“You talk as if you know him,” teased the boy. “He died a hundred years ago, you know.”

“He lived a hundred years ago,” Annie corrected him.

They walked down the magnificent stairs, which made Annie feel like a princess in a palace. The boy tapped one of the names incised on the walls: Hiram Stratton, Sr. “My great-great-grandfather,” he said.

A man Annie had encountered another time. The cruelest man she had ever met. A man who had sworn to destroy his own son—and had. A man who had sworn to destroy the mother of his own children—and had. A man who …

Annie's head swam. A veil came between her and the names of the donors. The letters fell off the walls and onto her face like hail, pelting her with memory.

Time opened like a cellar door, for her to fall into blackness.

Hiram Stratton even now was planning to destroy … something … someone …

Her feet slipped on the marble steps.

It had been this way before. A first falling, then a second. Then, at last, the step through Time. Scudding across the years like a ship in a high wind.

A guard leaned his face into hers. How antique his features, how dark and wind-beaten his glance. For a moment, the guard stood on the far side of Time. But then he was just a museum employee. Had she skipped breakfast? he wanted to know. He didn't want her to faint and fall on the stone steps and hurt herself.

“I caught her,” said the boy, putting his arm around her. Annie knew that hand. The hand on Annie's shoulder was Strat's hand. “She's fine,” he told the guard.

“We're on our way to the cafeteria anyway. I'll see she has something to eat.”

He pulled Annie to her feet and they walked on together, not touching. Not touching him made her ache. She had known the ache before, too. This was Strat. The real thing. Not a distant cousin.

Time! she called silently. Strat's here. Forget what I asked for. I don't want to change centuries after all. I don't need to anymore. You can leave.

But she had called upon Time too strongly.

Time, having listened, would answer.

KATIE: 1899

Katie washed out the teacups, which she had borrowed from Mother Superior when she found she had a guest. A guest who offered to save her, bring her home and even provide her with an income!

But with what speed Miss Camilla Matthews had departed. Having squinted at Strat's letters, she was done. She did not care about seeing Douglass, nor did she wish a tour of the hospital.

I trusted her, thought Katie. Here among nuns, I let myself believe that being a woman makes a person good. I, with my childhood! I know that gender does not predict goodness.