“Servants’ stairs,” Adrian says. “I spotted an entrance while searching the bathroom. Follow me.”

He leads the way into the sumptuous bathroom, tiled in marble and with an enormous claw-footed tub on another raised dais. The outline of a door can just be made out on the far wall. Adrian pulls it open, then disappears through it.

I follow him onto a narrow flight of stairs, pulling the door shut behind me. The only light comes from a pair of small windows heavily covered in grime. Dust covers the bare wooden steps, and cobwebs flutter in the disturbed air.

We grope our way down, every creak of the steps sounding as loud as a rifle shot. When we reach the ground floor, we pause listening at the door. Faint noises come from below—it sounds as though Myers and his men are moving something heavy down in the basement, though I can’t guess what it might be.

Satisfied none of them are on our level of the building, Adrian cautiously pushes open the door into a small laundry. The taps above the row of deep sinks are long dry, as festooned in cobwebs as the stairs were. We make our way out into the dark corridor beyond, and thence to the kitchen, where a door leads to what must have once been a garden but now is just a tangle of overgrown weeds.

Thankfully, we’re out of sight of the driveway here. Adrian leans in close; his breath stirs the fine hairs of my ear and sends a shiver through me as he whispers, “We need to go cross-country.”

Drops of rain begin to plink down once again. Shouts of dismay come from the men just around the corner of the building, followed by Myers’s yell: “Hurry it up, then!”

Good—they’ll be focused on whatever they’re doing. I take the lead this time, pushing my way through the unkempt cedar hedge behind the garden. The spit of land the house stands on is overgrown with shrubs and small trees, which are hard to navigate but at least offer cover. I feel a pang as branches snag on my coat and trousers, silently resigning my suit to the rag pile.

It’s hard going, but hours later we finally spot train tracks in the distance. Adrian checks his watch: Like mine, it’s army issue, radium numbers glowing faintly in the dimming light as the day slips away.

“We should be able to make the depot in time to catch the train,” he says. “We’ll head to New York, and I’ll notify my employers that I’ve found the painting from there.”

15

Disreputable though we look, the cash in Adrian’s pocket allows us to secure tickets to Boston. We arrive just in time to board a Pullman car for New York. Before retiring for bed, I spend a long time in the washroom, attempting to put myself back into some kind of order. I catch myself avoiding my reflection in the mirror again and feel a brief surge of despair.

Everything had been going, not perfectly, but well enough. I’d been living the quiet life I craved after the war and the hospital. Now I’ve lost a year, and my brain is more broken than ever, and…

I’m exhausted. Sleep will help. Perhaps things won’t seem so bleak in the morning.

I collapse into the lower bunk and can barely stay awake long enough to pull the curtains. But the deep, restful sleep I’d hoped for quickly turns into strange, uneasy dreams.

I’m standing high atop some sort of stone structure, staring out over a steamy landscape of tall conifers separated by wide paths. Far off in the distance, light glints off water—the ocean. The air is hot and thick, but I’m perfectly comfortable, at least physically.

Mentally is another matter. I need to leave, to escape, but I somehow know that simply running off into the trees won’t help. I’m trapped, and the whole world is my prison.

Someone comes up behind me. I turn and⁠—

“Sterling? Wake up.”

I gasp awake, the remains of the dream clinging to me like a spiderweb. I’m about to see something terrible, I know it even though I can’t say what it is, and my entire body cringes back as I open my eyes…