This sounds crazy . . . but someone has to test it.

Here goes nothing.

Part Four

The present is theirs; the future, for which I really worked, is mine.

—Nikola Tesla

58

Dorothy

JUNE 12, 1913, JUST OUTSIDE SEATTLE

Dorothy hesitated outside the closed office door, unsure of how to proceed. This was her house—or, well, it would’ve been her house, if she’d gone through with the wedding. Now she supposed it was only Avery’s house.

Should she just . . . knock? She didn’t want to interrupt anything. She didn’t know how genius worked, but it seemed entirely possible that the man inside this room was on the verge of some grand discovery and she was about to break his concentration. One knock could alter the entire future of the human race and, frankly, she’d done enough of that already.

Holding her breath, she lowered her hand to the doorknob and let herself in.

The man was hunched over Avery’s ornate, wooden writing desk, scribbling furiously. He didn’t look up as Dorothy swept across the room, stopping before the narrow table where Roman’s dagger sat on a stained and rumpled handkerchief.

Staring down at the dagger, Dorothy felt her stomach turn over. Ash’s blood still coated the thick blade and stained the white cloth. It’d been days, and yet she hadn’t been able to bring herself to clean it. She could still remember the feel of that dagger against her palm, the sudden give of skin and bone as she thrust it into Ash’s chest.

Fingers twitching, she picked it up.

“Dear?”

Dorothy’s eyes snapped back to the hunched-over man at the writing desk. He still hadn’t turned around, but now he lifted a hand, fingers held a few inches apart. “Do you know whether they’ve started making those little brownies yet? The fudgy chocolate ones with the nuts?”

Dorothy hurriedly wrapped her mother’s handkerchief around Roman’s dagger. “Brownies?” she asked, distracted.

“The Little—oh wait.” The man pinched his nose between two fingers, and said, almost to himself, “Little Debbie wasn’t founded until 1960, and then they only sold those awful oatmeal pies. One does forget these things.”

“I could bring you coffee?” Dorothy offered. Avery made good coffee, thick and rich. It was one of the few things he did well. “Or tea?”

“Coffee would be grand.” The man swiveled around in his chair. He had his back to the small desk lamp now, and it left his features bathed in shadow. Dorothy could only make out the bottom half of his nose, and his wide, bright smile.

When he saw the dagger clutched in Dorothy’s hands, the smile faded. He scratched his chin. “Aw, yes. I suppose it’s time to deal with that.”

Dorothy swallowed. “I’m sorry, did you want to—”

“No, no, dear, you’ve proven yourself quite adept.” He smiled, again, but this time it was tinged with sadness.

Dorothy began to turn toward the door.

“Wait,” the man said, and Dorothy hesitated, dread creeping up her skin.