Induction Day: Book Two in the Butterman Travel Series (14 page)

“Now that you mention it, aye.” She tosses a small pillow with tassels onto the finished bed, a devious smirk forming on her face. “And I ‘ave just the thing. Follow me.”

We creep out behind the trolley, checking both ends of the corridor for any activity. A little ways down, she stops at a small door and opens it, ushering me inside. She flips on a light to reveal a narrow walk-in closet, filled with uniforms, aprons, and hairpieces. To the rear, are shelves of cleaning supplies.

Adelaide shuts the door and picks through hanging black dresses til she finds one she likes and holds it up. It’s the same long-sleeved, high collared maid uniform she has on.

“No one will ever question you with this on,” she says. “So many crew members here, no one could keep up with everyone. Just put this on and I’ll pin yer hair up.”

It’s not exactly what I was anticipating, but I don’t see any better options dancing out in front of me either. This may just work. And I’m running out of time. If I can find Tristan fast enough, we can still see how long it takes to get to the bridge. I want to be ready for departure through the time-port right after impact with the berg.

Guilt wells up from my guts. Guilt for having a way out, and guilt for knowing it, while Adelaide and so many others will panic and struggle and cling to the hope they’ll make it out of the freezing ocean alive. They will never stand a chance. Not tonight, when I must leave and take with me the solution I’ve been waiting the last four years to give them.

Holy hell, I thought I could handle this.

“Can’t put me finger on it, but there’s somethin’ different about you.” Adelaide interrupts my brooding.

“Really?” I begin disrobing the skirt and blouse I made. “What do you mean?”

She squints her eyes while I button up the black maid’s uniform.

“It’s like ye don’t belong here, and I don’t mean ‘cause yer a stowaway neither. But, sorta like yer place is somewheres else.”

She hangs a sheer white apron over my chest and ties it behind me at my waist, while I button the top of my collar and fight for a unconstructed breath. “How do you wear these things?”

Adelaide snickers. “Ye get used to it.

I’m avoiding eye contact with her and can’t help but wonder if she’s noticed. I smooth out my apron while she pulls back my hair and pins a lacy white maid’s beanie on top.

Standing in front of me now, Adelaide gives me an approving, albeit snarky, once-over. “Ye certainly don’t fit the part, but that’s a good thing. Probably why yer headed to America, and I can’t say’s I blame ye. Ye know deep inside when yer meant for more.” She picks up my clothes, rolls them into a ball. “One day I’ll be livin’ there too, mark me words. And make no mistake, the suffrage movement will prevail, back home and in America.”

I’m about to step out of the closet, when I pause. “Suffrage movement?”

“Shh.” She puts a finger to her lips. “They don’t like political talk from the crew. If word got out about me, I’d be scrubbing toilets in the crew quarters.” She winks. “Yer not the only one ‘round here with secrets, Bianca Butterman.”

The sturdy lump in my throat prevents me from responding. I don’t even know what to say, or how to pretend it will all work out okay. Right here, right now she’s so full of purpose and ambition and life. And none of it will ever go past this night.

Finally, I ask. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-two, practically an old hag.” She hands me a duster. “But I’m not sorry about it. Times are changing for women, wouldn’t you say? We won’t always be only our husband’s property. One day we’ll make our own choices, and we’ll have a say in what goes on in this world.” She grins and it’s so optimistic, her entire face radiates light. “Mark me words.”

I swallow hard, trying to force the lump down. Staring into her big hazel eyes right now, I’m conflicted. Part of me wants to tell her she’s right, congratulate her on a job well done, and that because of idealistic women like her, we’ll become much more than property. If she only knew the truth … I’m tempted to tell her right now, knowing full well that whatever I say will go down with her tonight ... but how could I explain what’s about to happen to her? If I do, will she have the power to prevent the collision? If she does, the timeline I know could be forever altered, and then what would I return to?

No, the only way this works is if I create a parallel shift to an alternate universe.
Titanic
reaching land without it would initiate a paradox, and that’s not an option.

I know what I have to do.

“I have to go, but thanks for everything, Adelaide.” I open the door to head out and turn to face her. “For what it’s worth, I believe you—about women getting to make our own choices. We will.”

“Mark me words we will.” She grins. “Good luck to you Bianca Butterman. Now go get yer man, and steal yer moment.”

S
teal my moment
?
Yes. As if there was ever any question. I know what I have to do.

On the way down the corridor to the elevator I pass a couple with two small children and what must be a nanny. The children watch me curiously, their lids heavy over their tired eyes. They’re first class, they’ll make it out alive. But 712 others will fall victim to the icy waters of the Northern Atlantic. Children, women, elderly.

My mouth fills with a sour taste.
Stop
. I suck in a deep breath and plow forward, into the elevator and up to the promenade level. Passengers dressed in finery pass by me at a leisurely pace, some laughing and drunk, others too preoccupied in conversation to notice a maid traipsing across the deck. I can’t peel my eyes from any of them. Every face I see is an echo of an existence—do they live or die tonight? My body is so heavy with emotion, my legs are like lead weights.

I force my gaze to the polished wood floor, pushing myself out the door to the stairs that lead to the top deck. The temperature has dropped and a cold wind brushes over my cheeks. I check the gauge on my watch: 32˚farenheit. It’s 2149hours.

At 0220hours this ship will go down. Just over four hours from now. I still have over an hour left of my time window. I can make it. Tristan will have to wait.

I focus on the lifeboat suspended to the right of the stairs when I reach the top deck. It’s so still, so silent. Forgotten.

“You there, we have a spill. Won’t you get something before someone slips?”

A man in a black trench coat and white scarf points at me from the railing. His underdressed female companion is giggling, her lacy beige dress splattered with burgundy wine. More liquid lies in a puddle before their feet, along with her broken wine glass.

“And something for this stain, if you don’t mind?” The man says in his proper English.

I almost forgot I have a part to play here. Wiping my hair from my face, I nod. “Right away, sir. I’ll be back.”

I turn, pick up my pace, and beeline for the ship’s bow. I can tell from the location of the first steam funnel that I’ve reached my destination. Dashing down the small set of stairs at the right, I lurk in the darkness, where I can form my plan of action, while keeping my eyes on my objective: the bridge.

A deck steward in a navy jacket and hat stands in front of the bridge entrance, scratching his crotch, unaware of my presence. He’s young, with the kind of hook in his nose that makes the rest of his face seem too small, and his eyes too close together.

I take a moment to check the horizon, see for myself what’s ahead. It steals my breath from my lips. At least three different hues of indigo and blue are smudged together and blended downward from the star speckled sky’s zenith to the smooth even line of the ocean’s surface. So vividly crisp. Total ocular entrapment. A current of comfort and bliss pulses through my limbs. But I know better than to trust it. Nature’s seduction—the way she taunts and teases with her illusions, then blindsides with a bolt of lightning, or shattering earthquake, or … renegade iceberg.

It took scientists over a hundred years to figure out the Shimmer Effect—the mirage that I’m staring into right now—that makes the horizon appear spotless, and a light gray vapor hang between sea and sky.

My body shudders. The stark cold air is like pinpricks on my face and hands, and I don’t have enough clothing on to last out here for long. I gave up my thermal threading, and now I’m painfully aware of its absence, and as vulnerable as everyone else onboard
Titanic
.

I have to keep moving. Stepping out of the stairway and toward the steward, I fold my arms over my chest and flash an innocent smile. “Brr. I don’t envy your job.”

The guy looks me over, cocks a slow grin. “What you doing out this way? Brought me a nightcap, did you?”

Instinctively my eyes roll, but I play it off. “Captain Smith sent me to see if anyone would like fresh coffee.” I lean around him for a view of the bridge from the entry, where brass levers and gears shine beneath the light. “I’ll just ask the others.”

“Hold it,” he says, stepping in front of me with a suspicious gleam in his beady little irises. “Already have coffee, we do. Only officers allowed on the bridge.”

“Captain’s orders,” I say with a shrug. “You wouldn’t wanna disobey orders, would you?”

“What’s your name?” He’s still studying my face, staring more at my lips than my eyes.

I blurt the first name that makes sense. “Adelaide Henley.”

His expression goes rigid, brows furrowing. “You ain’t Adelaide Henley. What is this about?”

Shit
.

My teeth are chattering now and I squeeze my arms tighter around me. “Listen, I’m here ‘cause there’s icebergs up ahead and we need to change course.”

“Icebergs? We ain’t seen one of them all night …” He squints, his gaze lingering at my upper right cheek, where my star tattoos are, and his nose scrunches up. “What’s that on your face?”

I touch my upper cheek. When I check my fingers, they’re caked in nude makeup. My concealer must’ve loosened up when I was changing clothes. My tats are showing. Face tattoos in the year 1912 are all kinds of wrong.

Can’t worry about that now.

“It’s nothing, just a birthmark. Hey, I’m serious about the icebergs. I know you’ve had warnings about them—they’re real. And there’s a big fat one out there waiting. You have to tell them to change course and veer left.”

His face looks like it’s frozen in bafflement—his nose scrunched and forehead crinkled. “Where’d you get that kind of information? This a joke?”

“It’s no joke. In about …” I pull up my sleeve and check the time. “One hour, forty minutes the left starboard will slice into an iceberg and water will fill the compartments of the hull.”

No going back now. I was hoping to sway an officer with some friendly chit chat leading to some strong advice, but no such luck. Now, I have no choice but to spell it all out.

“What is that?” He’s staring at my wrist.

I ignore his question. “If you won’t let me in there, will you at least have the chief officer come out here?”

He makes a little huffing noise. “Look here, I’m starting to get annoyed with this little game of yours …”

I’m distracted by the movement of officers on the bridge. They’re
right
there. I only need to get around this oaf.

In a swift movement, I sidestep him and bank right for the bridge, leaning in at the entryway against the wall because I know better than to trespass on someone else’s helm. “Officer! I need to talk to you.”

“All right, you, that’s it.” My arms are pinned to my sides from the steward behind me. “Give me your name. Who do you report to?”

I squirm, calling out to the navy-clad officers on the bridge. “You have to listen to me or hundreds will die ...”

They gawk at me, as if I’m some sea-sickened staff member who’s finally given into total lunacy, their expressions convinced and confident that nothing could possibly go wrong on this clear, calm night.

“What’s the problem here?” Another steward appears from behind me—the one from the top deck—Q. Bloomsdale. He shifts his gaze between me and the other steward, finally resting it on me with what looks like recognition. “Explain yerself. Yer not crew.”

“I’d love to explain,” I say, shoving the other steward’s hands from me. “That’s what I’ve been trying to do.”

The steward reaches for me again, but Bloomsdale holds up a hand to stop him. “Leave her be.” He motions at one of the officers on the bridge. “I’ll take care of this, sir. Not to worry.”

The officer nods, waves his approval.

“But—”

I start to protest, when Bloomsdale lays a hand on my shoulder to angle me away from the bridge and the other steward. He leans down to speak quietly at my ear. “If’n ye got something important to say, yer going about it the wrong way. Now please step away from the bridge and ye can explain yer issue, or else I’ll be calling the Master at Arms.”

The other steward moves in toward us. “She won’t even give ‘er name. Seems she needs a proper lashing, that one.”

Bloomsdale nods at the steward, then turns his amber-brown eyes on me, his hand at my elbow now, as if I may run at any second. “Name and cabin.”

I could use my prepared alias of Julia Cummings—the au pair whose name I borrowed for just such instances, but that doesn’t explain the maid’s uniform.

“Reports went out earlier about a black haired lass who stole a fur coat from the first class dining room.” Bloomsdale’s voice is low, not accusing, but curiously matter-of-fact. “Have anything ye’d like to say? Don’t know what yer game is, but ye’ll be spending the rest of the journey in the cargo hold if ye don’t start explainin’ yerself.”

A shiver runs down my body. This whole experience is nothing like I thought it would be. I thought I could do it—thought I could leave this ship with only an orientation and let it sink as it did before. But really being here, talking to living breathing beings …

Steal your moment
. This is
my
moment. I have to save it.

“Speak up, you.” The other steward is in my face again.

I lean back, angling toward Bloomsdale who’s definitely the more reasonable of the two.

“All right, Richards, give her a chance,” Bloomsdale says to him, the roughness of his Irish accent penetrating his words.

I take a deep breath, focusing on Bloomsdale’s honest face. “I know how all this seems, and it’s going to sound even stranger, but I know for a fact the captain has had ice warnings throughout the night. I also know for a fact that your Lookouts won’t see an enormous iceberg right in our path—one that can damage the hull of this ship and sink it.”

Richards snorts. “Poppycock. This is the
R.M.S. Titanic
, little girl. Unsinkable.”

Bloomsdale’s dark brows furrow beneath his hat. “What makes ye so sure? Ye got eagle eyes? What, are ye some kind of soothsayer with them stars on yer face? Trying to make a day’s wage by scaring innocent passengers?”

Richards chimes in again. “This ship won’t sink, ye can believe that. Put her in the cargo hold, Quincy. Check her pockets first, she probably pickpocketed half the passengers here, trying to read their fortunes or some such poppycock.”

“Richards, call the Master at Arms and see if any reports of stolen property have been filed.” Bloomsdale says, but he’s still looking at me and lowers his voice. “I’ve given ye a chance to fess up and tell the truth. I suggest ye take it.”

I hesitate, letting my gaze find the forward bow. Richards

disappears inside the bridge and I’m glad. From my location on the deck, I can see images inside the crow’s nest. Ahead of them, is nothing but dark sky peppered with stars. I know how preposterous I must sound to Bloomsdale. There couldn’t be a more serene evening on the ocean. And here I am trying to convince him of imminent danger.

I search Bloomsdale’s face, noticing the flawlessness of his complexion, the pronounced muscle where his jaw meets his cheek bone. There’s a quiet strength about him, and a warmth in his eyes. I sense his integrity, but I have nothing to offer that doesn’t sound contrived and ridiculous. Is this stage fright? Over the years, I’ve rehearsed possible lines to the captain a thousand times, but right now, staring at Bloomsdale’s unwitting face, I can’t think of a single one.

That’s when it hits like an electric pulse and I’m riddled with dread down to my toes. I know him. His face, his name—Quincy Bloomsdale. Even his fate. He is one of few stewards who drowns tonight. It’s a knowledge so crippling, my throat tightens in on me with a pressure that threatens to steal oxygen right from my lungs.

“What’s yer name?” Bloomsdale asks again, but he’s not forceful. Instead there’s intrigue in his tone, and behind the light in his eyes, almost as if he’s in tune to my thought waves.

I maintain his gaze, squaring my shoulders and standing tall. “I’m a traveler … through time. I live in the future, almost two hundred years from now, and before you scoff at the idea, just listen. I came here to warn you, save you. In less than an hour this ship will hit an iceberg. 1500 lives will be lost, and it will go down in history forever. We can stop that from happening.”

No going back now. Tonight, I initiate a parallel shift.

He regards me, his lips parting as if to speak, then closing again with hesitation.

My gaze is fixed on Bloomsdale’s profile as he stares out at the horizon, then slowly he raises it to the star-filled sky, as though he’s examining the possibility, or listening for a clue in the wind. And in this moment, I know he’s not like the others here, which is why my chest presses in. I can’t let him die here.

“Quincy, that’s your name, right?” I say, lightly touching his sleeve. “I know how this sounds. I’ve rehearsed this moment more than you could know—how to warn the crew here, how to convince the captain.
Titanic
will hit an iceberg tonight.”

His eyes remain on the horizon. “Lookouts know their job, they’ll warn us.”

I plead for his attention on me again. “The Lookouts won’t see it because of an optical illusion on this part of the ocean. It’s a scientific phenomenon called the Shimmer Effect—the clear air acts as a lens, bends the light waves. When the warmer air of the water meets the colder air above it creates a layer. That’s the vapor you see between the sky and ocean. It distorts everything, like a mirage.”

Quincy stares at me now, eyes widening, the muscle at his jaw pulsing. “How do ye know this?”

I hesitate, the cold air forcing a violent shiver down my spine.

“You asked what my name is—it’s Bianca Butterman. I come from the year 2069, from a family of time travelers. My life’s goal has been to save
Titanic
from sinking …” I pause. “Save 1500 people from drowning.”

An eerie flash of unspoken communication passes between us. I don’t want to tell him he’ll die—it’s too much knowledge for a person to bear. The way his face softens for the briefest of moments sends a jolt of possibility through me. All isn’t lost yet. He wants to believe, I can see it in the glint of his eye, the angle of his brow.