After everyone else was asleep, Theo got up from the sleeping bag the Cipherists had laid out for him. Jaime watched as Theo prowled the exhibits—stopping at the centuries-old egg in the case, letters from Benedict Arnold and Mary, Queen of Scots.

Jaime sat up, whispered, “Are you okay?”

Theo’s lips moved but found no words. Behind him, Auguste broke into song, soft and low, “Who lives / Who dies / Who tells your story?” Theo jumped as if poked.

“What is it?” Tess said, awake, too.

Theo pulled out a white square from his back pocket. “I found this in the trunk.” He gave the square to Jaime.

Jaime used the light from his phone to see it. The white square was a photograph, a Polaroid of all things. His parents had some of these types of photos, taken in the 1970s with a special camera that was no longer in use. In the photograph, a dark-haired young man and woman in nineteenth-century dress sat at the foot of a tree, laughing. Along the bottom edge of the photo, someone had written, “The Morningstarr Twins, 1807.” Jaime flipped the photograph. On the back were the words, “Now you know.”

Jaime stared at the image, the date, the words.

“Jaime?” said Tess. Nine crept over to him, nudged at his knees, but he barely felt her.

“What is the trouble?” Ava said. Her dark eyes told him that she hadn’t been sleeping, either.

Tess said, “What are you looking at, Jaime?”

Jaime was looking at picture taken with a camera that didn’t exist in 1807. He was looking at a picture of the Morningstarrs when they were young and strong, doing something people had claimed they never did—laugh. And he was looking at their bright open faces, filled with hope.

Now you know.

Time folded, unfolded, folded again.

“Jaime!” said Tess. “What are you looking at?”

Jaime tore his eyes away from the photo. He glanced from Tess to Theo, Theo to Tess.

“You,” he said. “It’s a picture of you.”

Sunrise in Gotham Senior Living Center

1953/1972/1979/2005/2007/?

Grandpa Ben