“Then don’t go with him,” she said. “Go alone.” Our lives might have looked vastly different at that moment, but in my moment of despair, Rose could clearly see what I could not: I needed to be far, far away from James. I couldn’t bear to be so near his hands, his lips; they stirred my imagination, made my stomach churn yet again. In this way, my impending flight to London had been a life vest thrown overboard. I reached for it eagerly, desperately.

A few hours before the flight, when James saw me packing the last of my clothes into my suitcase, he looked at me and shook his head in silence, visibly broken, while fury ran hot through my sob-wracked, sleep-deprived body.

But while I needed time and distance, I had been reminded of James’s absence at every turn. The airport check-in attendant looked strangely at me, clicking her bright orange nails against the desk while asking the whereabouts of Mr. Parcewell, the second individual on the reservation. The lady at the hotel desk frowned when I stated that only one room key would be necessary. And now, of course, I found myself in a place I never expected: a muddy riverbed, searching for artifacts and, as Alf had said, inconsistencies.

“You must trust your instinct more than your eyes,” Bachelor Alf went on.

As I considered his words, I caught the sulfuric odor of sewage from somewhere downriver, and an unexpected wave of nausea rolled over me. Apparently I wasn’t the only one bothered by the smell, as a few others let out an audible groan.

“That’s another reason we don’t dig with shovels,” Bachelor Alf explained. “The odors down here, they’re none too pleasant.”

As I continued to make my way along the edge of the water, searching for an area undisturbed by the others, I took a misstep and ended up ankle-deep in a murky puddle. Gasping at the sudden shock of cold water inside my shoe, I considered what Bachelor Alf might say if I bailed early on the tour. Unpleasant smells aside, the adventure had done little to lift my mood.

I checked my phone and decided to give it twelve more minutes, until 3:00 p.m. If things hadn’t perked up by then—a small find, even mildly interesting—I’d kindly excuse myself.

Twelve minutes. A fraction of a lifetime, yet enough to alter the course of it.

5

Nella

February 4, 1791

I walked to the shelf behind Eliza and retrieved the small, milk-colored dish. Resting inside were the four brown hen’s eggs, two of them slightly larger than the others. I set the dish of eggs onto the table.

Leaning forward as though badly wanting to reach for the dish, Eliza set her hands on the table, her palms leaving a damp residue.