SAGITTARIUS
STRANGE DESTINY
JAHNNA N. MALCOLM

SAGITTARIUS (November 22 to December 21)

Sagittarius is bold, brave and proud. Capable of great brilliance and daring, her intuition is unbeatable. Sagittarius is high-spirited and impetuous, extremely trustworthy and has friends in every walk of life. Uncompromising in her love of freedom she grants everyone the same right. Sagittarians love outdoor sports and are born aristocrats in terms of tastes!

When Skye McKenna gets knocked out whilst playing soccer for the school team, she is awakened by a young man who appears to be from another age. Is Trevor really from the nineteenth century? And can he help Skye prevent her great-great-great-grandfather being branded as a murderer?

CHAPTER ONE

SAGITTARIUS (November 22 - December 21)
Aspects currently at work in the solar system indicate that travels of an unusual nature will both confuse and delight you, Sagittarius. Pack lightly! All you will need is your wits!

“Remington House? You're kidding!" Angie Burton's voice cracked.
Skye McKenna blinked her luminous grey eyes at her best friend and smiled. "No, I'm not kidding."
"But – but Remington House is haunted." Angie fell in step with the other soccer players who were following their captain.
The girls' soccer team made its way up the grassy slope to the elegant white mansion perched on a little hill at the heart of Remington College in Marleigh, Vermont. Skye's smile broadened when she looked up at the magnificent old home, standing like a gleaming white beacon in the June sunshine.
"Why do we have to change our clothes in a haunted house?" Angie demanded.
"Because the storm last night blew out all of the windows in the field house, that's why," Skye explained.
"All of them?" Angie squeaked again.
"All of them." Skye readjusted her sports bag, ran her fingers through her shoulder-length blonde hair, and shook her head. "Come on, Angie. I'm sure Remington House is not haunted."
Angie Burton, the other wing on the team, had been Skye's best friend since the third grade. She had always been scared of Remington House, even insisting they take the long way round whenever they walked to the college cafeteria.
"Besides, Angie," Skye said, chuckling, "which would you rather have? A good scare or a case of pneumonia?"
"A case of pneumonia," Angie shot back.
Harriet Winslow, a short, stocky freshman, hurried to catch up with Angie and Skye. "Did the storm blow out every window of the field house? I mean, why couldn't the college get them fixed in time for the game?"
"Because the windows had to be specially ordered from Burlington," Christina St George replied. "The field house dates from 1910, you know." Chris was a junior, and came from one of the richest families in Vermont.
"But what if Remington House really is haunted?" their goalie, Katie Atherton, moaned. "My brother told me weird things happen in that house. What if we go in and never come out?"
Skye snorted with laughter. "Then we'd have to concede to Smithwood."
A howl of protest erupted from the team. Skye knew they'd rather take on a whole army of ghosts than give in to their arch rivals.
"Look, it's only an exhibition match," Angie reminded them. "To celebrate the Centennial. It doesn't really matter who wins."
"Are you kidding?" Skye and most of the others gasped.
During the spring, the Remington girls' soccer team had advanced all the way to the league semifinals, only to be defeated by Smithwood. Skye was bound and determined to make up for it. "We're going to tromp them into the ground. Smithwood won't know what hit ’em.”
"All right!" A cheer went up from the group.
Skye led the team up the wide wooden stairs to the broad porch running along the east side of the stately old mansion. Their footsteps thudded on the weathered wood planking. Skye turned the brass doorknob. Campus security had already unlocked it for them. The hinges creaked as she pushed the door open slowly.
"Oh, no," Angie moaned.
Skye shook her head. "How can someone so ruthless on the soccer field be such a total basket case about an old house?"
"Beats me," Angie said with a nervous giggle.
"Where are we?" Katie asked as they stepped into the bright room that ran along the side of the mansion.
"The conservatory," Skye replied. "This room once housed exotic plants and flowers from all over the world."
Shiny copper sinks lined the inner wall. Huge, double paned windows ran the length of the outer wall, beneath which sat a chaise longue upholstered in faded green brocade. Italian terracotta tiles covered the floor, and an ornately carved walnut table sat in the centre of the room. Above their heads, June sunshine poured through the glass ceiling.
The air was warm and thick, almost dense with...something Skye couldn't name. Like an electrical charge. But different.
"Where are we supposed to go?" Harriet whispered, looking round, her blue eyes as wide as half dollars.
"This way," Skye led them towards the big double doors on the far wall. "There's a parlour in here, where Coach Matthews said we could change."
They stepped into the inner room, which looked more like a museum than a parlour. Two rows of mannequins dressed in costumes from the nineteenth century were placed down the centre of the room.
"Mother has been working with the historical society on this display for the Remington Centennial," Chris St George announced to the rest of the group. "There's to be a gala reception here on Saturday night."
The girls moved between the mannequins, ooh-ing and ah-ing over the beautiful long dresses.
Skye stood with her head cocked to one side. This room had an undisturbed quiet feeling, very different from the conservatory.
"Coach said we could use those benches," Skye announced to the girls, pointing at several wooden ones set up at the far end of the room. "We'd better hurry, we need plenty of time to warm up."
The girls moved to the benches and began taking off their street clothes and slipping into their team uniform of black shorts and green-and-white striped jerseys.
"I wonder how many rooms there are in this place," Harriet said as she tucked in her jersey.
"Ten on the ground floor, and six bedrooms and a study on the first floor, plus the servants' quarters," Skye replied. "Each room has its own ornate fireplace. And private bath, which was very modern for the time it was built – 1875."
Katie paused in the middle of lacing her shoes. "How come you know so much about Remington House?"
Skye pulled her jersey over her head. I might as well tell them. It's not like it's a big secret or anything. "My family used to own this place. I have lots of pictures and books at home that show the inside."
The reaction was pretty much what she expected.
"What?"
"You're joking!"
"You owned Remington House?" Christina St George scoffed. "Get real."
Not only was Chris one of the wealthiest girls in Marleigh, but she was also one of the snobbiest. She'd spent most of her youth away at private schools, otherwise she would have known about Skye.
"Skye's middle name is Remington. It runs in the family," Angie said, tugging on the laces of her shoes. Angie flashed a big smile at her friend. "She's the great-great-great-granddaughter of Harley Remington."
The group gasped.
"Horrible Harley, the Ogre of Marleigh?" Chris jeered. "Boy, that's something to be proud of. We're so honoured. Forget the Revolutionary War heroes my mother's always bragging about. We've got a descendant of a murderer in our midst."
The other girls laughed.
Skye didn't even crack a smile. She'd grown up with taunts about her notorious ancestor ringing in her ears and was tired of them.
"That happened over a hundred years ago," Skye said as she folded her clothes and laid them on the bench. "It has nothing whatsoever to do with me."
"Harley Remington was a murderer?" Harriet whispered to Skye. "Do his victims haunt the house?"
"This house is not haunted," Skye said, stepping into the panelled cloakroom just off the parlour. She pulled her hair into a ponytail at the base of her neck, then grabbed one of the clear plastic cups stacked on a table next to the sink and poured herself a drink of water. "No one has ever seen a ghost in here. And there was only one victim. As far as I know."
Skye led the group back into the conservatory, stopping next to the wooden table in the centre of the room. She cocked her head again to listen.
"What is that?"
It wasn't really a sound. More of a feeling. The thick, humming sensation she'd felt when they'd entered the conservatory before.
"Angie," she said. "Do you feel something weird?"
Angie stared at Skye and whispered, "What do you mean, weird? Like scary weird or cold weird?"
Skye shut her eyes. "I'm not sure."
"Are you trying to scare us?" Katie Atherton demanded. "Because you're succeeding, so just cut it out."
"I am not trying to scare you!" Skye said, trying to ignore the sensation skittering round her body. It felt as if someone was slipping goose feathers into her jersey. "I just wondered if anyone else felt the sort of tingling sensation I'm feeling."
The others shook their heads, glancing at one another nervously.
"Well, maybe it's just my imagination." Skye set her cup down on the table. "Come on. Let's get out to the field."
The girls headed for the door.
Then a scream pierced the damp air of the room.
Skye spun round. Harriet Winslow stood on the other side of the carved table. She was pointing to something in front of her, and her face had gone completely white. Her lips trembled.
"Whatever is it, Harriet?" Chris St George demanded.
"Look at the water!" she shrieked.
On the table sat Skye's plastic cup, half-filled with water. The liquid slanted uphill as if the table were on the deck of a ship.
The girls screamed, their shrieks echoing in the empty room.
"Calm down." Skye walked to the table, picked up the cup, then set it down again. "So it's true."
"What?" Angie asked in a terrified whisper. "What's true?"
"Well, as you may or may not know, the earth is circled by bands of magnetic fields."
Angie shook her head. "So?"
"So there's this theory that in certain places, a sort of...bubble occurs in the field, knocking everything out of whack. People think Remington House sits on one of those bubbles, or vortexes, as they're often called."
"Like that House of Mystery in Oregon," Katie Atherton declared. "My cousins live near there and say it's really creepy."
"There are houses like it all over," Skye explained. "But a physicist in the 1950s claimed Remington House was one of the best vortex houses in the country."
Chris St George folded her arms and narrowed her eyes at Skye. "If Remington House is so important, then why hasn't the college capitalized on it? They could raise a lot of money just by charging for admission."
"Maybe it's because of the murder," Harriet said, glancing nervously over her shoulder as if to make sure no ghosts appeared. "It must be haunted. Why else would they just let it sit empty like this?"
Skye had often wondered that, too. But she quickly shrugged off her doubts. "There are no ghosts, I tell you. It's the energy field and that's all."
"Well, I'm not sticking round to find out," Angie said.
"Me neither." Katie Atherton bolted for the side door, bumping the soccer ball under Angie's arm with her elbow.
The ball rolled across the tiled floor towards a ramp at the far end of the room. It bounced a little, then...rolled up the ramp. The effect made Skye think of magic shows, or special effects in the movies. But this was no illusion performed on a screen or stage. It was happening right before her eyes. Skye blinked and shook her head. Amazing!
The girls screamed again.
"Listen! Calm down, everybody! It's OK!" Skye's voice was drowned out as the girls grew even more hysterical. Some of them scrambled towards the door, others stood frozen in place, staring at the soccer ball. It had rolled back down the ramp.
Skye circled the table, trying to quiet her team-mates. "It's just the energy—"
Suddenly the tingling sensation Skye had been feeling swelled into a full-fledged wave like an electric shock. Pin pricks of energy galloped along her arms, and her legs felt wobbly.
The room pitched away, tilting crazily to one side. Then a bright flash exploded before her. She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again and gasped.
The room was filled with people – laughing, chatting, holding delicate cups and saucers. The women wore elegant white gowns, with gigantic puffed sleeves, lacy bodices, and long, filmy skirts. Their hair was done in extravagant hairstyles. Some even had silk fans hanging from their wrists as they clutched their cups with gloved hands.
The men were resplendent in white and cream coloured suits, with matching waistcoats, and shirts with stiff wing collars. Everyone looked marvellous, like a scene from a lush historical film.
Skye swallowed hard, licked her dry lips, and blinked. The vision evaporated.
A shrill whistle blew from the bottom of the wooden steps. "On to the field!" Coach Matthews called. "Warm up!"
Skye reached out and lightly touched the table.
It felt warm. But that was probably from the sun. The air still quivered, but the party was gone. Skye saw only her team-mates crossing the porch outside.
What had she just seen? People, drinking tea, in the conservatory. Real people? They looked real.  No. That couldn't be possible. Her imagination must have taken over, fabricating an impressively accurate picture of a Remington House party from long ago. Skye had pored over the fading pictures in the old family albums so many times that she knew every detail by heart. It had to be a hallucination. She'd got too excited about being inside Remington House and imagined the whole thing.
Angie, who was already out on the porch, stuck her head in the door. "Come on, Skye. Let's get out of here."
Skye wanted to ask Angie if she'd seen the vision – or whatever it was. But her friend was already loping down the hill towards the playing field.
Skye stood for a minute, alone in the empty conservatory. The energy had settled into a low rumble, rather like the sound of an aeroplane heading for the horizon.
She shrugged. Sometimes a great imagination can be a real pain.
Skye reached the door, then glanced back at the room.
The water still slanted in the plastic cup on the table. But it was quivering, vibrating like dancing jelly, splashing up against the sides. It was behaving as if a train were going by. But there were no trains in Marleigh. And hadn't been for nearly a hundred years.

CHAPTER TWO

“Kick it!" Angie screamed.
Skye stretched her leg to reach the ball as it zoomed towards her. She sent it sailing to Katie Atherton, who scooped it up and flung it back down the field.
"Good drill, Skye!" Coach Matthews called from the sidelines. "Chris, run some penalty kicks. Harriet, you're on defence."
The drills felt good, smooth and coordinated. Skye took a deep breath of fresh, cool air. It was the last game of the soccer season, and the team had really pulled together. Their passing was solid, and their strategy had a way of surprising even the coach.
Skye passed the ball to Angie, and the two of them dribbled it down the field, turned, and dribbled it back. She and Angie had been playing soccer together since third grade.
"Go, Skye Bird! Show 'em how it's done!" Skye glanced over towards the sidelines where her mother and father sat, waving and shouting. They looked cool and comfortable in the June sunshine as they sipped lemonade from a Thermos. In keeping with the Remington College Centennial celebrations, the grandstands were hung from end to end with red, white and blue bunting. The day was warm, but a pleasant breeze was drifting in from the north. A typical Vermont June, with the sun and the wind having a disagreement about whether or not it was really summer. She waved to her parents, and they smiled and waved back.
"You look great! Good luck!" her mother shouted. Skye gave her a nod and a thumbs-up.
At the other end of the grandstand, a cluster of other parents talked and laughed, eating sandwiches and drinking coffee. Skye recognized Chris's and Katie's mothers among the group. The wind carried Mrs St George's brittle voice towards her.
"Of course, the invitations didn't go out in time," Chris's mother was saying. "What can you expect? She's never entertained more than thirty people in her entire life. Can you imagine?"
The women snickered. Most were dressed in variations of the same outfit – sleek summer dresses, broad straw hats, and colourful scarves.
Skye wondered if Mrs St George gossiped all the time. Every time she'd seen her, in the grocery store, at college orientation, even at community events like the Fourth of July barbecue in Marleigh Common, she was always complaining about somebody.
Mrs St George wore designer clothes even to soccer games, and she ignored everybody who wasn't exactly like her. Like Skye's parents.
Even though they pretended not to notice, Skye knew her parents were aware of their separateness. Her mother kept glancing over towards the little group of women, then turning away quickly as if she didn't want anyone to see her looking at them.
A thread of frustration tugged inside her. Skye's parents weren't wealthy. Far from it. She was attending Remington College on an athletic scholarship. Her parents owned a small bookstore in town, but even with two salaries, they had to take in a boarder every semester to help pay the mortgage.
Still, her parents were natives of Marleigh, parents of one of the "townie" students, and reliable, hard-working people. They shouldn't be sitting alone on the benches.
Skye crossed the field quickly to intercept a pass and kicked it angrily towards Angie.
Angie sent her a surprised look, blocked it, then passed it on to Harriet.
Skye couldn't help it, she felt frustrated and angry. Seeing her parents sitting alone in the stands only reminded her how tight their finances were. This was the first year they'd been unable to rent the back room. Her mother had had to sell one of their walnut mantel clocks so Skye could buy her textbooks. She wrinkled her forehead as she watched Angie and Harriet scuffle over the ball.
It was strange. The back room in their big house was usually rented straightaway in September. It was sunny, furnished with some of their best Victorian antiques, and had a great view of the garden. But so far this year, no one wanted it. Something always seemed to be wrong. The first prospective tenant said the light was wrong. The second said the room had "weird vibes". The third said he hated Victorian furniture.
"Heads up, Skye!" Angie called as she lobbed a kick towards her. Skye blocked it, then sent it on towards Harriet Winslow again, who dribbled it down the field towards Katie. The goalie tossed the ball towards Skye. In a quick motion, Skye used a header to lob the ball towards Angie, who stopped it quickly and sent it back towards Harriet.
"Nice, tight. Yes!" Coach Matthews sounded excited and happy.
Skye barely noticed. She looked up towards Remington House again and thought how funny it was that the great-great-great-granddaughter of the man who founded the college had to rely on a scholarship to get in. The man who almost single-handedly turned sleepy little Marleigh into the "Athens of Vermont" by encouraging scholars, inventors, and artists to come and work there. It didn't seem right, somehow. Well, at least she could help out the only way she knew how. By getting a full athletic scholarship to school. And after all, playing sports wasn't a hardship. Skye loved sports and excelled at many of them. In high school, she'd always been placed high in track and field. She'd even gone to state playing field hockey.
Skye shivered as the sweat dried on her skin. Come on, Coach. Let's get going. I hate using up all my adrenalin in drills.
The coach blew her whistle and called them back to the sidelines for their pre-game pep talk. Skye waved once more to her parents before heading for the huddle.
Fifteen minutes later Skye was having a staring match with the left wing from Smithwood. The girl curled her lip in a sneer, and said, "Hey, McKenna. I hear you're related to Horrible Harley."
Skye bit her lip and looked down at the grass of the playing field. Ignore her. She's trying to psych you out. Just ignore her.
She glanced sideways at Christina St George, who gave her a sly smile. Of course, Chris would have told everybody. Even the players from Smithwood. Some of those girls were Chris's old friends. They'd gone to that private school in Leffingwell together.
Coach Matthews and the Smithwood coach were conferring with the referee on the sidelines. There was some question about one of the players being eligible to play. While they waited for the officials to thrash it out, the two teams stayed in position, glaring at each other.
"Horrible Harley, the Ogre of Marleigh, the rich man's murderous son." The Smithwood centre half sang the jeering rhyme.
Skye clenched her hands into fists. "I'd put a cork in it, if I were you," she growled.
"Uh-oh." The girl put her hand to her mouth, pretending to be scared. "McKenna's mad. She's starting to get that Horrible Harley look."
"Yeah," another Smithwood girl shouted from the backfield. "Murder probably runs in the family, like killer cooties."
"Cooties!" Several girls picked up the word and started chanting, "Killer cooties! Killer cooties!"
"Look, she's even wearing a hunter round her neck," the forward said, pointing at the gold emblem sparkling at Skye's throat.
Skye instinctively touched the necklace and tucked it inside her jersey. It had belonged to her great-great-grandmother. She'd worn it that day for luck. Unfortunately the only luck it seemed to be bringing was bad.
"If you weren't so dense," Skye said, with a huge sigh, "you'd know that this was Sagittarius, the ninth sign of the zodiac. Its symbol is the Archer."
"It looks like some loser with a bow and arrow to me," the girl shrugged.
Skye clutched the antique gold figure with the tiny amethyst stone set in the bow and recited from memory, "The centaur holds an arrow with a short section of the bow, the symbol of enthusiasm and effort, aiming at the stars. It is the significator of cosmic progress and abundance."
The girl faked a huge yawn. "Sorry I ever mentioned it."
"Don't mind her," Angie said, stepping up behind Skye.   "She's from Smithwood. You know what they say about Smithies."
"What? What are you talking about?" The forward leaned towards Angie, a menacing look on her face.
"Now, Angie, that's not nice," Skye said, pretending to scold her friend.
Angie's eyes sparkled. "Yeah. Maybe you're right."
"What? What do they say?" The forward stepped towards Angie, who since the Smithwood girl was much taller, ducked behind Skye.
Skye looked the girl straight in the eye, then said, "Smithwood players have no sting, can't tell a goalie from a wing." She whispered over her shoulder to Angie, "Not bad for off the top of my head."
Angie patted her on the back. "Not bad at all."
"Take that back," the forward snarled.
"Forget it. You know it's true." Skye smiled as the rhyme got passed round the field by her team-mates. She could see the Smithwood goalie, Patsy Meyers, turn bright red in fury. A powerfully built girl, "Moose" Meyers was known for her savage defence. And for her short temper.
Skye waved at Moose, who shook her fist at her and mouthed the words, "I'll get you for that."
The referee blew her whistle, and the game began. Every thought except getting the ball away from the other team flew out of Skye's head. The Smithwood players were fast and tough, but Remington had the edge when it came to teamwork.
Skye heard the cheering from the sidelines, and once or twice she thought even she heard Mrs St George call out, "Go, Skye!"
Angie charged down the field, slicing a perfect pass right towards Skye, past the defending halfback.
This was it. The goal was clear. The timing couldn't be better. Skye stepped towards the ball just as it hit the chalked line. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a huge figure catapulting towards her. "Moose" Meyers was moving in.
Now. I've got to shoot. Now.
Something hard slammed against her head and bright lights exploded all round her. Swirling blackness engulfed her, the playing field tilted wildly, and she felt herself falling downwards into a dark tunnel. Faster and faster she sank, the flashing points of lights fading until there was nothing but blackness.
CHAPTER THREE

Although waning, the Moon is still under the powerful influence of Uranus. This transit only lasts a few hours and the powerful confusion you feel will wear off. You feel like doing things impulsively. Follow your instincts.

My head hurts.
Skye opened her eyes, squinted, closed them again, and groaned. Throbbing waves of pain enveloped her skull.
"Oh, good. You're all right," a voice said.
That's weird. It was a male voice. I didn't see any students arrive at the game. Maybe some boys decided to check out the action.
Skye forced her eyes open again, then raised her hand and shielded her face from the bright sunlight. Sure enough, above her head hovered the concerned face of a boy. A very cute boy with blue eyes. He was dressed in a white flannel suit, striped bow tie and a flat-topped straw hat. He looked like something out of an old movie. Or the musical, The Music Man.
He smiled at her. "You took quite a nasty bump on the head."
When he smiled his eyes sparkled, and two creases appeared at either side of his mouth. They could never be called dimples. They were more like trenches. Very adorable. Wherever he came from, she was glad he'd stopped by to watch the game. He definitely improved the scenery. And so what if he liked dressing in costume? It was, after all, the Remington College Centennial.
"Are you all right, Miss?"
"I— I think so," Skye said, struggling to get up. "I guess Moose didn't like my goal."
A tiny furrow slid between the boy's eyebrows. "Moose?"
"The goalie. You know. Moose Meyers? The soccer game?" Skye closed her eyes again as a stab of pain sliced into her temple. "Whoa. When Moose blocks a kick, she really blocks it."
"The soccer game? I don't quite understand. What soccer game?" the young man asked, reaching out and carefully taking her elbow to help her up.
He seemed very formal. Almost old-fashioned in his politeness.
Skye opened her eyes again and looked round to see if the game had stopped, or if they'd just dragged her off the field and were still playing. Coach Matthews wasn't one to stop the action just for a little knock on the head.
She looked to the right, where the benches had been, and froze. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest. What was going on?
The playing field had been transformed. It was now a broad expanse of lush green grass, surrounded by well-trimmed flowerbeds. Off to the left, where the field house stood, was a small gazebo. And on the hill—
Remington House.
Gleaming white and perfect in the sunshine.
"Oh my..." she gasped. Skye was certain the blood had completely drained from her face as she turned to stare at the young man in the white suit. He cocked his head to one side, giving her another patient smile.
"Yes?"
"The soccer game I was playing – where did everybody go?" Skye whispered.
"I think you mean croquet." The young man held up a croquet mallet and grinned. The twinkle in his eyes told Skye he thought she was joking.
"Wait a minute." Maybe it was a joke. Skye squinted one eye shut and asked, "Did Angie put you up to this?"
"Up to what?"
"This is some sort of optical illusion, I bet. Special effects." Skye put her hands on her hips and shook her head. "Boy, she went to a lot of trouble just to play a joke on me. I didn't know Angie had it in her."
"Angie who?" the young man asked.
"Angie Burton. You know. The left wing? Pulling a practical joke in the middle of such an important game is pretty tacky, if you ask me." Skye scratched her head. "But everyone must have gone along with it, 'cause they've all disappeared."
"Sorry. I truly don't know anyone by the name of Angie."
Skye spun in a circle. Maybe she'd been knocked out for longer than she thought. Like hours. And everybody had gone home.
"What about Katie Atherton? Christina St George?"
The young man's expression was blank. He obviously didn't recognize any of those names. This was really peculiar. Maybe he was visiting from out of town. And she had somehow stumbled into his game.
"Geez, I'm sorry I crashed your croquet game," Skye murmured, still turning in a perplexed circle. "I guess the school or the St Georges threw a Centennial costume party and I didn't hear about it. I didn't mean to intrude."
The young man gave her a quick, nervous look. "You're not intruding. But before we go any further, I really should introduce myself. I'm Trevor Bellamy."
He held out his hand and Skye, still very confused, shook it.
"Would you like to see if your friends are in the house?"
Skye glanced back up the hill towards the house which looked better than it had in years. The paint gleamed a milky white, and dark green shutters framed the huge windows. The three stories soared up towards the dark slate roof, decorated round the edges with traceried carvings. Pots of blooming flowers accented the wide porch, and elegantly dressed people strolled up and down the wide steps, enjoying the sun and each other's company.
"Yes," she murmured, trying to remember what the house had looked like when she'd changed into her soccer outfit. Had it looked this new? Could the college have painted it and she not have noticed? "Maybe I should check the house."
Nearby, a cluster of girls in long, frilly, white dresses kept glancing at her. Maybe they knew something about where her team had gone. Skye hurried over to them, thinking they must be her classmates. Trevor followed close behind.
But when Skye reached them, they stared at her as if she'd just landed from Mars. Their dresses ruffled in the light breeze, a breeze that was much warmer than it had been during the game.
Before she could say a word, Trevor thrust himself between her and the group. "Ladies, allow me to introduce Miss - er..." He paused, allowing her the chance to jump in and save an awkward moment. But Skye was too dumbfounded by what was happening to her to notice. Finally Trevor said, "Please, Miss, what is your name?"
"Miss?" Skye repeated with a smile. She hadn't realized that at costume parties you were supposed to take on the mannerisms of the time you were portraying. "McKenna. Skye McKenna."
"This is Miss McKenna," Trevor said, without missing a beat. "She seems to have misplaced her friends and was wondering if any of you had seen them."
The girls shook their heads, looking perplexed. As a matter of fact, they looked as confused as she felt.
"They probably vanished as quickly as you appeared." The girl who spoke wore small wire-rimmed glasses, and had a pale, delicate face. Her hair was pulled up on top of her head, and covered by a tiny lace hat decorated with feathers and ribbons. She held a small, lacy parasol in one white gloved hand.
Skye frowned. "What do you mean?"
The girl shrugged. "One minute there was no one on the lawn, and the next – there you were. It was too late to call a warning, you know. That croquet ball must have hurt."
"I was hit by a croquet ball?" Skye gasped.
"A blue one."
The girl in the glasses cocked her head. "I thought perhaps my eyes had suddenly got worse." She touched her spectacles with a delicate finger.
"No, they haven't, Alice. I didn't see her either." The girl who spoke this time was tall and slender, dressed in a white dress that looked as if it was made out of pure silk. "Poof! She appeared like – like magic."
Trevor laughed with the girls. "It was rather like that," he said. "Like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat!"
Skye could feel herself blushing. "Yes, I guess so. Some trick."
If this is a trick, it took a lot of effort. How did Angie remove the field house? And where's the oak tree? That oak has been shading Remington House for almost a hundred years. Where is it? She couldn't have covered it up.
Skye turned and looked south beyond the benches where her parents had been. Nothing.
Beyond the college grounds, where Main Street ran towards Marleigh Common, there were usually cars going towards the centre of town. Cars and buses, backed up at the light on the corner of 1st and Main, always caused a mini-traffic jam at this time of day.
But there wasn't a traffic jam.
Because there wasn't any traffic.
She squinted into the distance. Not one car. No engine noises. No smell of exhaust fumes. No idling buses. Nothing. Just the faint clip-clop of horses' hooves.
"Horses!" She spun to take a quick look behind Remington House, and sighed in relief.
Well, at least the stables are where they're supposed to be. As a matter of fact, they seemed to be thriving. Carriages and gigs were lined up all the way along the lane that wound through the grounds.
Skye shivered at the tingle of apprehension that scurried up her back. Usually the sedate grounds of Remington College were dotted with stone and brick buildings covered with ivy and linked by pleasant walkways lined with elm and oak trees. But not today. Behind the facade of Remington House, Skye could just see the outline of Cranston House, the college administration building built in 1893. A coat of white paint made the immense Queen Anne style structure look better than it had in years. Almost brand new...
"Oh..." Skye moaned. Maybe she was sick. Maybe the bump on her head was making her hallucinate, and she was seeing not what was actually there, but what had been there.
"Miss McKenna, are you sure you're all right?" Trevor Bellamy had separated himself from the group and moved to stand beside her. "You look...confused."
"I— I am." She took a deep breath. Or tried to. For some reason her waist seemed tight. Boy, my soccer clothes are getting uncomfortable.
She looked down to check her jersey and shorts and saw – lace? Lace. Masses of it. On her. A light, frilly dress, minutely decorated with fine floral designs running down the bodice. The skirt adorned with lace and ribbons. A high collar, and huge, puffy sleeves. The dress was slightly askew and looked as if she had just thrown it on.
Skye felt her hair and sighed with relief. At least it was still the same wavy blonde hair pulled into a clip at her neck. There was no way she could have done any of the fancy hair arrangements that the other girls at the party had managed. She had no patience for fussing with hair or make-up or clothes. But Skye did know enough about hair to know that the hairdos she saw on the other guests' heads had taken hours.
This does not make sense. There is something very wrong here.
"Perhaps a glass of punch would make things less confusing?" Trevor suggested.
"It might," Skye murmured.
Trevor handed one of the girls his croquet mallet, held out his arm to Skye, gently took her right hand, and guided it through his. Then he led her away from the group.
Skye took several steps and hiked up her skirt. Underneath the long, lacy skirt, she saw that she was still wearing her soccer shoes and knee-high socks. She studied her shoes. "I was playing soccer. But where is my team?"
Trevor carefully avoided looking at her leg. "Perhaps this, ah, team of yours is at the punch table. Let's keep moving. What do you say, Miss McKenna?"
He guided Skye towards the back of the house where a table was laid out. It was covered with silver plates piled with small sandwiches and pastries and two immense crystal punchbowls sat in the middle of the table. Trevor selected a glass cup from a row of them on the table, poured some of the pink liquid into it with a crystal ladle, and handed Skye the cup.
She took a sip of punch, and Trevor smiled at her, evidently amused. All round them people chatted formally, calling each other Miss or Mister. A brass band, arranged on the huge back porch, played a spirited march. There seemed to be a lot of activity, but also a feeling of calm, of unhurried graciousness. Even the carriages clopped slowly and pleasantly up the drive.
"At least the stables are still here," Skye murmured.
"Where else would they be?"
"I don't know." She shrugged. "With my team, and the benches and the old oak tree, I guess."
"Do you ride?" he asked, leading Skye to several wicker chairs that were arranged under one of the elms.
"I love riding," Skye said, gathering her skirts up so she could cross her legs. Trevor seemed startled and she quickly tugged the dress over her knee socks and soccer shoes. "It's one of the perks of attending Remington College. I can't afford my own horse."
"You can't afford a horse?" Trevor sounded shocked. "How do you travel from place to place?"
Skye studied him for a moment. He had a nice face, open and friendly, with an angularity to it that wasn't jagged or rough, more sculpted. But he obviously had one huge flaw. He loved practical jokes.
"We drive, of course." Skye watched for his reaction.
"Drive? Drive what?"
"Cars. What else?"
"Cars." He stared at her, a mystified expression on his face. "And what are cars?"
Trevor really did look confused. She had to give him credit for a convincing performance. Maybe he was an actor and this was some sort of rehearsal for a movie or play. That would make sense. At this rate, he was Oscar material.
She waved a hand in front of his face. "Hello? You know, four wheels? Engine? Guzzles gas? Pollutes the air?"
A heavy frown settled on his face.
"You really don't know anything about cars? The automobile?"
A look of relief erased the frown, and he smiled again. "Oh, of course. An extremely clever German – named Benz, I think – invented that. Everyone's been talking about his horseless carriages." He laughed a little and shook his head. "An automobile. Yes, I believe that's what he called it. But many people say it will never replace a good horse. Of course that fellow from Michigan disagrees with them."
Skye stared at Trevor and shook her head. Maybe he had a bet riding on this performance. Convince Skye he was really from the past and he would win a prize. But who would arrange such a ridiculous bet?
Suddenly the lack of traffic sounds, the rattle of carriages, the trill of the birds in the trees bordering the garden, frightened her. Her skin felt cold. A thick wave, like the feeling she'd had inside the conservatory, passed over her. It was dense and charged with some energy she couldn't identify.
"OK." Skye felt her whole body start to tremble. "I'll bite. What year is this?"
Trevor met her gaze. "Why, 1895, of course."
"Oh, right." Skye snorted with laughter.
But Trevor didn't even crack a smile in return. He cocked his head to one side. "Yes. I know it's right. It's been 1895 since the first of January. And it will continue to be 1895 until the thirty-first of December. And then it will be 1896."
Skye leapt up from her chair, knocking it over. "1895?"
The cold washed over her in waves. It can't be. It's a trick. It can't be 1895.
"But surely, Miss McKenna, you must know that."
"Then Henry Ford hasn't invented the Model T yet," Skye murmured.
"Ford. That's the one from Michigan. He passed through here a couple of months ago. He came to see Harley Remington, to confer with him about—"
"Who?" Skye's voice rose at least three octaves. The guests round the punchbowl turned and stared.
Skye grabbed Trevor's arm and pulled him to one side of the wide wooden stairs leading up to the front porch.
"I don't mean to be rude, Miss McKenna," Trevor said, glancing down at her hand on his arm. "But you are acting very strangely. Perhaps that bump on the head affected you more than you think."
Skye's heart pounded. "Did you say Harley Remington? Inventor of the tri-tempered steel-process? Founder of Remington College?"
Trevor nodded vigorously. "And the owner of this house, and the host of this party. But you must have known that if you were invited for the Grand Illumination."
"The Grand Illumination." Skye swallowed hard. "That was the day that Remington College got electricity."
"Yes, today. We're celebrating the completion of the new electric light system. Harley Remington paid for it. It's his gift to the college and the town of Marleigh. Why, even Thomas Edison himself has travelled all the way from his laboratory in New Jersey to flip the switch."
Skye stared at him for so long that his cheeks began to turn pink.
"Then it's true." Her voice was barely a whisper. "It is the year 1895 and these outfits the guests are wearing aren't costumes – but real clothes."
"I can assure you, Miss McKenna, that my suit is my own, and not a costume." Trevor looked her straight in the eye. "And it is most definitely the year 1895."
Skye could feel her entire body shaking uncontrollably. She finally grasped the fact that – somehow, in some way – she had managed to break through the time barrier and travel back one hundred years. She placed both hands on Trevor's shoulders to steady herself.
"But what am I doing here?" she rasped. "And how will I ever get back?"

CHAPTER FOUR

Another cup of punch and a fan borrowed from one of the ladies playing croquet had helped Skye to regain her composure. She didn't know how she had managed to travel back in time or why it had happened, but she decided to keep quiet about it until she could sort things out. Maybe it's all just a strange dream, she told herself. Relax and enjoy it.
Trevor Bellamy, who had brought her the punch and the fan, watched her closely. "I wonder if I should call a doctor," he said.
Skye handed him the empty cup. "Oh, that's not necessary. I just got a little confused and frightened. But I feel much better now."
Trevor shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. "I'm glad to hear it. Very glad."
Skye straightened her dress and smoothed a strand of her hair back into the clip at her neck. "Excuse me, Trev— I mean, Mr Bellamy," she said. "Would you mind telling me which man is Harley Remington?"
Trevor looked round and smiled. On the porch near the corner of the house were several large wicker lawn chairs. Beside them stood two men and several women. One of the men in particular seemed to be the centre of attention.
"He's standing right there," Trevor declared. "He's the white-haired gentleman."
Skye turned slowly and stared at the tall, broad-shouldered man at the centre of the lively group. He wore a light grey suit, a shirt with a snowy white collar, and a grey waistcoat. His white hair flowed out from his head in thick waves, his bushy moustache matching his hair in colour and enthusiasm. His eyes, a clear grey which Skye could see quite clearly even from where she stood, sparkled with amusement. It was as if he found the world a place of unceasing entertainment.
This was Horrible Harley, the Ogre of Marleigh? The man whose name still struck fear into the hearts of children?
"Could I get a closer look?" Skye asked.
"Of course. We'll talk to him, if you like." Trevor guided her up the steps, and Skye had to clutch at her dress to keep from tripping over the skirts.
"I tell you, Tom," Harley Remington was insisting as they approached, "you've got to pay attention to this Tesla fellow's ideas about alternating current."
His companion, a stocky man in his mid-forties, with straw-like brown hair, cupped his hand round his ear. "What did he say, Mina?" he asked of the thin woman standing beside him.
"Mr Tesla's theories," the woman repeated. "About alternating current—"
"Poppycock, pure and simple," the man called Tom scoffed. "Come, come, Harley, don't tell me you've swallowed that crazy European's nonsense, too?"
"Nonsense? Then why is George Westinghouse—"
"Don't mention that scoundrel's name!" the stocky man exploded. "Look, Westinghouse is trying to palm off a radical power system on an unsuspecting public. I tell you this, as long as there's an Edison Light Company, direct current will rule the day."
The sunlight glared off the brilliantly clean windows and Skye squinted to get a look at the man talking to Harley.
"That's Thomas Edison, inventor of—"
"Among many things, the light bulb, the alkaline battery and the motion picture camera," Skye finished for Trevor. "Thomas Alva Edison," she repeated with awe. "That's him. In the flesh."
Trevor took several steps back. "My, you certainly are well versed in your current events. Mr Edison and Mr Eastman have been working hard on that new invention. Their motion picture device has already been used to tell a story with pictures in France."
"And in another hundred years, almost every house in the USA will have a television and a video, and people will be watching movies in their living rooms," Skye murmured.
"Sorry, what did you say?" Trevor asked, not quite understanding her.
"Nothing," Skye replied. "Would you mind introducing me, Mr Bellamy?"
"Not at all, Miss McKenna."
The group fell back a step as Skye made her way towards the tall man, her hand outstretched.
He settled his eyes on her face and his expression changed suddenly. "What the—" He shot a dark look in Trevor's direction and, without another word, marched through his front door. The screen slammed shut hard behind him.
"Sorry, what'd he say?" Edison asked, a bewildered look on his face. The woman with Edison gave Skye a shocked look and hurriedly pulled the inventor down the steps into the garden. Skye felt a furious blush colour her cheeks. "What happened?"
"I can't say I'm surprised at Harley's reaction. You gave him quite a shock," Trevor said, his blue eyes glued to her face. "I thought that's why you came. To give him a shock."
"What are you talking about?" Skye asked.
"Hasn't anyone told you your resemblance to Esther is uncanny?"
Trevor was making no sense. "Who?"
"Esther Remington. Harley's daughter. It's quite remarkable. I knew Esther well, you see. And when I saw you on the croquet field, well...it gave me a shock, too. You do know about Esther, don't you? Everybody does."
Skye flipped back through her genealogical memory for some terrible news about Esther and could come up with nothing. She did remember seeing that name on several documents, as well as on some of the charts her mother had prepared for the local historical society.
Skye frowned. Near the refreshment table, groups of people stared at her. She turned away from them, gazing out across the playing field where another croquet game had begun. She tried to concentrate. If Esther was Harley's daughter, that would make her my great-great-grandmother. Skye didn't remember any scandal connected with that grandmother.
"I don't think I know anything about her," Skye confessed.
"You must understand." Trevor lowered his voice to barely a whisper. "When Esther's mother died in childbirth, Harley transferred all of his love to his only child. Esther was the centre of his universe and no man ever doted so fondly upon his daughter. A little over a year ago, Esther became involved with the riding master here. Randall Slade, a man of...dubious character, shall we say? Things got complicated and, um, she was forced to marry Randall. He's a vile fellow and it was a dreadful situation all round. They left town the minute they were married."
Esther ran off with the riding master? Pretty shocking behaviour for 1895. And I look like her? No wonder Harley looked like he was about to suffer a coronary.
"Doesn't she come to visit?"
Trevor shook his head. "Harley hasn't seen or spoken to Esther since the day she was married. He's forbidden all of us who work for him to even mention her name."
"You work for Harley?"
Trevor nodded. "I'm his secretary and personal assistant." He cocked his head to look at her. "You really do resemble her. The same blonde hair and grey eyes. Why, even that dress you're wearing reminds me of one of hers."
Skye looked down at the lacy gown and swallowed hard. It was quite possible that the dress she was wearing had belonged to Esther. It was on display in the Remington Mansion. How she came to be wearing it now, she was wasn't quite certain.
"Excuse me, Miss," a voice sounded from behind her and Skye nearly jumped out of her clothes.
She spun round. A servant dressed in a neat black suit, white waistcoat and shirt, stood there. His expressionless face looked cut from a slab of Vermont granite. His brown eyes were cold. "Mr Remington would like to speak with you, Miss."
"I'll come along, Bates." Trevor hurried to fall into step beside Skye.
"As you wish, Master Trevor." The man named Bates turned and led them into the house.
They made their way through an entrance hall lined with pieces of carved furniture more beautiful than anything Skye had ever seen. The highly polished wood gleamed with dark highlights, and the air smelled of beeswax and honey.
The wide staircase with its shining wood banister ran up to a landing, then turned left to the first floor. All along the wall up the stairs hung paintings, framed photographs, and what looked like pencil sketches. Skye followed Bates as he turned and entered a parlour stuffed with furniture, plants, and tables. Skye looked round in wonder.
The room felt familiar...as if...I've been in here before. Wait a minute. This was the parlour where the soccer team had changed. It had been empty, except for the mannequins, its mahogany panelling bare. Now, practically every bit of space on three of the walls was covered with paintings. On the fourth wall were mounted cases of old coins, some blackened with age. Skye wondered what they were.
"Harley's coin collection," Trevor whispered, as if he'd read her thoughts. "Very rare. His prize possessions, next to his astrology texts."
"Astrology?" Skye stopped walking. It was hard to imagine a man of Harley's stature dealing with astrology. "As in charting the stars?"
"Oh, yes," Trevor replied. "He owns a 1594 first edition of Zodiacus Vitae by Marcellus Stellatus, which was used as a school book in Shakespeare's time."
"I've seen that book," Skye said, excitedly. "I really have. It's under glass in our library but I had no idea it used to belong to Harley Remington."
Trevor raised an eyebrow. "Used to?"
Before Skye could respond, Bates flung open a set of wide double doors that led to the conservatory. "This way please."
Skye sucked in a breath. The room was jammed with huge pots of exotic greenery. Tubs of aspidistras, rubber plants and ferns filled every corner. The air was moist and sweet with the scents of tropical flowers and rich earth. Several elaborately carved tables, covered with newspapers and books, sat among the pots and plants. In the centre of the room stood the table that had been in the conservatory when the soccer team had invaded.
Three people stood near the far end of the room – Harley Remington, Thomas Edison and the lady who'd been with them on the porch. Skye realized the woman had to be Mrs Edison because her arm was looped through her husband's elbow.
Vibrating waves of energy reached Skye, and the skin beneath her lacy dress tingled. As she drew closer to Harley, she realized he was staring at her with cold grey eyes, eyes without a hint of the amusement she'd seen earlier.
"I assume you can explain yourself, young lady," he said in a rough voice. His gaze remained riveted on her face, and Skye swallowed.
The buzzing in the air intensified.
"I - I don't know what you mean."
"You must be aware of the striking resemblance you bear to my daughter." A flash of pain creased his face and suddenly he looked much older.
"I wasn't aware of it until Mr Bellamy told me just a few minutes ago."
Harley shook his head. "Extraordinary, really."
Trevor stepped forward. "I thought she was playing a joke on you, too, sir, but I've spoken with Miss McKenna at some length, and I believe she's genuine."
Harley wasn't so quick to forgive. He frowned, his eyebrows forming a bushy white line across his forehead. "If you've not come to play some kind of prank, why, may I ask, are you here?"
Skye's heart fluttered in her chest. If she tried to explain her presence by telling the truth, he would never believe her. She scarcely believed it herself. "I'm here, sir, for the celebrations. I crashed the party because I'm a big fan of electricity," she said, bluffing like mad. "When I heard that Remington College was getting an electrical light system, I had to come."
"You're a big fan of electricity, young lady?"
Skye caught the bemused chuckle in his eye and suddenly grew angry. "Yes. I believe that within the next fifty years, nearly every home in America will have electric lights. Electric stoves. Even electric toasters. People will be drying their hair with electric hair dryers. Men will shave with electric razors. Christmas trees will be dressed with electric lights—"
"I like this young lady," Thomas Edison spoke in a loud voice. "At this moment my generating station in New York serves eighty-five customers, but to light the entire country – I like the sound of that!"
"Of course you do, Tom," Harley said, clapping Edison on the back. "If she has her way, you'll not only be one of the richest men in America, you'll be the richest man in the world. A veritable Midas, with everything you touch turning not to gold but to light."
Skye crossed her arms and smiled broadly. "Trust me, sir, One day, Mr Edison's electricity will light the planet."
Suddenly Skye felt a tremor, like a mild earthquake under her feet. It was barely perceptible, just enough to make the fabric of her skirt quiver slightly.
"There!" Harley held up one finger and looked at Edison. "Do you feel it now? It's quite powerful at the moment."
Thomas Edison nodded. "I do feel something, Harley, an erratic pulsation. But it's indistinct. Wavering."
Harley nodded.
"It's the electro-magnetic field," Skye said.
Harley's head spun round so fast she was surprised he didn't sprain his neck.
"What did you say?" he whispered.
"The magnetic field. I don't understand it," Skye said with a shrug, "but I can show you some of its effects. Look." She walked over to the side table that held a decanter of cut glass and several beautiful brandy snifters. She filled one with brandy and set it on the table in the centre of the room.
Sure enough, the brandy was tilted, even though the table was level.
Mrs Edison shrieked. "Good heavens! What on earth is it?" Her long, thin face was as white as her dress.
Harley Remington rushed to the table and got down on one knee. "I'll be twitched."
"It's magic," Mrs Edison declared. "A sleight of hand trick."
Harley shook his head. "No, Mina. It can't be magic. I'll show you why. Watch this." He crossed to a cupboard and pulled out a dusty walnut mantel clock.
Skye stared at it, her mouth hanging open. That clock was the one her family had sold to pay for her textbooks.
Harley set the clock on the table, wound it with a key he pulled from his pocket, and stood back.
Slowly the hands of the clock began to turn – backwards.
"See?" he exclaimed. Skye nodded.
"It isn't magic, is it?" Harley was asking Skye, his eyes gleaming, not with anger but with a burning curiosity.
"No. It's caused by a bubble in the earth's magnetic field, right under this house."
Harley glanced at Edison and back at Skye. "Go on."
Skye puffed out her cheeks. "I hope I can get this straight. Evidently there are great bands of magnetism that circle the globe from north to south. But every so often a disruption in the field occurs – like a warp – and the usual gravitational force is disrupted."
Harley crossed to her side of the table and looked down at the glass. "That's precisely what Mr Edison here said. We discussed the bizarre anomalies that occur in this room and he decided they had to be caused by some kind of magnetic permutation. They're sometimes called a vortex."
"Vortex, did you say?" Edison held one hand cupped round one ear and alternated between listening intently to Skye and Harley, and then to his wife, who spoke in a loud voice repeating what Skye and Harley had just said.
"Mr Edison struggles with deafness," Trevor whispered to Skye. "Unfortunately it gets worse with each passing year."
"When objects encounter this vortex," Skye continued, "they can increase or decrease their density. For instance, a one kilo weight might weigh two kilos in here."
"What you say makes sense, young lady," Edison said, moving towards the table. "The operative principle is much like that of a prism. Only instead of light being refracted, or bent, it's the magnetic field."
Skye nodded enthusiastically. "I've seen the effect the magnetic field has on light. It bends it in odd ways. It's truly amazing."
Tom glanced at Harley and added, "I thought there might be a dense lode of volcanic rock, one with a great deal of iron in it, beneath the house. But Harley won't let me dig up the ground and take a look. Too disruptive, he says."
"You're darn right it's disruptive," Harley sniffed. "In order to dig, you'd have to tear down my house. It took me twenty years to get this place the way I like it. No sirreee bob. I'm not letting a shovel within half a mile of here."
Once Mrs Edison had repeated what Harley said, Thomas Edison jammed his hands in his pockets and faced Skye, a huge smile on his face. "I say we ask our futurist. Should we dig or not?"
Skye hesitated for only a second. "Absolutely not. In fact I think the only digging should take place at the corner of the house. I suggest, Mr Remington, that you plant a tree there."
Harley went pale. "I was just contemplating that very thing. What kind of tree would you suggest?"
"An oak, of course," Skye said with a smile. "One that will grow so big it will take six children holding hands to circle its trunk. One that will offer welcome shade in the summers for the students of Remington College and the residents of Remington House."
Harley nodded and didn't stop nodding. "It was my intention to plant a tree to commemorate the Grand Illumination. Incredible. It's almost as if you read my mind."
Skye smiled. The house, the oak tree and the future would remain untouched. At least for now.
"Trevor mentioned that your name is Skye McKenna," Harley said. "Unusual name. Is it for the Isle of Skye, in the Hebrides?"
"No, my mother got it from a novel she read as a young girl," Skye explained. "The heroine's name was Skye. It's an old book, written in—" Skye put her hand to her mouth. She was just about to say "1901" but stopped in time "—a very romantic style."
Harley nodded. "So where are you from, Miss Skye McKenna?" he asked. "Montpelier? Brattleboro? Or maybe somewhere over in New Hampshire."
"No, I'm from Marleigh," Skye replied. "I've lived here all my life."
Harley didn't quite seem to believe her but shook her hand anyway. "Well, thank you, young lady. This has been a very illuminating conversation." He looked to Edison to see if he'd caught his pun. Edison simply rolled his eyes.
The servant who'd brought Skye and Trevor to the conservatory suddenly appeared at the door. Harley nodded towards him. "Bates is informing me that Mr Pinkerton has arrived to immortalize this event. Shall we all adjourn to the front porch?"
As Harley led the Edisons out of the conservatory, Skye shook her head and murmured, "He's not an ogre at all."
"Who?" Trevor asked.
"Harley Remington."
"I should think not," Trevor said. "He's a very well-loved man. Universally respected and admired."
"Then he's not called Horrible Harley, the Ogre of Marleigh?"
"What? Who told you that? I can only think of one man who would say that." Trevor's face darkened with fury. "And if Randall Slade has been spreading lies, he'll answer to me for it."
"Calm down, Trevor." Skye held both hands up in front of her. "I never believed it anyway. It's just nice to know it isn't true."
Skye turned back to the conservatory and frowned. There was something about that room – something that seemed to be at the centre of the mystery of how she came to be there. Harley Remington had called it a vortex. Granted, the magnetism theory explained the weird "tricks" with angles and clocks. But could that hum be responsible for creating some kind of time warp?
Trevor gestured to the front of the house. "Shall we join the others?"
"What's going on?" she asked as they retraced their steps back to the front porch where the rest of the guests had gathered. Clustered together in one big group, they looked positively gorgeous. Fluttering parasols, long-tailed coats, lace handkerchiefs, fans, shawls, all fashioned with the exquisite detail that made Victorian clothing so elegant and refined.
"The photographer's set up his camera and looks ready."
"Photographer?" Skye repeated. "You mean he's going to take a picture?" She hadn't been brought up on a steady diet of Star Trek episodes and time travel movies not to know that people who went back to an earlier time period were never supposed to have their pictures taken. It would throw off the future, or something. Put a glitch in the "space-time continuum", and make it impossible for her to get back.
She tugged at Trevor's hand, but he pulled her inexorably forward into the line, planting her firmly beside him, then sweeping his arm round her waist. He gazed down into her eyes, holding her gaze intently. His blue eyes sparkled at her, and her knees suddenly felt weak. Her skin felt warm all over. He wanted her in the picture. He wanted her beside him.
"Please?" he asked softly.
Skye gave him a tremulous smile. What was she going to do? She didn't want to disappoint him. He'd stuck by her, made sure she was OK. He'd tried to help. How could she refuse to do the one thing he asked in return?
"OK."
He turned back. The photographer made them draw a little closer together, and she felt Trevor's slim body next to hers, comfortingly solid, real. As firmly grounded in this time as she had been in hers.
"All right, everyone," the photographer shouted. "Try to look as if you're having a good time."
That made everyone laugh, and the man dived beneath his cloth to click the shutter. Skye turned her head quickly and covered her face with her hand. Instinct. It was pure instinct. Having her face preserved in this time seemed very, very wrong.
The laughter and conversation of the group had covered her movement, and she was relieved to see Trevor still smiling when he turned back to look at her. There were silver lights in his eyes.
"Now I'll always know you're real," he said. "And for whatever reason you're here for, I'm glad I was playing croquet when you appeared."
Skye stared up into Trevor's open, friendly face. A reason? Am I here for a reason? Was there some purpose in her being thrown back to 1895? Something other than just finding out that Harley Remington was well-loved and respected by everyone who knew him?
"Wait a minute," Skye suddenly gasped. "If Harley Remington is so greatly admired – that means..."
"What?" Trevor asked.
He hasn't committed the murder yet! Skye couldn't say the words out loud. "Good heavens!" was all she could utter.
"What? What is it? Are you all right?" Trevor guided her to one of the wicker chairs on the porch and tried to push her into it.
"No, no. I don't need to sit down." Skye stood for a moment, staring at the conservatory through the tall windows. "I need to go back."
"Back?"
"Home. I have to go home."
"But why, Miss McKenna?" Trevor seemed very disappointed. "The best of the party is yet to come."
There was no way she could tell him that she had to travel forward in time to find out exactly when the murder had occurred – so she could come back to prevent it.
"Shall I get your carriage?" Trevor offered.
Skye shook her head, as she realized that she had no idea how to get back to her own time.
Trevor misunderstood her gesture. "Oh, yes, I remember. You said you didn't have a carriage. Or a horse, for that matter."
Skye looked back at the conservatory, the spot where the powerful force of the vortex seemed to be most concentrated. Perhaps the answer lay there. "I need to go to the conservatory."
"I'll accompany you." He started to offer his arm but she placed her hand gently on his chest.
"No. I must go alone. If all goes well, I'll be back soon."
"All goes well?" Trevor looked totally baffled. "Miss McKenna, you are without a doubt the most perplexing individual I have ever had the good fortune to meet."
Luckily for Skye, the girl with the wire-rimmed glasses hailed Trevor from the croquet lawn. "Mr Bellamy. Please come and join us. We're about to play the tournament of champions."
Trevor looked from Skye to the girl, then back to Skye.
"Go," Skye urged. "I'll be fine."
"You're sure?"
Skye nodded. "But be careful of wayward blue croquet balls." She rubbed the spot on her head where she'd been hit. "They can hurt, you know."
As Trevor hurried to join the girls on the lawn, Skye slipped through the front door and hurried into the conservatory. Pacing round the table in an anti-clockwise direction, she clasped her hands together, trying to think. Suddenly the energy in the room buzzed and hummed, and static electricity sailed along her skin, causing the hair on her arms to bristle.
Skye walked faster to see what would happen next. The room began to vibrate. Suddenly she felt weak and nauseous. Bright flashing blue and red lights twinkled above her head and she squeezed her eyes shut to block them out. A spinning, buzzing sensation swept over her, reminding her of an amusement park ride she'd been on once, where the room started revolving faster and faster and then the floor dropped out.
The lights flickered and dimmed. Abruptly she was plunged into blackness so complete she couldn't see her hands clasped in front of her.
She screamed.
Before her scream faded, she felt herself land with a heavy thunk! Skye opened her eyes.
She was lying on the sofa in the conservatory.
The plants had vanished, and the air felt cold, still and empty.

CHAPTER FIVE

Transiting Moon is simply setting off the Earth corners of your nice round horoscope. Your feelings spurt out with sudden Uranian inspiration, but you are basically a person with both feet on the ground – no matter where that ground might be. Your vision has never been more clear.

"Where the hell have you been?" an angry voice shouted from the door of the conservatory.
Skye struggled to sit up.
"Angie?"
"Who else? We've been looking all over for you, Skye," Angie said, as she came in from the hall. "You got hit on the head, we brought you in here, and as soon as the doctor arrived – poof – you disappeared. We've been combing the house and the grounds. Your parents are freaked." Angie stopped a couple of steps into the room.
Skye drew her hand across her forehead. "I— I don't know. I don't know where I've been."
"What is that supposed to mean? Geez, Skye! Here we were thinking you were really hurt. Maybe delirious. But you've been wandering round playing hide-and-seek!"
Skye squinted up at Angie. Her friend's blue eyes were flashing with anger.
"Why are you so mad?"
"I thought you were really hurt. Moose hit you like a wrecking ball. She was given a red card and ejected from the game. And you were out. I mean, out." Her voice wavered. "I was really worried."
Skye struggled to her feet, reached out, and patted Angie on the arm. "Thanks, Angie, but where are my parents?"
"They raced home thinking you might have wandered back there. Everybody's searching for you." Angie folded her arms across her chest, giving Skye a puzzled look. "Where have you been? We checked in here about ten times. I don't get it."
Skye staggered to the door. She was still wearing the long lace dress with her soccer shorts and cleats underneath. "I'm not sure. I don't even know how I ended up in this dress."
"Your soccer jersey was ripped clear down the back. We grabbed one of those costumes on display in the parlour and threw it on you, to keep you warm. They were afraid you were going into shock."
"I do feel a little shaky," Skye said, her teeth starting to chatter. "I think I need to go home now. Will you help me, Angie?"
"Of course." Angie hurried to Skye's side, wrapped one arm round her waist and walked her out of the room. "Then we have to tell the others I found you." As the girls left the conservatory, Skye could just make out the barest perceptible hum remaining in the room.
One hour later, Skye was safely home, phone calls had been made to Coach Matthews and the girls on the soccer team, and the search had been called off.
Skye had carefully removed the lacy dress and draped it across her bed. She'd thrown on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Now she was standing in the middle of their very cluttered living room, staring at the bookshelves between the fireplace and the window.
The McKenna living room contained enough furniture and books to fill five rooms. Floor-to-ceiling shelves were stuffed with books. Hundreds of them lined the walls. Old leather-bound volumes by obscure New England writers and new first editions her father had brought home from the bookstore. But the bottom three shelves along one entire wall were stuffed with paper. All kinds of paper. Newspapers, drawing paper, cards, letters, stationery. That was where Skye was certain she would find what she was looking for.
"Here you go," her mother called from the kitchen. "A nice cup of mint tea."
Sharon McKenna was a tall, brown-haired woman, with a thin face and wide, often troubled, brown eyes. Skye knew her mother worried about money, and about keeping Skye in college. How often Skye had heard her mother say that she wanted to leave her daughter something more than "a bunch of old trunks filled with yellowing letters and mildewed books".
"Are you sure you're all right?" Her mother handed Skye a cup of steaming hot tea in an old china cup and saucer, painted with delicate pink roses. The antique cup and saucer fitted in with the room, which looked like a cross between a Victorian parlour-library and an old curiosity shop. Off to one side, an overstuffed Turkish couch and two matching armchairs were arranged in an intimate grouping next to the fireplace. Two steamer trunks served as coffee tables, and a little child's chest of drawers crammed with papers and mementoes sat next to one of the chairs.
Skye took a sip of the tea. "I think I'm fine. I have a little bit of a headache but that's it."
"When that girl ran into you, I could feel it from the sidelines! You must have an incredibly hard head."
"Haven't you always told me that?" Her mother chuckled from the kitchen doorway. "Yes, I suppose I have. Hard head, athlete's body, and sunny disposition – that's my little Sagittarius."
Sharon McKenna, like her mother before her, liked to dabble in astrology. Now that Skye had discovered that the Zodiacus Vitae belonged to Harley, she decided this affinity for the moon and planets must run in the family.
Even Skye believed the stars never lied. Take her parents: both were classic Virgos – bookish, hard workers. The big difference between them was that her father was neat and tidy while her mother could be a real slob. But that was because her mother had Neptune in the sixth house. That made her a wonderful caregiver but very disorganized about her working conditions.
Her mother instinctively felt Skye's forehead. "Your temperature feels normal. I just don't understand how you could have disappeared like that. Where on earth did you go?"
Skye shook her head. "I'm not sure. I know I was safe, though. Maybe I curled up in a corner and went to sleep."
"But we looked all through that house."
Skye shook her head. She wasn't about to tell her mother that she thought she'd taken a quick trip to the nineteenth century. Her mother was open-minded but not that open-minded. Besides, Skye wasn't even sure she believed it herself.
"I had to have been somewhere," Skye murmured.
Her mother stood with her hands on her hips, studying Skye's face. "It worries me that you don't remember. That could be a symptom of concussion. If you feel the least bit dizzy or nauseous, please tell me."
"I feel fine, Mom." Skye shooed her mother away with her hand. "Now stop fussing."
Once her mother had left the room Skye tried to focus on the business at hand. She had to find something from the past that would indicate where and when the infamous murder took place. She sipped her tea and moved her eyes slowly across the three lowest shelves, searching for something – a newspaper, a letter, anything from a hundred years before.
"Aha!"
Down on the bottom shelf, a corner of a yellowed newspaper stuck out. Skye tugged it free.
It was dated 5 November, 1952. That won't do me much good.
Skye placed her cup and saucer on one of the steamer trunks and began rummaging through the bookshelves in earnest. She found three of her mother's scrapbooks containing old dance tickets, programmes for Broadway shows, and placemats from restaurants she'd eaten at during a vacation in Cape Cod.
Skye lifted a pile of papers in the lower corner and flipped through it. There were drawings Skye had done in fifth grade. Several report cards, and a journal from an unpleasant trip to camp when Skye was in eighth grade.
She rocked back on her heels for a minute. It was strange how the past could feel so real. She'd always had an affinity for old things. She frequented jumble sales searching for postcards from the past and funny old souvenirs from long-forgotten trips.
Scenes from her journey to the past – or whatever it was – played in her mind. Trevor smiling at her and handing her a crystal cup of punch. Harley Remington vowing to plant an oak tree. The conservatory and the clock. Thomas Edison and his wife. The guests in their long white dresses and cream-coloured suits with starched collars.
Those scenes were so vivid...so real.
She couldn't have dreamt them. But had she really travelled back in time? Was that possible?
It was early evening. Outside, the spring air had cooled. There was a sweet stillness surrounding the house, and Skye moved to turn on one of their old globe lamps, rewired with a modern fixture.
Wouldn't Trevor laugh to see it come on with a flick of a switch ?
The dust from the old papers made her sneeze.
"Gesundheit!" her mother said from behind her. "Skye, what are you looking for?"
"Any records or memorabilia of the Remingtons. You know, the scandal. The whole story."
Skye slipped her hand under the albums on the second shelf and a mountain of clippings fell to the floor.
Her mother knelt beside her and helped Skye collect the papers. "These are your grandmother's astrological charts. She'll be very irritated if, when she comes for her visit in June, she discovers you've rearranged all of her ephemerides."
Skye hastily shoved it all back on the shelf. "Well, where would I find any information about – the murder? Do we have anything?"
"I think so. We've got some more trunks in the attic." Her mother pushed her hair back from her forehead. "To tell you the truth, it's been a long time since I've gone through them. But I know they're from round the turn of the century. These two trunks here in the living room are Remington family things, also." She gave Skye a searching look. "You probably won't find much about the murder, though. It's not something the family felt compelled to remember. Let's see..."
She crossed to one of the big trunks in front of the couch, swept off the homemade quilt covering it, then unhooked the iron clamps and flipped it open.
It was filled to the top. Skye gazed inside with wonder. "Whoa! I completely forgot we had all of this memorabilia. This is great!" There were scrapbooks, diaries, clippings, intact newspapers, as well as framed photographs and scores of loose photos. Scattered among the papers were lace handkerchiefs, baby booties, several old combs, and silk fans.
"Where did this all come from?" Skye asked, amazed.
"This trunk was my mother's. You think I'm a hoarder? She never could throw anything away. I guess that's where you get your collector's zeal. Most of the older papers are in here, I think."
She pulled a pile of clippings from the trunk and set them on the tattered oriental carpet. "There you go. One of these days, I'm going to put these in some kind of order. Have fun."
Skye reached for a newspaper clipping near the top of the stack. The date was 10 November, 1930. A sinking sensation settled into her stomach. At this rate she'd be searching through clippings until the next century.
The front door opened and her father's footsteps thumped across the hall. Then she heard another voice. He wasn't alone.
"Hi, Dad," Skye said when he stuck his head round the doorway into the living room.
"Hi, kiddo. Are you OK? As soon as I heard you were found, I had to dash off to the bookstore. One of the customers fell over a backpack and threatened to sue. Can you believe it?" He gestured to the man standing just behind him. "This is Mr Wheeldon. He wants to look at the room."
The man looked about forty. He was short, with straight black hair and a long narrow face. He reminded Skye of a weasel. He looked unhappy. Very unhappy.
Skye went back to her clippings as her father and Mr Wheeldon headed down the hall towards the back of the house, where the spare room was located.
Without warning Skye's skin tingled and she looked over her shoulder. Her father had opened the door to the back room.
All at once Skye knew she did not want her parents to rent the back room. It had the best view of the garden, the best sunlight in the house, and some of Skye's favourite pieces of furniture. Renting it to a stranger just didn't feel right.
Skye felt compelled to go to back there. When she got to the room the two men were discussing the rent. Her father sounded irritated.
"Cut the rent by fifty dollars? Just because of the light? Are you allergic to sunshine or something?"
Mr Wheeldon muttered something unintelligible in response.
Tell him no. Just tell him we don't want to rent it.
Skye inched towards the door, trying to catch their words.
"Well, I'll have to talk it over with my wife," her father said. "You'll wait?"
Her father walked quickly out of the room, passed her silently, his jaw tight. He headed down the hall to join her mother in the kitchen. That left Skye in the dim hallway.
She stepped forward and stood casually in the doorway to the back room. Outside the huge windows, with their long, dark blue drapes, the setting sun turned the evening sky rose and lavender. The light lit the furniture – an old wooden bed with a hand-carved headboard and footboard, an oak washstand and the bird's-eye maple chest of drawers with an adjustable mirror on top.
Mr Wheeldon nodded to her. "It is a very nice room, isn't it?"
Skye felt a shiver of irritation. It was a nice room, all right. But this man did not belong in it. He was all wrong.
"Uh, yeah. Pretty nice," she replied, in what she hoped was a noncommittal voice.
His eyes darted towards her. "Any problems with it?"
"It's an old house," she said with a shrug. "Been here since 1906."
He gave her a sharp look. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"I wouldn't be telling the truth if I said there weren't any problems in an old house like this."
"What problems?"
"The bathroom."
The man cringed.
"The water pressure can only be described as – adequate. I hope you don't take long showers."
"I don't." Mr Wheeldon went back to examining the washstand. His narrow fingers slid over the surface slowly.
"And the wiring...well. You don't have a computer or anything, do you?"
"Of course I have a computer! I do all my work on a computer." Mr Wheeldon's voice cracked, his dark eyes widened with alarm.
"Oh. Well, make plenty of back-up disks."
Mr Wheeldon gave her a horrified look. "My job requires that I work at home. I can't work without an adequate power supply."
"It's usually not a problem," Skye reassured him. "But when the iron and toaster and television are going at the same time – look out."
Her father suddenly appeared behind her and made Skye jump.
"Well, my wife agrees. We'll knock a few dollars off—"
"Forget it, Mr McKenna," the man said quickly. "I've changed my mind. There isn't – well, it's just not the right space. Sorry."
Skye's father gave her a quick look, but continued to smile at Mr Wheeldon. His smile looked a little frozen. "But you just said it was perfect!"
"I was wrong. Thanks anyway. I think I'll check downtown at the apartment complex there. Nice meeting you." Mr Wheeldon was out of the room like a shot.
Skye felt a wave of relief wash over her.
"What was that all about?" Her father gave her his "What-did-you-do-wrong?" look.
Skye shrugged. "Search me. He didn't seem to be the right type for this room at all."
"The right type? What's that supposed to mean? Anyone who can pay the rent is the right type."
Luckily for Skye the doorbell rang. She escaped down the hall, yelling, "I'll get it!" It was Angie.
"I just came by to see how you were doing. You seemed a little wobbly when I dropped you off."
"I did feel wobbly," Skye confessed. "But now I'm focused and ready to work on my research."
"Research?" Angie followed her into the living room and flopped on to the couch beside the open trunk. "But school's out for the summer. What research are you talking about?"
"I'm checking my family tree. I'm trying to find any information I can about Harley Remington."
Angie tilted her head, sending Skye a sympathetic look. "You shouldn't let what Chris and those girls from Smithwood said about Harley Remington bug you. It's pretty juvenile, if you ask me. For all they know they may all have criminals in their families, too. At least yours got a college named after him."
Skye smiled at her friend. Leave it to Angie, the Scorpio sparkplug, to try to make her feel better. Maybe Angie could help her with her research. It would go much faster. But then Skye would have to have to tell Angie about her trip through time.
Skye shot a glance over her shoulder towards the kitchen, then scooted close to the couch. "You know what? That rumour about Harley Remington may not only be juvenile. It may be just plain wrong."
"Wrong, huh? What makes you think that?"
"Because – because I met him. Harley Remington. He's a nice gentleman with a passion for science and the future. He's a major coin collector, believes in astrology and takes a great interest in inventors and their inventions. In short, he is not exactly your murderer type."
Angie stared at her for long time. "Skye, I know you got a pretty nasty bump on the head, and for all I can tell, you went wandering off to who-knows-where. But don't you think this story is a little silly?"
"I know it sounds totally crazy, and at first I didn't believe it myself. But, really Angie, I think I actually travelled back in time."
Skye gave Angie a quick summary of what happened to her after she got hit on the head. She included everything – Trevor, the missing oak tree, the house with its beautiful furnishings, Thomas Edison and his wife Mina, and of course, Harley.
"You went to a party at Remington House? With women and men from the nineteenth century? And met Harley Remington?" Angie rolled her eyes. "Oh, puh-leeze."
"I'm serious. Somehow I got caught in a time warp and ended up at Harley Remington's Grand Illumination party."
Skye looked hard at Angie. Angie who had been her best friend since first grade. Angie who had kept the secret about her crush on Justin Smith for three years. Angie who had told their high school coach she would quit if the thin but muscular Skye wasn't allowed on the soccer team. As long as she could remember, Angie was always there for Skye. But believing this story about time travel? It was a big stretch, even for Angie. Skye bit her lip. Would I believe it if Angie came to me and said she'd been time travelling? Probably not.
Angie heaved a huge sigh, blowing her fringe off her forehead. "I can't say that I believe you actually took a trip down memory lane. But I do believe that you think you took that trip into the past."
Skye squeezed her friend's hand. "That's good enough for now." Skye lifted a stack of newspapers out of the trunk. "Will you help me look for anything dated round 1895, as well as any item that mentions Harley Remington or Esther Remington Slade." After a few seconds she added, softly, "Or Trevor Bellamy."
Angie took the papers. "Anything you say, boss."
For several minutes the girls flipped carefully through the brittle old newspapers. Too abrupt a movement and an entire page could disintegrate.
Suddenly, Skye gasped. Before her lay a photo of Remington House. A group of smiling guests stood arranged on the front steps, some holding punch cups, some with their arms curled round each other. There, in the back row...
"Oh my god! This is it! See, everybody's on the front steps of the house. This is the Grand Illumination party I went to."
Angie leant closer to get a good look at the picture. "You went to this party?"
Skye held the picture closer. There in the back row was Trevor, his arm round...round her!
"Here. Here I am. In that incredible white dress."
"That's you, huh? With a hand over your face? Yeah, right."
"And this is Trevor. I met him at the party. He is really nice."
"Was really nice."
"Was really nice," Skye repeated.
Angie nodded. "He's cute. But you have looked better, I must say."
"What do you mean?"
Angie pulled the picture out of Skye's fingers and flung it on the pile. "Skye! Get a grip! That could be anyone. You can't see that girl's face at all. You want to know what happened? I'll tell you what happened. You got knocked out. You've seen this photo before, and your mind replayed it in vivid technicolour. It happens all the time to head injury victims."
"I am not making this up! And I swear I've never seen the contents of this trunk before." Skye could feel the anger bubbling inside her. She despised not being believed. Especially when she knew she was right. "Besides, look at that dress. It's the one you put on me when I was hurt."
Angie squinted at the photo and mumbled, "It looks like the dress. But so do all the other women's dresses. Lots of lace, little buttons. Those puffy sleeves."
Skye flipped the photo over. In the lower right corner was a pencilled date. "Look – 21 June 1895," she read out loud.
"The twenth-first," Angie whispered. "That's today."
"See, I told you!" Skye dived into the stack where the picture had come from and found a scrap of newspaper with a yellowed headline, faded and barely legible. It was from the Marleigh Times, and most of it was missing. As a matter of fact, the entire paper was gone except for the bit of headline and a few words underneath.
"Murder at Remington House," the headline announced in thick block letters. Beneath it, in small print, the column read, "Noted philanthropist Harley Remington is being sought by police in connection with a brutal murder last evening at Remington House. Mr Remington appears to have vanished without a trace. Police consider him the only suspect in the murder of—"
It didn't say who had been murdered. The rest of the column had been torn off.
But now Skye knew when the murder would occur. The day after the party; 22 June. Tomorrow.
"Angie, I have to go back," she decided. "I have to stop the murder."
"What? Are you nuts? Skye, what you need to do is see a doctor. You are hallucinating."
"Look." Skye held up the clipping. "The date of the party was 21 June. Today. The murder was on 22 June. I have to go back and stop it. Don't you see? That's why I was sent back in the first place."
"How do you plan to get back?"
"I'll go back to the vortex room in Remington House. That's where I disappeared and also where I reappeared."
Angie wrinkled her forehead. "OK, Skye. Let's say for one crazy moment that you did go back in time. What if you travel back and you end up in Paris during the French Revolution? Or in San Francisco during the 1906 earthquake? What if you go back and you can't return?"
Skye sucked in a quick breath. "I don't think that's going to happen. I think that it's all tied up with Remington House, and the position of the planets on this day. It's 21 June – would you check the almanac for any significance to that? I think there's a copy on one of those shelves on the far wall."
"I don't need to check the almanac to answer that," Angie replied. "It's the summer solstice. The longest day of the year."
"Why is it the longest?" Skye asked.
"Because that is the moment the earth is farthest from the sun," Angie said, perching on the edge of the couch.
Skye pursed her lips. "That has to mean something. I mean – that weird vortex room, the summer solstice, and maybe the position of the planets a hundred years ago." Skye was now pacing the room. "What if, somehow, the earth's position, coupled with that weird vortex located in the centre of Remington House, has opened up some sort of – of portal into time?"
Angie shook her head. "I must be delirious. Now you're almost starting to make sense."
Skye hurried to her room and grabbed the long white dress she'd laid out on her bed. "This is it. This is what I was wearing at the party. It has this lace down the front and the little stitched flowers. See, look at the picture." Skye stuck her finger on the photograph of the party. But Angie wasn't looking at the picture. She was staring at Skye, a worried look on her face.
"Skye, this whole thing is too weird for me."
Skye scooped up a pair of shoes, some keys and an old satin hat from the wooden drawer in the bottom of the trunk. She tucked the dress under her arm and headed for the front door. "Come on, Angie, we don't have much time."
"Where are we going?"
Skye put her finger to her lips to make Angie lower her voice. "You're going to help me break into Remington House so I can save whoever it is that's about to be murdered."
Angie's mouth dropped open. "Break into Remington House?" she whispered.
Skye nodded. "It's a matter of—"
"Don't say it."
"Life and death."

CHAPTER SIX

“I'm not going in," Angie hissed.
The two girls crouched in the shadows behind a massive shrub, surveying the back of Remington House. A full moon had just emerged above the roof, casting bright silver light across the lawn.
Angie shivered.
"Are you cold?" Skye asked with concern.
"No, I'm not cold."
"Then why did you shiver?" Skye asked.
"Because I feel like an army is galloping over my grave, that's why. With every step they're calling 'Go back, before it's too late!'"
Skye slapped at her friend's arm and whispered, "Try to calm down and listen. When I go into the house, stay here and keep an eye out for campus security. All right?" Skye held Angie's gaze in the twilight. Her friend looked scared.
"Skye, I cannot get kicked out of this school. My dad would murder me. And nobody from the twenty-first century could come back to prevent it, either."
"Don't worry so much. Nothing's going to happen." Skye tried to sound confident. But she knew Angie's dad had a temper. He had agreed to pay for Angie's college education only if she behaved herself and stayed out of trouble, which was extremely difficult for Angie.
"All you have to do is sit here and keep watch," Skye said.
"And how are you going to get in? Break the lock?"
Skye grinned. "Probably."
"Skye!"
"Shh. It'll be OK. If everything works out I won't be in the house very long. So, if you're just sitting out here, no one will mind. Pretend to be doing field research."
Angie quirked her mouth. "On what? Lunatic tendencies in best friends?"
Skye leant forward and gave Angie a quick hug. Angie hugged her back hard.
"Take care of yourself. Come back." Angie's eyes were shining.
"I promise. See you – soon."
Skye dashed out from behind the shrubbery and bolted up the back steps. The ancient brass door-lock was exactly like the ones at home. This shouldn't be too hard. She pulled out a ring of old skeleton keys she'd found in the trunk, trying one after the other in the lock until one worked. "Yes!" Skye pushed open the back door. "So much for 1890's security measures."
She crossed the marble floor of the back hall and hurried down the passage leading to the front of the house. Turning right she sensed the change in the air. It was humming again, with a weird intensity, as if everything were accelerating. She jogged across the small parlour and stepped into the conservatory. Waves of energy hit her.
She changed into the white party dress and slipped her feet into the shoes – a pair of patent leather high-buttoned boots – that she'd found in the trunk. They fitted perfectly. Somehow she knew they would. Skye stepped in front of the mirror by the conservatory door and twisted her hair into a knot on the top of her head, putting on the old hat she'd found in the trunk.
"There. That's more like it," she said, smiling at her reflection.
OK. Now, what was I doing when I went back to my time? I was trying to figure out why I had been sent to the past. That's right. I was walking round this table. I was talking to myself and walking – let's see – anti-clockwise.
Skye clasped her hands in front of her, wringing them nervously as she paced anticlockwise round the centre table. The air began to vibrate again, and this time she kept her eyes open as the red and blue lights sparkled and danced round her. Suddenly the lights flashed, blinked, then started spinning wildly. They flashed in geometrical patterns, curving first to one side, then the other. She fell into the murky blackness, into a vibrating and spiralling tunnel.
The sensation made her a little ill and she closed her eyes to see if that helped the queasy feeling in her stomach. When she opened them she was still in the conservatory, only now it was filled with plants and humidity. She took a deep breath.
I made it!
The air still hummed but the sound, or rather the sensation, was fainter, fading in and out.
She glanced beyond the huge plants towards the porch. Outside, colourful lanterns had been hung along the porch and extended on strings out into the garden. The evening light deepened into darkness.
Skye hurried from the room, stepping out on to the porch. The gardens had been transformed into an enchanted land of lantern-light and moonlight.
Scanning the few guests she could see, Skye quickly realized Harley Remington was not among them. She hurried round the side of the house, peeked in at the front door and saw that no one was inside except servants. Then a terrible thought struck her.
Maybe it's too late. Maybe the murder has happened and the guests have gone. But that couldn't be, because she heard the sound of band music off in the distance. The music was familiar. One of the old Sousa marches her high school band played.
The sound of carriage wheels clattered off to her right. Up the long lane sped a sleek, black carriage, its driver bent forward in urgency. It swayed to a stop, and before it even stopped rocking on its big wheels the door flew open. A young woman carrying a baby wrapped in a richly decorated blanket climbed out. She looked tired and frightened. There was an ugly bruise below one eye.
Signalling the driver to head to the stables, she turned towards the house and stopped when she saw Skye. The girl bit her lip, looked again left and right, then hurried towards her.
Skye gasped. It was like looking at a mirror image.
"You must help me."
"Sorry?"
Without warning, the girl shoved the baby into Skye's arms. "Take my baby to Harley Remington. Please. Take William. Before it's too late."
Before Skye could respond the girl grabbed her skirts and hurried into the darkness, towards the woods.
What desperate circumstances could have induced a young mother to abandon her own child to the arms of a complete stranger? Poverty? Illness? Skye had no choice but to do what the girl had asked. Holding the baby tightly in her arms, she turned and headed for the side of the house.
She was just about to go inside when a voice made her freeze.
"Skye? Is that you?"
She spun round. In the rosy light cast by one of the lanterns in the garden stood Trevor. His eyes were wide in surprise, but there was a smile on his lips. He looked glad to see her.
"Have you seen Harley Remington?" she asked quickly.
"I believe he's at the lake. Where have you been? I've been looking everywhere for you." As Trevor spoke, he took a step forward and peered into the bundle she was carrying.
"A baby?" he gasped. "Is this yours?"
Skye had the feeling that if she'd said it was, he would have turned on his heel and never spoken to her again. "No, no. He belongs to a young woman who just arrived in a carriage. I'm supposed to take him to Mr Remington. Right away."
The relief on Trevor's face almost made Skye laugh.
Suddenly there was an explosion of sound and a burst of light overhead.
"What is going on?" Skye shrieked, nearly leaping out of her skin.
"Harley's firework display." Trevor guided her across the grass. "Everyone's down by the lake watching it. Afterwards, Mr Edison and Harley will flip the switch for the Grand Illumination. Let me escort you there."
Skye nodded, looking nervously over her shoulder, towards the thick grove of trees where the baby's mother had disappeared. "I think we need to hurry."
"Is the mother of the baby a guest? She would probably enjoy the lights, too."
Skye recalled the look of fear on the young woman's face. It didn't seem to her that anyone that frightened would be able to enjoy anything. And she was running away from someone. And she looked like me.
Skye readjusted the sleeping baby in her arms. "Trevor, you said that Esther, Harley's daughter, and I resemble each other."
"Yes, the likeness is uncanny."
"Oh." Skye had a feeling that the girl who'd just arrived was Esther. If that were true, then she was holding Harley's grandson in her arms. William. She looked down at the baby. Could he be her own great-grandfather?
They walked in silence for a few minutes, watching the red, white and green starbursts explode overhead. Soon they reached the lake, where the guests had scattered along the bank. In her time the lake was a stagnant pond which on hot days in the summer smelled of rotten algae and dead bugs.
But right now it was glorious. Tiny strings of bobbing lanterns had been strung from bank to bank, and the reflections of the golden lamps danced in the water like amber jewels.
"Oh, it's wonderful!" Skye breathed.
"Yes, it is," Trevor murmured close by. Skye looked up into his smiling face. "I'm glad you reappeared. I was hoping I could show you the lanterns and the fireworks."
"Trevor, you're going to think I'm crazy, but what day is this?"
He laughed. "I think I'm getting used to your asking strange questions, Miss McKenna. I believe I'd start fretting if you stopped. It's 21 June."
Skye held the baby close. "I just wanted to make certain that I wasn't too late."
A round of applause signalled the arrival of Mr and Mrs Edison at the lake. As the inventor and his wife took their seats up on the viewing platform, Skye scurried over to talk to Harley, who was greeting them.
"Mr Remington?" she called, catching hold of his elbow. "Could I speak to you for a moment?"
Harley turned and smiled at her, but his cheeriness didn't make Skye any more relaxed. The closer it got to 22 June, the closer Harley got to becoming a murderer. It wasn't a very comforting thought.
"Why, hello there, Miss McKenna. I didn't get a chance to thank you for confirming all my theories about magnetic field fluctuations. You sent old Edison off with a bee in his bonnet, though, let me tell you." He chuckled good-naturedly.
"Good. I'm glad to hear it." Skye smiled awkwardly. Now what? Should I just hand him the baby like a prize at a country fair?
As another starburst filled the sky and the crowd applauded, he glanced upward, a satisfied smile on his cheerful face.
She was having a hard time imagining this genial grandfather transforming into a person violent enough to kill someone in the space of a single day. But the newspapers had reported it. And the town had talked about it for nearly a hundred years. As much as she didn't want to believe it, she knew it was true.
"I have a message to convey to you, sir." The eyes of several women standing close to Harley were fixed on the bundle in her arms.
"Oh? Then you'd better give it to me, hadn't you?" He chuckled and several of the women smiled.
"Here." Skye held out the bundle, and Harley, faced with a warm bundle of baby, scooped the child into his arms with an astonished look.
"What's this?" He peeked under the blanket, and his face was filled with genuine tenderness. "Good heavens. It's a baby."
"A young girl told me to give him to you. I don't know who the girl was."
The women who'd been watching her clustered round Harley and examined the baby.
"Oh, Harley. He's sweet!"
"Look at his little cheeks."
"His fingers are so tiny."
"Get back, ladies. Heavens, you'd think you'd never seen—" He stopped short, then lifted something from round the baby's neck. He flinched as if he had been poked with a needle.
Skye leant forward. In Harley's big fingers lay a small, gold figure of a centaur. In the centre of the centaur's bow sat a small amethyst.
Her necklace? That was the necklace she'd worn since second grade, when her mother found it in one of the trunks of her grandfather's personal belongings. It was the Remington necklace. The one that the Smithwood forward had noticed during the soccer game.
"Where is she?" Harley's voice was tight with emotion.
"She ran into the woods by the house."
"Was she alone?"
Skye nodded.
"Esther," Harley whispered.
One of the women clustered round the child, a plump dowager in a black and white silk dress and a huge black straw hat, murmured, "Don't take her back, Harley. Such shocking behaviour."
Another woman, her purse clasped firmly in front of her, hissed, "She'll just do something dreadful again. Run off with the butler or a hired hand."
Harley's face changed and a hard frown settled on to his features.
Skye felt little trickles of fear travelling in her veins. Oh no! What have I done? I've told him where she is. What if – what if he killed Esther? If the murder happens now, it'll be because of me! Because I opened my big mouth.
"Oh, I don't think she's there now," Skye blurted out. "I got the distinct impression that she was on her way somewhere else. Do you want me to go and check? I'll go and check." Skye tucked the blanket in round little William, turned, and squeezed through the crowd of women who had clustered round Harley. They might disapprove of Esther, but they didn't seem to mind clucking at her baby.
Skye hiked up her skirts and ran up the narrow path and across the grass towards Remington House. First she checked the gazebo and area round the stables, then she followed the perimeter of the woods looking for some sign of the baby's mother.
Just when Skye was about to give up, a figure suddenly darted out from the shadows by one of the outbuildings. With several nervous glances over her shoulder she hurried up the steps into Remington House.
"Esther!" Skye cried, following her into the house. "Wait for me."

CHAPTER SEVEN

All of the ground floor rooms seemed deserted. Everyone in the household, including the servants, must have gone down to the lake for the fireworks display. There was one last room to check – the parlour at the back of the house. If Skye couldn't find Esther, she'd have to look upstairs. It would feel a little strange peeking in people's bedrooms, but she was prepared to do it if she had to.
Skye pulled open the big wooden doors and stepped into the quiet room. The drapes had been pulled across the tall windows, and a small fire crackled in the fireplace. No lamp had been lit and the room was shrouded in shadows.
"Esther?" Skye called quietly.
From the large wing chair next to the fireplace came the rustling of fabric and a sniffle. A small voice spoke. "Yes?"
"It's Skye McKenna. The person who took your son to Mr Remington. I wanted to see if you were all right."
Esther peeked round the edge of the chair. "Did Father like him? What did he say?"
"He seemed pleased. And worried. About you." Skye sat down near Esther on the edge of a sofa that looked wide enough to seat ten people. Now that she was close to her, Skye saw how much they really did look alike. They could easily have been sisters. Both were about the same height, with what her mother would describe as a runner's build. Which meant wiry. "He wanted to know where you were. I— I didn't know if you wanted me to tell him, so I said I'd come and check. Is everything all right between you two?"
Esther laughed bitterly. "Of course not! Everything is far from all right between us! Where have you been?"
"I guess I've been a little out of touch," Skye murmured.
"Father couldn't tolerate Randall. He detested him." Esther twisted a lace handkerchief between her long, tapered fingers. Tears welled up in her eyes and spilled on to her cheeks. She wiped them away with the damp handkerchief. "Now I know why."
Esther pointed with her hankie towards the blank space over the fireplace. The wall was slightly discoloured. "My portrait used to hang there. In fact my image was all over this house. A person couldn't enter a room or walk down a hall without seeing pictures of me – on my pony, at confirmation, my sixteenth birthday. But now? They've all vanished. It's as if I never existed."
Her voice broke and she began to sob. Skye slid off the sofa and knelt beside her. "Do you think Mr Remington would ever hurt you?"
Esther blew her nose and shrugged. "He has a terrible temper. The night Randall and I eloped, he said dreadful things to me. I couldn't bear it. He threw me out of the house. Told me never to come back." She focused her red, tear-filled eyes on Skye. "Me! His only child."
"But why did you come back if you're afraid of him?" Skye asked, glancing nervously towards the door. She could almost feel the web of fear starting to surround them. Skye wished she'd never shown that baby to Harley. She'd come back to prevent a murder, and now it looked like she was provoking one.
"I had to return. For the sake of my son. For William."
"But—"
The door to the living room was suddenly thrust open. Skye and Esther both shrieked. Skye jumped to her feet and turned towards the door. Harley Remington's massive frame filled the doorway.
Skye positioned herself between Harley and Esther. "I won't let you hurt her. I'm here to stop it."
Fear pulsed through her body and her muscles tensed. What would she do if Harley Remington attacked? He was a big, obviously strong, man. Skye was in great shape, but she could hardly expect to hold him off for very long.
She'd have to catch him off guard. Try something completely unexpected. Like tackling him. Getting tackled by a girl in a long lace dress? Maybe that would startle him long enough for her to get Esther to safety.
She crouched, ready to pounce.
"What on earth are you talking about?" Harley barked. His big bushy eyebrows had met in the middle in an intense frown. "I could never hurt the mother of my grandson. Ever."
Skye's shoulders slumped as the tension drained out of her arms and legs. Harley gave her a quick glance, then held out his arms and nodded once to his daughter.
Esther flung herself into his arms and burst into tears.
Harley patted her gently on the back while she sobbed into his shoulder. "There, there, Esther. Don't cry, my dear. Don't cry."
"I don't get it," Skye murmured, watching their tearful reunion. I'm in the wrong place. Something must've gone wrong. I must have made a mistake somewhere.
Harley seemed about as far away from a murderous rage as was humanly possible. So if Harley didn't murder Esther, who did he murder?
Maybe no one. Maybe her trip into the past had, somehow, already prevented the murder. Skye stumbled out of the back parlour and headed for the conservatory. It appeared that her job in this time was finished.
Inside the vortex room the huge, exotic plants glistened against the backdrop of darkness outside. The air was still moist and warm, still filled with a strange, thick electrical charge. It enveloped her like a blanket just out of the dryer, prickly with static.
She shivered.
A heavy footstep sounded on the huge wrapround porch, and Skye turned towards the windows to see who it was.
Out of the blackness appeared a white, wavering image. A face. Peering at her through the window.
The man had small dark eyes, glittering like bits of coal. Skye froze. She held her breath as he stared at her for a very long time.
Who was it?
She backed away, ran from the room, and collided with a solid body.
"AIIYEEE!"
Skye barely recognized her own voice as she screamed in terror.
Arms came out to steady her and a voice asked, "Miss McKenna, what's wrong?"
"There." Skye pointed back at the conservatory. "In the window. A face."
Trevor hurried back into the room. "Where?"
"Outside. He was on the porch staring at me."
Trevor and Skye took the side door to the porch. Skye peered into the dim light but, as she scanned the shadows and the pools of lantern light, she knew it was useless. Trees and shrubs obscured her view of the gardens.
"He's still out here," she mumbled. "I know I could identify him if I could just get a clear view of the grounds."
Glancing to her right Skye noticed a tall maple, its limbs curving down towards the porch. "Aha!"
She dived for the branches, shinning up them quickly. Skye then swung one leg up over a limb, ignoring the startled gasp from beneath her, and then positioned one high-buttoned boot on a wide limb. She heaved herself up on to a rough branch and sat down heavily. Leaves tickled her ears and she brushed them away. "There, that's much better," she whispered.
"I can't believe it! You climbed a tree!" Trevor rasped, pulling himself up to sit beside her on the branch. The lights from the porch shone into the branches, casting dappled shadows on his face. "I've never seen any young woman do that."
"Never?" Skye blinked in surprise. "You've never seen a girl climb a tree? Come on. You're kidding, right?"
"No, I'm not – kidding. Girls don't usually behave so – so freely. I'm sure you'd never be able to find how to climb a tree listed in any book of etiquette."
Skye leant back against the broad trunk and folded her arms. "Climbing a tree isn't in the etiquette book, huh? You know, that's downright medieval."
Trevor chuckled. "You've obviously been reared in a very different sort of family. One that allows you to take great liberties with social custom." He squinted at her. "Are you sure you're from Marleigh?"
Skye laughed. "Born and raised here. But you're right, I've been raised under a very different set of rules. Even down to the way I dress." She grabbed a handful of the lacy fabric which was bunched up round her legs and shook it at him. "Look at all of this satin and lace. Talk about inconvenient. Give me a good pair of jeans any day."
"Jeans?"
Skye winced. She should be more careful. Wasn't there some rule somewhere about not giving away any future secrets? But what possible harm could knowing about blue jeans do?
"They're these pants, um, sort of casual trousers, that everyone wears. They were invented, if you want to call it that, by Levi Strauss in California. He joined the gold rush – you know about that, don't you?"
"Oh, yes. Several families from Marleigh emigrated to California to look for gold just before the War Between the States."
"Good. Well, for some reason, Levi brought these bolts of thick, sturdy fabric with him. Actually, I think he was using it to make tents or wagon covers. He must have had a slow day and decided to sew up the fabric into trousers for the miners. He added little copper rivets to the corners of the pockets because the miners kept ripping their pockets by shoving ore samples and tools into them. Pretty soon, everybody was wearing Levis."
Trevor looked at her quizzically. "But what does that have to do with jeans?"
"Oh. The other name for Levis is jeans. The fabrics he used were called both 'jean' and 'denim', I think. They're really comfortable. A lot more comfortable than this dress!"
Trevor grinned at her in the shadows. "I knew the first time I saw you that you were an extraordinary person. This confirms it."
Skye felt a little bubble of joy inside her. She wished she could to tell him the truth about herself. But she kept her mouth shut. You weren't supposed to tell about your origins when you took trips through time. At least that's what she'd always read.
A sudden flash of light appeared near the stables. "Look," Skye said, pointing. "Someone's out there. Let's go and check it out."
Trevor craned his neck to peer round a branch. "It does look like someone's in the stables. Perhaps some of the guests are leaving."
Skye frowned. "Maybe. Or it could be whoever was at the window. And he's stealing a horse or something."
Without looking back to see if Trevor was following her, Skye slipped down between the branches. Her skirt got caught and she stopped, reaching back awkwardly to unsnag it.
"I've got it," Trevor said quickly. "I won't look."
"At what?"
"Your legs. Here. That's got it."
His voice sounded nervous. When she twisted back to peek at him, he was deliberately staring off into space.
"It's OK, Trevor," Skye murmured. "I don't mind."
She shimmied through a narrow gap between two branches and landed with a thud on the soft grass. Trevor landed beside her. Then the two of them raced across the grassy space to the stable.
There were no carriages preparing to leave, so Skye crept to where the stable tack room was located and listened. Voices were coming from inside. She slowly raised her head and peeped through the window.
Trevor did the same, then ducked as someone came close to the window.
"I told you, Harry," a thick voice said. "He owes me."
Skye narrowed her eyes at the man speaking.
"That's the man I saw at the window," she whispered. "Who is he?"
Trevor slowly raised his head again. "Randall Smith. Esther's husband."
"Esther's husband?" she repeated stupidly. "He must have been hiding in the carriage."
"Passed out on the floor, more likely," Trevor said, his clipped tone betraying his disgust.
Randall stood up to cross the room and bumped into the table, knocking off a pile of horse brushes.
"Watch it, Randall," the man named Harry barked. "You're making a mess. Why don't you go home and sober up?"
Randall laughed. He might have been handsome once, Skye thought. But his skin appeared sallow, and his eyes, which might once have had a dark, intense appeal, looked unfocused and watery. Skye wrinkled her nose at Trevor. "He gives me the creeps."
"Harley owes me because I married her, didn't I?" Randall continued, slurring his words as he leant against the open door. "Who else would have taken her?"
A muscle in Trevor's jaw tightened.
"Now he's got a grandson. That should be worth a tidy sum." He laughed a low, cruel laugh. "He'll take one look at little Willy and we'll be rich."
"What about your job in Brattleboro?"
"I lost it long ago." Randall staggered over to the table and took another swig from his bottle. "There's a depression on, or haven't you heard? Thirty per cent of the men in this country are out of work." Randall moved back to the doorway and muttered, "That's why he owes me."
"This is the man Esther left home for?" Skye murmured, shaking her head in disbelief. "She must see something that I can't see."
Suddenly the entire grounds and adjoining campus was bathed in light and a cheer sounded from the waterside.
"What the—?" Randall staggered back from the open door. "Something terrible has just happened." He rubbed his eyes and squinted outside. "My god, Harry, it's the end of the world."
Harry joined him at the door. "That's Mr Remington's Grand Illumination. That's what this whole shindig is about."
Trevor and Skye had both turned to view the glittering lights. "It's spectacular," Trevor whispered in awe. "A giant leap forward into the future."
At Trevor's words Skye jerked her head round to look at him. "What did you say?"
"A leap," he repeated. "Electrifying the campus is a giant leap into the future."
His words provided the perfect opportunity for Skye to tell him the truth. About herself. About the world she came from. She bit her lip, trying to organize her thoughts. What, and how she told him could have grave consequences.
Trevor's eyes met hers. He was doing it again. Sending her one of those longing looks. Looks that sizzled into her like fireworks and soda pop.
Skye took a shaky breath and whispered, "Trevor, could you tell me the time?"
"The time?" Trevor blinked his eyes in confusion. "Why, yes. Of course." He dipped his hand into his waistcoat pocket and produced a silver pocket watch. "Nearly midnight. Five minutes to, to be exact."
"In five minutes it will be 22 June, the day of the murder," Skye mumbled to herself. "And I still haven't discovered who the victim will be."
"Murder? In five minutes?" Trevor repeated. "Miss McKenna, what on earth are you talking about?"
Skye needed Trevor's help. Of that, she was certain. But could she tell him?
"You can trust me."
As Skye looked into his eyes and listened to the sounds of guests's carriages heading off into the night, she made up her mind.
"Well, it all started at the Centennial celebration. You see, I was playing soccer..."

CHAPTER EIGHT

“I don't believe you," Trevor said stiffly. He'd set his jaw again and was looking downright perturbed.
Skye threw her hands in the air. "Boy, did I make a mistake! I should have known you wouldn't believe me. I barely believe it myself."
The muscle in his jaw continued to tense. "But you didn't really expect me to believe you've come here from the future. That's outrageous."
"It's ridiculous," Skye agreed with a shrug. "But here I am. I'm not sure exactly how I got here – but I do feel that I'm here for a specific reason."
Trevor folded his arms across his chest. "And what reason is that?"
"I know a horrible crime is about to be committed by Harley Remington. And I think I'm here to prevent it."
"Is that what you were talking about earlier, when you were calling Mr Remington names?"
Skye bounced her head from side to side and chanted, "Horrible Harley, the Ogre of Marleigh – I've been hearing that since I was in first grade."
"But Harley Remington is the gentlest man I know," Trevor insisted stubbornly.
They were standing off to one side of the stable, half-hidden in the shadows of a big oak tree.
"OK. Don't believe me." Skye stepped round Trevor and headed across the lawn towards Remington House. "I'll handle this myself."
"Wait!" Trevor jogged after her. "I just can't comprehend how Harley Remington, of all men, could ever have been accused of such a crime. He detests violence. Abhors it."
Skye stopped in front of the porch steps. "He does? But Esther said he has a terrible temper."
Trevor drew close to her, casting a nervous look over his shoulder. The grounds had grown quiet and the wind had picked up. It sent a cool breeze through the tree branches above them, and the limbs creaked. Over the top of the house the full moon appeared. "He does have a temper. As his secretary, I've witnessed it countless times. But it's all bluster. He shouts and frets and fumes. But he'd never hurt anyone. I know that for a fact."
Skye sat down on the bottom step. "All I know is what I read in a newspaper. The date was 22 June and the headline said, 'Murder at Remington House'."
Trevor shoved his hands in his pockets and said, "Let me see if I understand you correctly. You say you came through some kind of hole in the fabric of time. And that you're here for a reason. But how did this 'hole', as you describe it, come to exist?"
"I have no idea. But I am certain it has something to do with the weird vortex in the conservatory, combined with the alignment of the planets at this moment. Somehow, I've slipped into the fourth dimension."
Trevor nodded. "You sound like H. G. Wells. I read an article about him. He was talking about his new book, The Time Machine—" A light suddenly flashed in his eyes. "Is this some kind of promotional event connected with the book? That makes sense. The book's been the talk of literary circles for months. Ever since it came out. Oh, very clever. You almost had me fooled."
He laughed.
Skye wanted to punch him. "No, this is not a publicity trick. What kind of a jerk do you think I am?"
"Jerk?"
"Never mind," she said, waving a hand at him.
The electric lights were suddenly turned out and they were plunged into darkness. As they waited for their eyes to adjust, Skye murmured, "You know, Trevor, I could tell you amazing things. In my time, everybody drives automobiles. People fly everywhere. A flight to Europe takes only a few hours. Men have walked on the moon. We cook meals in minutes in microwave ovens. We analyze information in seconds on computers. There are televisions, video cameras, street lights and satellites that help us predict the weather. There are skyscrapers, lasers, even electrostatic air filters!"
Trevor knelt in front of her and whispered, "How do you know all this?"
"Smallpox, diptheria, scarlet fever, polio and tuberculosis have been pretty much wiped out," Skye continued.
"But – but those diseases kill thousands of children every year."
"We have penicillin. Miracle drugs." Skye chuckled. "We still haven't licked the common cold. But hey, nobody's perfect."
"In one hundred years? This has all happened in one hundred years?" Trevor grabbed her hand. "This isn't a Jules Verne fantasy? You're not making this up?"
"If you knew me better you'd know I can't lie. I'm a Sagittarius." She covered his hand with hers. "We're very honest."
Trevor opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. It was as if some part of him wanted to believe her, but a bigger part was holding him back.
"Come on." Skye stood up. "If you won't believe me I'll just have to prove it to you."
"Where are we going?" Trevor asked as she pulled him up the porch steps, still holding his hand in both her own. She led him round the side of the porch to the door leading to the conservatory.
Skye looked quickly to both sides, then turned the door handle. It wasn't locked.
The air inside the room still felt thick and moist, and the tense, vibrating energy still buzzed through it. Moonlight poured through the windows. She stepped up to the table and her skin prickled. Her hands grew cold.
"Do you feel it?" she asked Trevor in a tense whisper. "The vibrations?"
Trevor drew closer to her. His skin looked pale in the silver light. "I do feel something. You know, I always thought Harley was exaggerating about this room, just to get people to believe in his theories about electro-magnetism. But it feels very strong."
"I'll go back," Skye said, moving to the table. "I'll show you how I did it. Then you'll have to believe me." Skye circled the table once, anticlockwise. She instantly felt a tug, almost as if a huge generator had been activated somewhere.
Walking once more round the table, she clasped her hands together. Suddenly the floor dropped away and she was falling, falling into the thick, murky blackness. "I'll come back!" Skye cried out, but she wasn't sure Trevor had heard her.

The room felt cold and dark. As Skye shook her head to clear the ringing in her ears, she felt a sudden rush of air.
Someone was there. A hand clamped hard on to her shoulder.
"Ouch!" Skye cried. "Hey, watch it."
"You watch it. Stand still and you won't get hurt," a gruff voice said close to her ear.
Skye turned and gasped. A campus security officer stood there, his craggy face frowning. "Come with me," he said, guiding her towards the front of the house.
"What's going on?" she asked. The house was completely dark and the feeling of emptiness deeper than ever.
"You're trespassing, young lady. Breaking and entering is another term for it."
Tightening his grip on her shoulder, the officer guided her out of the front door. On the street running through the campus she spotted a campus patrol car, its lights flashing. Angie stood beside it, another officer next to her.
"You can't take me away from here!" Skye cried, struggling to get out of his grip. "I have to get back."
"We're taking you to the police station. You can call your parents from there." The police officer opened the back door of the patrol car, gestured for her to get in, and followed her on to the seat. Angie was slumped next to the officer in the front seat, looking miserable.
The officer drove them off campus to the Marleigh police station located at the other end of town.
The farther Skye got away from the house, the worse she felt, almost as if a thread had been sewn into her skin and was slowly stretching beyond its breaking point. She had to get back.
They arrived at the police station, where the officers handed them over to the lieutenant who was on duty.
Lt Barnes was a short, thin man, with a tight face and cold grey eyes. "Well, ladies. Let's get started. Names, addresses, and your parents' phone numbers."
"Don't call our parents," Skye cried. "We weren't doing anything wrong!"
Angie jabbed an elbow into her ribs. "Shut up, Skye. We're in enough trouble already."
The officer nodded. "Listen to your friend. It's good advice."
Reluctantly the girls gave Lt Barnes the information he requested. After the officer had finished he told them they would have to wait in the holding cell until the paperwork was completed. Then they would be allowed to call their parents. He walked them down a grey corridor and slid open the metal door to the cell. They stepped inside and the door clanged shut behind them.
"Well, I hope you're happy," Angie snapped. "You've certainly ruined any chance I have for a scholarship at this college, and probably any other college."
Skye cut her off. "Angie! I have to get back to that room. I haven't stopped the murder. It's going to happen if I don't get back there."
Angie leant against the wall on the other side of the small cell, shooting daggers at Skye with her eyes. "Skye. The murder already happened. A hundred years ago."
"But—"
"Stop!" Angie held up both her hands. "You live now. In this century. You can't change the past. So just forget it!"
"It's too late." Skye rose and crossed to Angie, who hunched her shoulders away from her. "I'm already involved."
Angie slid a glance at her. "Hasn't it occurred to you that if you change the past, you might disappear? For good?"
The blood drained out of Skye's face as Angie's words struck home. Until this moment the thought had never entered her mind.
The door slid open and Lt Barnes signalled to her. "OK, Ms McKenna. Call your parents. You'll be next, Ms Burton."
The phone call went through, and after she explained where she was, and after her mother stopped screeching, Skye explained that she needed her mother to bring her clothes and some things from the trunk.
"You know, those clippings I was looking at this afternoon?"
"Skye, your father and I are coming to get you," her mother said flatly. "We're not bringing anything with us but your clothes."
Click. The phone went dead.

CHAPTER NINE

You are feeling the effects of the transiting Moon as it sets off your natal moon in Taurus. But deceptive Neptune is causing distracting daydreams wherein you accomplish little. You feel as if you need to withdraw from the real world but, of course, that isn't possible. Is it?

“You will never pull a stunt like this ever again, is that clear?"
Her father stared at her severely. Dark circles curved under his eyes, and the lines in his face looked deeper than they had the day before. Her mother stood beside him, holding the white lace dress beneath her arm. Mrs McKenna looked as if she was about to burst into tears.
Skye was standing with her parents on the sidewalk outside the police station. Her eyes felt gritty from lack of sleep. Dressed in the blue jeans and dark purple sweater her parents had brought, she was comfortable but miserable. Her parents had been yelling at her for what seemed like hours.
"But Dad, they made it seem worse than it really—"
"Is that clear?" he barked.
"Very clear."
Skye let her eyes fall to the cracked sidewalk. Her father rarely ever raised his voice at her. He was the type who reasoned with her whenever she tried to get away with breaking the rules. Which she hardly ever did. Until now.
"I'm so disappointed in you, Skye," her mother added. She was wearing her baggy parka over jeans and her pajama top. Her hair frizzed wildly to one side.
"You wouldn't be, if you understood why I went in there." Skye had tried to tell her parents about the vortex room and her time travel when they arrived at the police station. But they wouldn't let her explain.
"And I can't believe you were running round town in that dress!" her mother continued. "It's a valuable antique, Skye. Part of the college collection." Her mother gently stroked the lace trimming the neckline. "It is rather amazing that it fitted you. Women usually had to wear corsets to fit themselves into these dresses."
Skye nodded. "Yes, I know."
Her father crossed his arms. "And that tale about travelling through time – I don't understand how you could possibly imagine we would believe such a thing."
"And poor Angie." Her mother shook her head. "If you didn't care about yourself, you should have worried about her. Her father was literally purple with anger."
Skye felt her throat tighten. Angie's father had been furious. When he arrived at the police station he'd screamed at Angie until the policeman made him stop.
Skye finally managed to convince Mr Burton that the whole thing had been her idea, and that Angie was only an unwitting victim.
"Now, let's go home," her father said. "And I don't want to hear another word about Harley Remington or that murder business again. Is that clear?"
Skye pursed her lips, unable to promise anything. She'd spent the entire night at the police station. Trevor had probably given up waiting for her and gone home. And now it was five hours into 22 June. The murder may have already taken place.
And I'm stuck! On this sidewalk. Watching the sun come up.
"I think we should just go home. We'll talk about your punishment later." Her mother gestured towards their car which was parked at the kerb.
Skye circled round the side of the car just as a red pick-up with "Marleigh Sentinel" lettered on its doors rounded the corner. The truck slowed at the kerb, and a guy riding in the back tossed a bundle of newspapers on to the sidewalk.
The newspaper! If she could take one back. That would convince Trevor that I'm from the future. People always believe newspapers.
Bending down quickly, Skye yanked the twine loose from the bundle, snatched a paper, and tucked it under her arm. Her father and mother had already climbed into the car and were waiting for her.
What would they do to her? They were already so angry at her they could hardly function. I'll be grounded for the rest of my life. That's for sure.
Skye took a deep breath. It was now or never. She nodded quickly to her mother, who'd turned round in the front seat to see what she was doing, then took off. Skye's fastest sprint got her to Remington House in twelve minutes. Her chest burned, and her hair stuck to her forehead in damp waves.
She charged up the steps, and tugged at the side door to the conservatory. It was unlocked. Maybe campus security had been so shocked at actually finding someone in the house, they'd forgotten to relock it. At any rate, their mistake saved her a few minutes. She hurried to the table in the centre of the room and paused, listening for cars coming up the driveway. Outside the birds were chirping in the dim morning light.
Inside the conservatory the air hummed, but there was a sluggish quality to the sensation, as if everything had slipped into slow motion.
It had been a full moon the night before. And now the planets were sliding past the apex of their unusual alignment of the day before. Whatever had happened, Skye knew she needed to act fast. Time was running out.
Skye started spinning in an anti-clockwise direction slowly at first, then faster and faster, in an off-centre spiral that made her stomach lurch.
Moments later she felt the air shimmer, then faded lights sparkled round her, twinkling in pastel blue, purple, and red. There was a jolt of energy and then a charge running over her skin. Finally she felt the floor drop and she fell, spinning wildly into a pool of cold, black nothingness.
"Skye?"
The voice called to her from a long way off. She was half sitting, half lying on the floor, and the space behind her closed eyes was still twirling. She looked up. Trevor sat up on the couch, rubbing his eyes. He'd been asleep.
"Is that you?"
He blinked a couple of times. The room still felt like it was spinning and her head throbbed.
That was a rough landing. Getting back might be even worse. I have to hurry.
"Yes," she said in a hoarse voice. "I think so."
"Wha...what are you wearing?" Trevor stared, his mouth hanging open in dumbstruck amazement.
Skye glanced down at herself. In her jeans and sweater, her hair loose round her shoulders, she looked like a typical college student. To Trevor she must have looked like an alien.
"These are jeans," she said, struggling up off the floor. Trevor held out a hand to help her. "Now you know what they look like. I wear these clothes practically every day where I come from. And here." She handed him the newspaper. "I brought something for you."
He took the paper. He didn't look at it. He was too busy staring at her legs. "I can't believe it. You were telling the truth?" Then he looked at the newspaper and fell back against the back of the couch, his face ashen. "The United Nations warns that global warming is no longer the crisis anticipated a decade ago." He looked up, befuddled. "Global warming? And a United Nations? What on earth...?" Trevor turned back to the paper and read aloud. "The campaign to elect the – the forty-third president of the United States?...advances in fibre optics carry the promise of an information superhighway but will the public pay for it?...My word, look at this. Little lamps you can carry in your hand. And new, improved voice mail...voice mail? But—?"
"I told you." Skye settled on to the couch beside him and watched his face as he confronted the future.
Outside, the pale blue-grey sky darkened to a brilliant robin's egg colour. The sun was coming up.
"Trevor?" Skye interrupted gently. "We need to find out where Harley Remington is. Has anything happened while I was gone?"
Trevor suddenly seem to wake up. He sat up straight, pulled back his shoulders, adjusted his suit coat. "No, not that I know of. It's true I fell asleep here. But – but I think I'd have heard if anything dreadful occurred."
Skye nodded. "Then there's still time. Will you help me?"
Trevor let his eyes rest for a long moment on the newspaper in his hands, then turned to study her face. "Tell me what I can do."
Suddenly, footsteps approached from the room connected to the conservatory.
"Someone's coming," Trevor whispered, taking her hand. "They'll be confused if they see you in your, um, jeans. I think you'd better hide."
He pulled her to her feet and led her to the opposite end of the conservatory, where a cherry armoire stood. He unlatched the mirrored door and motioned to her to get inside. "This should be safe for the moment."
The dark interior revealed a closet filled with what looked like a smoking jacket, an umbrella, and two old woollen coats with fur collars and cuffs. As Skye snuggled between the two coats, she whispered, "Find me a dress to wear, will you? I can't help Harley in my jeans."
"Unfortunate," she heard Trevor say softly as he closed the door. "Very unfortunate indeed."

CHAPTER TEN

Moon transiting Virgo still affects your natal sun in the fourth house. You are single-minded in your pursuit of doing exactly what you feel you must. You are in harmony with others. They are drawn to you because of your understanding and ability to radiate goodness.

"Does it fit?"
Trevor's voice came through the door as a faint whisper.
Skye struggled into a white shirtwaister dress with puffed sleeves and a skirt that looked as if it had been made from at least four metres of satin. It was beautiful, if a little musty from having hung in a wardrobe for a long time.
"It's perfect. Where did you get it?"
"Esther left some clothes behind when she married Randall."
Skye slipped out of the closet and looked up at him. "Could you help me with the buttons at the back?"
Trevor's jaw dropped.
"I wear swim suits with a lot less material in them to the swimming pool every day in the summer," Skye assured him as she turned to be buttoned. "Skin isn't that shocking where I come from."
"It's not?" Trevor asked, fumbling with the buttons.
Skye smoothed her hands over the skirt. "If you lived in my time, you wouldn't even notice."
"Oh, yes, I would," he said firmly. "And it wouldn't matter what time I was in."
When Skye turned back to face him, he said, "Miss McKenna, if we're seen together at this hour of the morning, the worst possible interpretation will be placed on the situation." His cheeks turned pink.
"But we need to figure out what to do next. Is there somewhere we can hide?"
Trevor thought for a second, then snapped his fingers. "I know just the place. Come on."
Skye heard more footsteps outside the room. They had only a few minutes before the servants would begin working round the house. She followed Trevor out of the side door and down the steps as the sun peeked over the trees surrounding Remington House.

"This roll is fabulous," Skye said, devouring the warm bread Trevor had brought her. They were hiding in a tiny grove of evergreens near the lake. The branches arching down from the trees created a shady green cave. They could see out, but no one could see in.
"And the jam tastes homemade," she murmured.
Trevor was busy reading the Marleigh Sentinel she'd brought, but looked up. "What other kind of jam is there?"
Skye took another bite of bread and jam. "Did you see any sign of Harley Remington when you went back to the house?"
Trevor shook his head and went back to reading the paper. "No. I asked Bates. He said no one's left the house as yet. But since it's only now seven in the morning, I'm not surprised." He gave her a quick smile. "This newspaper is quite fascinating, you know. I can't believe the inventions that seem to be commonplace in your time."
Skye grinned. "Read all you want. If I see any sign of anybody leaving the house, I'll let you know."
Trevor nodded and returned to the paper. He seemed most intrigued by the business section, and kept reading and rereading it.
Skye leant against a branch. As the day crept forward she felt a twinge of anxiety. It seemed the mere passage of time was stretching her nerves.
They'd agreed they had to prevent Harley Remington from going anywhere. Since Skye's newspaper clipping hadn't given the exact time of the murder, they decided it was necessary to watch him every minute.
Skye realized she'd been up for twenty-four hours with no sleep. Her eyes were closing by themselves, and if the rest of the morning moved at this pace, she wouldn't be able to save anyone from anything. Her muscles felt like concrete.
"Look," Trevor suddenly hissed. "Randall Slade is still here."
They watched him stagger out of the tack room of the stables. He wore black clothes, and his dark hair stood up all over his head from where he'd slept on it. His eyes, still bleary from sleep, stared glassy-eyed at Remington House.
"He's probably looking for Esther," Skye murmured. "He's going to have a lot of apologizing to do."
Before Skye could say another word, Trevor was out of their hiding place and strolling casually across the lawn.
"Well, if it isn't Randall Slade," he said cheerfully. "What brings you back to Marleigh?"
Randall, still a little wobbly, turned abruptly and squinted at Trevor. "You know very well why I'm here. Me and the missus have come to pay a call on Harley."
"Well, I'm sure Mr Remington will be pleased to hear about his daughter's return," Trevor said, acting as if it were all news to him. "I'll go and tell him myself."
"No, hold on there." Randall grabbed Trevor's sleeve. "I'm planning to break the good news myself."
"Looking like that?" Trevor arched an eyebrow. "You may be family but I suggest you take a few moments to clean yourself up. You know how Mr Remington values cleanliness."
Randall stared down at himself, suddenly noticing his rumpled condition. "Maybe you're right. I'll do that. And then me and the wife will present ourselves to the old miser."
"A fine idea, Mr Slade," Trevor said, guiding him back towards the stables. "Take your time."
Skye watched Randall stumble away, and then joined Trevor.
"All right, Trevor," she said, holding her palm up for a high-five. "Way to get rid of that slime bucket."
Trevor looked at her hand poised in midair and then saluted her the same way, holding his own up to his ear as if he were about to take an oath.
"At least Esther can have a few moments to think before he re-enters her life."
"Speak of the devil," Skye gasped.
The front door had opened, and Esther, assisted by one of the housemaids, carried an elaborately designed rattan baby carriage down the steps. It had a little sun umbrella attached to the handle. The two women set the pram on the lane leading round the back of the grounds. Then Esther smiled and waved goodbye to the maid, who returned into the house. Dressed in a lacy dress, her hair piled high on her head, Esther looked calmer this morning. Almost happy.
"Trevor, I'm going to check out the situation with Esther," Skye said. "Maybe she knows something about Harley Remington's enemies that we don't. While I talk to her, would you keep an eye on the stables? Make sure Randall doesn't see her out here?"
Trevor saluted. "You can count on me, Miss McKenna."
"Oh, one more thing," Skye said. "Please call me Skye. We're friends, aren't we?"
Trevor's eyes met hers. "I'd like to be more than friends, Skye. If that were possible."
His words made Skye's heart flutter a little faster in her chest. Could that be possible? She didn't know.
"I'd like that, too," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "But for now, we need to concentrate on Harley Remington."
"Right." Trevor nodded. "You're absolutely right."
Skye waved a quick goodbye, then hurried to join Esther on her morning walk. "Excuse me, Miss Remington – I mean, Mrs Slade."
Esther turned and for a moment her face was filled with apprehension. But then her lips curled into a smile. "Oh, yes, I remember you. You're the young lady who took William to Father."
Skye leaned into the baby carriage and tickled the baby under his chin. "How are things with Mr Remington?"
"They couldn't be better," Esther gushed. "He seems to have forgiven me for leaving, which is the relief of my life. And he simply adores his new grandson."
Skye smiled at Esther. "That's wonderful news.”
"Father's so happy about William," Esther continued, "that he's going into Burlington today to buy baby things."
The tiniest frown creased her forehead. "I wish he wouldn't go."
"He's leaving? The house?" Skye's heart banged in her chest. "When?"
"Oh, soon. It's a long ride into town, you know."
Skye recalled the headline she'd read in the paper. "Murder at Remington House". If Harley left to buy baby things in Burlington, then that would mean he couldn't commit a murder at Remington House!
An idea suddenly occurred to Skye. Maybe she had already prevented the murder by being at Remington House when Esther returned. Maybe the mere fact that she was there to present the baby to Harley had changed the past. And now, all she had to do was make certain he went to Burlington.
"I told him not to go," Esther confessed. "I—I get nervous without him. I don't like being here alone."
Skye's heart thudded in her chest. "What did he say?"
"He said perhaps he'd go tomorrow. I hope so. That way I could go with him—"
"What?" Skye cried a little too loudly. "He can't go tomorrow. He has to go today. And spend all day there."
Esther stared at her, her cheeks pale. "Why?"
"It's too hard to explain. I just have this extremely strong feeling about it. Is Mr Remington still in the house?"
Esther, still mystified, nodded. "He's still at breakfast."
"Listen, Mrs Slade, you won't be alone today. I'll stay with you and little William." Skye suddenly felt certain that this what was she was supposed to do.
And just to be on the safe side, Trevor could go with Harley and keep him out of trouble in Burlington.
Esther frowned at her. "Are you sure you wouldn't mind?"
"No, no. I'd enjoy a chance to get to know you," Skye said. It's not everyday that a kid gets to meet their great-great-grandmother.
"Well, let's talk to Father," Esther said, turning the pram back towards the house.
As they reached the porch steps, Trevor joined them. "Well, fancy meeting you two!" he said in an overly chipper voice.
Skye shot him a "Where's Randall?" look.
Trevor folded his hands together and rested his cheek on his hands. "He decided he needed to catch up on his sleep," he whispered as Esther went up the stairs to ring for the maid to help with William. "He should be out for the rest of the day."
"Good!" Skye said. She tugged lightly on Trevor's sleeve. "Yes?"
"I don't think you should mention to Harley that Randall is here," she murmured under her breath. "It would only...upset him."
Trevor nodded. "And we don't want that, do we."
"Not until this day is over," Skye said.
Trevor lifted the baby carriage and carried it easily up the steps to the porch.
"Why thank you, Trevor!" Esther gave him a brilliant smile.  "It's so good to see you again."
Skye watched them and for the briefest second thought what a nice-looking couple they'd make. But she just as quickly banished the thought from her head.
What are you thinking? Trevor likes you and you like him. Besides, Esther is married to Randall.
"Trevor," Esther said as she lifted William out of the carriage and cradled him to her. "Father is going to Burlington to do some shopping. I would very much appreciate it if you would go with him."
Skye focused her eyes intently on Trevor's face and added, "He's planning to be away from Remington House for the entire day."
Trevor's eyes widened in response. "I see. Yes. I understand." He turned to Esther. "I'd be more than happy to oblige."
"Wonderful!" she replied. "I'll tell him at once."
Esther entered the house and Skye breathed a sigh of relief. "All we have to do is keep Harley away from the house."
Trevor frowned. "But what about Randall? He could be quite a nuisance if he wakes up too soon."
Skye shook her head. "Don't worry about him. It's Harley Remington we have to be concerned about. Just stay with him all day. Then, we'll be in the clear."
"You're sure? Harley is the one?"
She bobbed her head from side to side, starting the chant, "Horrible Harley, the Ogre of—"
"All right, all right. I'll go." Trevor held up his hands in surrender. "Just keep away from Slade, that's all."
"We will," Skye said. "And you stick to Harley like superglue."
"Superglue?"
Skye laughed. "It's this extra powerful glue. Nothing ever gets unstuck from it. Ever. You could stick a piano to the roof beams with it."
Trevor shook his head in amazement. "All those inventions in just one hundred years!"
The front door opened and Harley Remington stood there. He smiled when he saw Trevor.
"Well, young man. You're here bright and early."
"Yes, I understand you're planning a trip into Burlington."
Harley blinked in surprise.
"Word travels fast round here. Yes, the Edisons will be taking the train back to New Jersey. I thought I'd ride with them in their carriage to Burlington station."
"Mind if I join you?" Trevor asked. "I'd love to discuss the future of electricity with Mr Edison."
Harley smiled and nodded. "That could be highly entertaining. But remember, you'll have to speak up. Tom is as deaf as a post, you know."
"So I've noticed."
Harley stuck his hands in his pockets. "Interesting story, how it happened. It seems that he was running to hitch a ride on a train when he was just a lad and some fellow reached down and hoisted young Tom into the boxcar – by his ears."
"Ouch!" All three of them winced.
"If all his stories are as colourful as that one," Trevor said, winking at Skye, "I think this should be a most enjoyable day."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

As the Moon moves from Libra to Virgo, be aware that Pluto has entered the picture, as it sits in your natal fourth house. This Moon-Pluto combination may make you obsessive, with one idea or person dominating your mind. Don’t be misled by first impressions – or you won't help others!

The late afternoon light slanted through the French windows of the library. Esther followed the path of the shadows on tiptoe round the edge of the Persian carpet.
"I wish Father would come back soon," she said.
Skye watched her and smiled. They'd spent a lovely and, more important, uneventful day together. After Harley and Trevor left, Esther had suggested they take a walk. Skye made certain they stayed clear of the stables, to avoid any chance encounter with Randall.
After that they'd had a picnic lunch by the lake and Skye had asked endless questions about the family. She'd discovered that Esther's mother (her great-great-great-grandmother) had been an actress in the theatre. But only briefly. She met Harley on opening night of a play in New York. They'd instantly fallen in love and she moved with him to Vermont.
"Gave up everything to be with the man she loved," Esther said, studying the embroidered edge of her napkin. "Then died two years later, in childbirth."
"Tragic," was the only word Skye could find to describe it.
"I suppose." Esther smoothed the napkin out on her lap. "But not as tragic as living a life filled with fear and hatred."
Skye had the definite feeling Esther was referring to her own situation but didn't feel comfortable prying.
Several times Skye found herself worrying about her mother and father, thinking that they must be terribly concerned about her. But she knew that if she was to prevent the murder from taking place, she had to stay in the past until 22 June was over. There was no other choice.
After returning to the house, they went into the library. Rows of bookshelves, their edges carved in an intricate oak-leaf design, ran from floor to ceiling, groaning under the weight of thousands of volumes. The musty smell of old leather and paper permeated the air.
Esther had smiled when, as they entered the room, Skye's mouth had dropped open. "It is a nice room, isn't it?"
"Nice is a slight understatement. I mean, this is fantastic. I wish my parents could see it. They would be in heaven."
Esther's smile broadened. "I'm glad you like it." They settled into the overstuffed chairs and while they waited for Harley and Trevor to return, Skye listened to Esther read from the latest literary sensation – Oscar Wilde's witty comedy, The Importance of Being Earnest.
Esther read five scenes out loud and Skye found herself laughing so hard, her sides hurt. So when the servant, Mary, brought William down from his nap at five o'clock, she was grateful for the break. Willie lay in his pram, gurgling happily.
"Shall we cover the supper?" Mary asked. Esther looked at the maid in confusion and Mary explained, "Mr Remington's not back yet, and it's our night off."
"Yes, of course, Mary, go ahead," Esther said. "We'll wait for Mr Remington and Mr Bellamy."
The maid said goodnight and she and Bates left the house.
Now Esther was pacing anxiously.
"Father promised to be back by five o'clock. He promised." Esther checked the clock on the mantel for the hundredth time. "It's six."
Her face had lost some of its tense look during the course of the afternoon, but now Skye noticed her eyes looked frightened again.
"Maybe they decided to have dinner in town," Skye said. The light on the carpets shifted, and Skye rose and crossed to the French windows. Above the trees, big grey clouds rolled across the sky. The tree limbs banged against the house as a gust of wind shook the branches.
"But he promised to be here to protect me," Esther murmured from close behind Skye.
Skye spun to face her. "What do you mean, protect you? From whom?"
Esther cocked her head. "From Randall, of course."
A shiver of fear crept across Skye's skin. "Protect you from your husband?"
Esther nodded. "He's a monster. I ran away from him and now I'm afraid he might come after me. Father is worried, too."
Trying not to let the fear show on her face, Skye led Esther to the sofa and sat her down.
"Would you please tell me exactly what you're talking about?"
Esther clasped both her hands in her lap. She looked at William for a long moment. When she turned back to face Skye, her face was lined with weariness. "I fell in love with Randall a year ago. He was the riding master at the college, and all of the girls were mad for him. But – but he only had eyes for me." Her chin quivered.
Skye touched her arm and Esther continued.
"We would meet in secret. He told me I was the most beautiful girl in the world, and that he loved me. I believed him."
Esther hesitated and Skye urged her gently, "Go on."
"Everyone cautioned me about him but I didn't care." A deep flush coloured her cheeks. "He was everything I'd ever wanted. He said he didn't care about my money, he loved me only for myself."
Skye had a feeling she knew what was coming next.
"When I told Randall I was— was with child, at first he was angry. But when he realized he could become a member of a very wealthy and prominent family, he agreed to marry me. When Father heard we'd eloped, he threw us out in a fury. Soon after Randall turned into a complete monster."
Tears splashed on to her cheeks, and Skye reached out to pat her on the back. "It's all right, Esther. I understand."
Esther pulled a lace handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. "At first I couldn't understand how Father could be so cruel. But now I realize I broke his heart. He's always been the kindest of fathers. I'm ashamed of the way I behaved."
The wind moaned outside the window, filling the empty house with an eerie melody. "What about Randall?" Skye asked.
Esther tightened her mouth into an angry line. "He's vile. Father was right. He's violent and he drinks. Constantly. Three nights ago, it was worse than usual. He hit William and when I tried to stop him – he beat me." She touched her bruised eye with one finger.
"Oh no." Skye's pulse was starting to race. "Oh no."
"I decided I had to get away. To protect William. Randall threatened that if we left, he'd kill us both."
She looked at Skye, her eyes huge with fear. "I was afraid he would follow me. But so far, I've not seen hide nor hair of him."
Of course not, Skye thought in dismay. Because Trevor and I kept his arrival a secret and prevented you from seeing him.
The wind banged branches against the side of the house in a frenzied staccato. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
"We need to lock all the doors, Esther," Skye said, leaping to her feet. "And the windows."
Esther was startled. "What do you mean?"
"Randall's here. He stayed at the stables last night."
Esther's face went white. She immediately sprang to her feet and grabbed the sleeping William. "You knew this – and you let Father leave?"
Fear had so filled Skye's body that her hands and knees were shaking. "Oh no, Esther. I didn't know. I thought Randall had come with you and was just too drunk to come into the house."
"This is terrible. Terrible!" Esther spun in a circle, looking for a safe place to hide. "Father's gone. The servants have left, and we're alone."
Skye grabbed Esther's shoulders and guided her firmly to the door of the room. "You lock the back doors and I'll check the front. Hurry, we don't want to waste another second."
Skye locked the front door, while Esther went to the conservatory and the back kitchen. Then they checked the windows.
Outside the clouds darkened and pelting rain clattered on the roof of the front porch. Skye unhooked the long drapes and began pulling them across the windows in the front living room. Darkness had fallen early because of the growing storm, and the room dimmed instantly.
As Esther hurried to join her, Skye turned back to the last window to pull the drapes – and stopped. Movement. Outside on the porch.
A flash of lightning crackled directly overhead, illuminating everything outside. Skye saw the face first and screamed.
From behind her, Esther screamed, too, and William started to cry. Skye flung the drapes across the window.
"Esther, run," Skye whispered.
"No. Take my baby," Esther said, thrusting William into her arms. "Hide. Quickly."
"But I'm supposed—"
"Go!" Esther ordered.
Skye knew she had to save William. If Randall broke in the child wouldn't have a chance. Skye hurled herself up the stairs. Behind her, glass shattered.
"Save William," Esther's voice commanded. "Save my baby!"
From the living room, Skye heard a howl of rage and the crunching of steps on glass.
Thunder crashed outside and William cried out in fear, screeching right in her ear. Skye held him close, trying to comfort him as she reached the landing.
From downstairs came the sound of furniture being thrown round. Esther screamed again, and Skye turned to look back. Randall had caught hold of Esther's hair and was pulling her head back.
"I told you I'd kill you if you left me," he snarled.
Esther struggled, pulling out of his grip with remarkable strength. "You leave this house, or Father will have you arrested, you filthy pig!"
Randall drew back his hand to strike Esther. Skye shoved the first thing she could find, a rubber plant in a heavy stone planter, off the landing.
It crashed to the floor, plants and earth exploding everywhere. Randall leapt sideways, giving Esther the chance to escape. She bolted for the living room.
Instead of following Esther, Randall looked up, spotting Skye. And the baby.
In an instant he was on the stairs, leaping up towards her. William wailed.
Skye froze – certain that Randall was going to kill her and the baby. She turned to run just as a shadow appeared on the wall behind Randall.
Skye heard a horrible thud! Then a scream. She stumbled up the remaining stairs to the first floor, trying to block out the terrible screams coming from below.
Even after the screams stopped, Skye could still hear the thud-thud-thud of some blunt instrument striking a body.
She ran down the upstairs hall, yanked open a closet door, and jumped inside. It was full of mops and brooms. The darkness muffled the nauseating sounds coming from the floor below. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she buried her face in William's blanket.
The baby's screams had stopped and he was whimpering pathetically.
"Oh, poor William," Skye moaned, rocking him back and forth. "What have I done?"

CHAPTER TWELVE

Half an hour later, footsteps thumped down the upstairs hall and a familiar voice called, "Skye? My god! Skye, where are you?"
It was Trevor. His voice shook with panic.
"I'm in here," Skye cried, pushing open the closet door. When Trevor saw her he ran to her, threw his arms round her and the baby, and held them tight.
"I thought you were dead," he said into her hair. "I thought Randall—"
"We're all right," Skye murmured. "He didn't find us."
Trevor led her down the hall, but when they reached the top of the stairs he wouldn't let her go down. "No. Stay up here."
"Randall killed Esther, didn't he?" Her voice broke and she leant into Trevor's shoulder and sobbed, "It's all my fault. I made it happen—"
"No, no. Skye. Stop. You've got it confused."
"What?" Skye hurried to the landing and gasped as a wave of nausea swept over her.
At the bottom of the stairs, a blanket thrown over most of his body, lay Randall Slade. A scarlet pool of blood stained the carpet beneath his head.
Harley Remington stood beside the body, holding Esther in his arms. She was sobbing uncontrollably and he was trying to comfort her. "Tell me what happened," he was saying. But the distraught girl couldn't answer.
"This is all my fault," Skye whispered.
Harley looked up at her. "You killed him? You killed Randall?" There was a note of hope in his voice.
Skye shook her head. "No. But I interfered. If you'd been here, this wouldn't have happened. If I hadn't insisted you leave the house with Trevor and stay away, we might have prevented this."
Trevor made a sound from beside her. "You can't know that, Skye. Nobody can say what might've happened. And you thought you were doing the right thing."
"Esther, there, there," Harley murmured. "Please stop crying. You had no choice. I know you wouldn't have done such a thing if you'd had a choice."
"He was going after William. He would have killed him. I know it." Esther's voice was faint.
Skye nodded. "That's true. Randall was coming after me and the baby. Esther stopped him."
"But there's no proof," Trevor said, almost to himself. "Judges don't look favourably on wives who kill their husbands. Even disgusting specimens like that one."
Skye felt the tears well up in her eyes again. "But— but it was self defence."
Trevor pursed his lips and studied the scene of the crime. "Randall was hit from behind with a fireplace tool. Not once but many times." He scanned the area. "And it looks like he was unarmed."
Esther stared sightlessly at the body on the floor. Her face had gone deathly pale, and her lips were turning blue. Skye handed the baby to Trevor and, hurried down the stairs. "We have to get Esther warm, Mr Remington. I think she's in shock."
Harley and Skye helped Esther into the library. While Skye grabbed a wool blanket that was folded on an armchair, Harley poured some brandy from one of the decanters on the sidetable, and forced some down her throat. Esther coughed and sputtered, but some colour returned to her cheeks. "My baby. Please, let me hold my baby."
Trevor placed William in her arms and Esther sat rocking her baby, staring into the fireplace.
Harley checked his pocket watch. "Bates and Mary will be coming home soon. We have to think quickly."
"Maybe we could dispose of the body," Trevor suggested. "Only a few people knew Randall was here. I doubt that anyone would miss him."
Harley rubbed his chin. "Yes. Yes. We could do that. But we'd have to do it now. This minute."
Esther, whose cheeks were now flushed with colour, looked up at her father. "That would be wrong, Father, and you know it."
Harley threw up his hands. "But, my dear child, what is the alternative?"
"You could plant a weapon on Randall, so it would look like self defence," Skye suggested. "Do you have a gun?"
Harley looked shocked. "Of course not. I don't believe in them." He checked his watch once more and crossed to the window, pushing the curtain open to peer out. "We're running out of time. I wish I could think of what to do!"
"Father," Esther said quietly. "We need to contact the police. I shall tell them the truth and hope that they'll believe me."
"But what if they don't?" Skye cried, looking from Harley to Trevor. "What would happen to Esther?"
Trevor squeezed his eyes shut, thinking. "At best, a lenient prison term. At worst..." Trevor didn't finish his sentence. They could all imagine the worst.
"But Esther can't go to prison!" Skye whispered. "What about William?"
"Esther would die in prison," Harley said quietly. "And I couldn't live knowing she was there."
Esther raised her eyes to her father's face. "Father, I killed my husband. I have to pay the penalty for that crime."
Harley caught a breath. "Wait a moment. I'll claim I did it."
His words shot like an arrow through Skye. Horrible Harley, the Ogre of Marleigh...
She'd taken a desperate trip into the past to prevent her grandfather from killing someone, only to discover he hadn't done it. For a hundred years the wrong person had been blamed.
Skye rubbed her temple, trying to remember what had happened to Harley Remington after he supposedly committed the murder. He'd... disappeared. Wasn't that the story? And was never seen or heard of again.
"Father, I'm not going to let you ruin your life on my account," Esther insisted. "I've already broken your heart once. I couldn't bear to do it again." Esther's voice was weak, but there was a look of fierce determination on her face.
"I'm older than you, Esther. I've lived a full and rewarding life. And besides," he said, glancing at the floor, "I sent you away. If I hadn't – none of this would have happened."
Esther rose and crossed to her father. Harley folded her and his grandson into his wide embrace.
Skye paced in a tiny circle, wringing her hands. They had to do something. They couldn't let Esther go to prison. Harley's idea was the best one she'd heard so far.
Trevor crossed the floor and caught hold of Skye's shoulders. "Skye, what happened to Esther after the murder? Did your newspaper or any of your scrapbooks say?"
Skye chewed nervously on her lip. "I'm not certain. I'm so confused. I mean, all these years I thought Harley was the murderer, and Esther lived to a happy ripe old age."
Harley and Esther were now staring at Trevor and Skye, extremely confused.
"Think!" Trevor urged, looking intently into her eyes. "What happened to Harley?"
Skye met his gaze evenly. "Harley Remington vanished without a trace."
"What are you two talking about?" Harley demanded.
Skye's eyes widened. It was if an explosion of understanding suddenly filled her brain.
"Wait a minute!" Skye cried. "Now I know why I was sent here. It wasn't to prevent the murder! It was to help Harley Remington escape!"
Trevor stepped back, putting one hand to his temple. "You're not seriously considering what I think you're considering?"
"Why not?" Skye turned to Esther and Harley. "Listen, there are some things about me that— that are different."
"Yes, so I've noticed," Harley replied drily.
Skye put one hand on Esther's shoulder. "Let your father take the blame."
"No!"
"I know a place he can go where no one will ever find him," Skye said softly. "Believe me."
Esther shook her head violently, but Harley seemed to be listening carefully.
"He'll be with a family who will love him and take care of him," Skye continued. "He'll live right in this town. He can visit this house, knowing you are safe."
Harley frowned. "What nonsense are you babbling, young lady?"
"Trevor, do you have the Marleigh Sentinel I gave you?"
He nodded, patting his side pocket. "I've read it from front to back at least ten times today."
"Could I have it, please?"
As Trevor handed Skye the paper, she explained, "I came here from the future, travelling, as Mr H.G. Wells has put it, through the fourth dimension. I knew that a murder would take place today because I read about it in a faded newspaper from my mother's old steamer trunk. I thought I could prevent that murder from happening. But I was confused. You see, the paper said that Harley Remington was the murderer—"
"What?" Esther gasped.
"That's why I urged you to leave town for the day," Skye told Harley. "I thought, if you were gone, a murder wouldn't happen. But I see that I got it all wrong. Now I have a chance to really help. But we don't have much time." Skye handed the newspaper to Harley. "Take a look at this, please. I brought it back with me as proof."
Harley cocked his head. "What is it?"
"It's a newspaper from the year 1995."
Harley Remington sank slowly on to the edge of the couch and began to read.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“I hate to rush you, sir," Trevor interrupted gently. "But Bates will be along any minute, and then your opportunity to escape may be lost."
Harley remained motionless on the sofa beside Esther. She'd put William to bed in his crib, which Trevor had moved from the library into the living room.
Both of them were staring at the newspaper. Harley had already gone through it twice. He'd exclaimed, protested, laughed, then wondered at the articles, the ads, the classified columns, and the colour inserts.
Outside, the storm had blown itself out and, beyond the windows, faint moonlight lit the wide porch. Skye sat on the footstool in front of them, anxiously watching their faces.
Harley raised his head. "Do you believe this, Trevor?"
"I didn't at first. I thought it was pure fantasy inspired by that new book, The Time Machine." Trevor placed his hand on Skye's shoulder. "But then I actually witnessed Miss McKenna leave the conservatory. One second she was in the centre of the room, and the next, she was gone."
"I grant you, I've always been fascinated by the strange workings of nature." Harley stood up and paced in front of the fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back. "Sightings of ghosts, psychical phenomena, my own vortex room. But to actually travel through time?" He shook his head. "It takes a giant leap of faith to believe that."
"But Harley, Miss McKenna did disappear," Trevor insisted. "I was watching closely, and she simply vanished. From the conservatory, Harley. The room where you insist time does not do ordinary things."
Harley twisted the ends of his moustache nervously.
"And the story has always been that you vanished from the face of the earth, never to be seen or heard of again," Skye reminded him. "What do you think that meant?"
Harley threw his hands in the air. "I have no idea. Perhaps I was supposed to have run off to Siam or the Congo. How can you possibly interpret such a story as proof that I leapt into the future?"
Skye shrugged. "Where else can you run within the next five minutes?"
The old man continued his pacing, growing more agitated with each passing moment. "If I'm not here, then the college will take the house," he warned. "I've promised it to them."
Esther moved to her father. "I could never live in this house after what has happened this evening," she said fervently. "If the college wants it, they can have it."
"But— but if I leave, what will you live on?" Harley asked his daughter. "You won't be able to receive an inheritance. I'd have to be declared dead for that to happen. And in order to declare me dead, they'll need a body." He poked his finger at Skye. "And if what Miss McKenna says is true, there won't be one."
"I have an idea," Esther said. "Trevor, come with me please." He followed her into the hall, returning moments later with several ornate frames.
"My coin collection!" Harley cried with delight. "Brilliant. They're worth a great deal of money." He grabbed one display frame from her and, placing it on the floor, smashed the glass with the heel of his shoe. "We need to retrieve the coins now, before the servants return."
Trevor set the other frames on the floor and broke the protective glass in them one by one, and Esther collected the coins. Harley turned in a circle, surveying the room and everything in it. "Esther, grab anything of value you see, and pack it in your steamer trunk now. Silver, small pieces of art—"
"What of the Zodiacus Vitae?” Trevor asked, referring to the oldest book in the Remington collection.
"That," Harley said, patting Trevor on the shoulder, "I bequeath to you, young man, on the promise that you will look after my Esther."
Trevor nodded. He tried to speak but couldn't.
It was a terrible moment for everyone as they realized they would never see each other again. Skye fought back tears as she looked at Trevor. But we have no choice. We have to go. There's no other way.
The air in the room tingled slightly, and Skye got a gnawing feeling that they were running out of time. It was growing late. The moon had already risen, and if she was right about the alignment being off, they might be in for a rough ride back to the future.
"Trevor? Do you know what you're going to tell the police?" Skye asked in a quavery voice.
Trevor took a deep breath, trying to regain some control. "I think so. I hate to do it, though. Accusing Harley of murder."
"Would you rather accuse Esther?" Harley asked.
"No, no. Of course not."
"All right, then," Harley said. "This is the only way to prevent that. Now, what do you intend to say?"
Trevor sighed heavily and crossed his arms. His hair had fallen forward across his forehead and he looked very young and vulnerable.
"After you...leave, I'll fetch the police," Trevor said. "I'll tell them what happened – that Harley caught Randall attacking Esther and William. He – killed Randall while defending his daughter and grandson. And then he ran away. To where, I don't know."
Harley nodded. "That's it."
Trevor sent Harley a heartbroken look. "I hate to say such things about you, sir. Your life's work, your reputation, your experiments – everything will be for naught."
Harley shook his head quickly. "You and Esther will know the truth." He looked down at the sleeping baby in the crib. "And William. William will know, too. That's all that matters."
Esther smiled at Trevor. "I know you care deeply about Father, Trevor," she said softly. "I think perhaps this is the best way to show it."
Skye nodded. "Esther's right."
"And let no shame ever touch my daughter or grandson," Harley said, thrusting his hand out to Trevor. "I leave them in your care."
Trevor shook his hand vigorously. "You can depend on me, sir."
Skye didn't have the heart to tell Harley that the future would remember him only as a murderer, and anyone associated with him would be branded with the same disgrace.
"Shh!" Esther held up her hand and cocked her head to listen. "What's that?"
The sound of carriage wheels rumbling up the drive could be heard.
"It's Bates and Mary," Harley said. "Coming home."
"I think we'd better get to the vortex room," Skye whispered. "Now."
Esther scooped up the sleeping William and the group hurried into the conservatory. The energy was charged but sluggish, like a clock winding down.
Harley sucked in his breath. "I've always believed there was a force present in this room that no one really could understand. Maybe it was time, exercising its mysterious will." He turned to Esther. She looked white in the moonlight, her features washed out and ghostly.
Harley held out his arms wide. "Now, my dearest daughter, it's time for us to say goodbye."
"Take me with you!" Esther suddenly said, pressing herself and her baby against her father. "I want to go, too."
"You can't!" Skye cried.
"But why not?" Trevor asked, suddenly getting excited at the prospect. "Why can't we all go?"
"Because, if Esther and William leave this time – I won't exist."
"What do you mean?" Esther asked.
Skye took a deep breath. "Because, Esther, I am your great-great-granddaughter. And if you don't stay here, and live to a ripe old age, baby William won't grow up and marry my great-grandmother, Pearl, and have James, and then Violet, whose daughter will be my mother, Sharon Remington McKenna."
"You mean I'm your great-great-great-grandfather?" Harley gasped.
"Yes," Skye said, with a quick nod of the head. "And I don't know quite how all of this happened but I do have a buzzing feeling that tells me if we don't leave immediately, we may not make it."
They could hear the sound of footsteps and the low murmur of voices as Bates and Mary crossed the porch to the front door.
"You must hurry," Trevor said, glancing nervously over his shoulder.
"I know," Skye said, biting her lip. "It's just that I have this nagging feeling I'm forgetting something. Something important."
She looked round the room, racking her brain for a clue. Her eyes fell on the cherry armoire in the corner and suddenly a light went on in her brain.
"Of course!"
Skye ran to the armoire and pulled out her jeans and sweater. "I've got to go back in the clothes I came in. Wait just a moment while I change." Skye pulled off her dress and frantically threw on her purple sweater and jeans. "I'm ready," she declared, turning round.
The Remingtons were staring at her, open-mouthed in astonishment. Trevor murmured, half to himself, "Oh, brave new world, that has such creatures in it."
"What's the matter?" Skye asked, worriedly. "Don't I look OK?"
"You look incredible." Trevor quickly stepped up to her and, taking both her hands in his, looked down into her eyes. "The last twenty-four hours have been amazing. Will I ever see you again?"
"I don't think so," Skye replied. "I've done what I was supposed to do, after all. I didn't come back to stop the murder. I came back to get Harley out of town. Way out of town."
Trevor laughed. "You're a miracle worker."
"I couldn't have done it without you," Skye whispered.
"I shall miss you, Skye McKenna," Trevor said, brushing her cheek with a kiss. "And I will treasure our brief time together for the rest of my days."
Skye wanted to say something remarkable but she was afraid if she murmured another word to him, she'd break into tears. She knew that wouldn't help anything.
Skye moved to Harley, who stood in a silent embrace with Esther and William. "Ready?"
"I think so," Harley said, wiping his eyes. Skye took his hand and together they walked to the head of the table, across the room from where Trevor stood beside Esther.
Smiling, Harley nodded at the two of them. "You promise to look after Esther?" he asked Trevor.
Trevor nodded, and slid an arm round Esther's waist. "You have my word. And I always keep my promises."
Esther smiled through her tears and blew a kiss to her father. "I love you now, and for all time."
"Walk beside me, and stay very close," Skye instructed Harley. "I've never done this with another person before." Skye hoped she sounded confident, because she certainly didn't feel that way.
She began to slowly walk anti-clockwise round the table, with Harley close beside her, his heavy footsteps thudding on the tiled floor.
The air was humming, as usual, and the hairs on Skye's neck tingled. So far, so good.
Once round the table.
Twice.
The air began to shimmer with pale light, but the twinkling seemed faded and tired. There was a heavy, suffocating denseness to the air, and Skye felt as if her legs and arms were weighted with lead. She glanced towards the doorway. Trevor and Esther were still standing side by side, their faces flickering like images on a television screen that was about to burn out. They looked shocked, then apprehensive.
Three times.
Then – Trevor and Esther smiled. Harley squeezed Skye's hand tightly as the prickly sensation of static rippled across her skin. The humming intensified. A new sound mingled with the faraway hum...a roaring that filled her ears and made her want to cover them. But she didn't. Skye held fast to Harley's hand.
Abruptly, the room tilted sideways and tipped them into a swirling black void.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Transiting Moon has slipped into Libra, the house of Justice and Balance, and trines with Saturn in the tenth. Saturn deals with time, with the elderly, with lessons to be learned. You will feel enormous relief about the solution of a problem that's been bothering you. An older person whose wisdom you respect offers emotional support.

“You will be grounded for twelve months," Skye's father spoke in a tense whisper. "Is that clear?"
Skye could feel her cheeks heating up. After all they'd been through, it was embarrassing to have Harley Remington witness her father scolding her. The only good thing about the moment was the fact that Skye and Harley had made it back in one piece to the twentieth century.
"Now, now, don't be so hard on Miss McKenna," Harley said soothingly. "After all, she rescued me, didn't she?"
"I think rescue is an exaggeration," Mr McKenna answered.
Harley shrugged. "Well, I was desperate for a home. And Skye here found me one. I'd consider that a rescue. I really need this room. And I'm willing to pay very well for it, too."
They were all standing in the spare room. It was nine o'clock at night and on their trip across town, Harley and Skye had devised a story to explain her absence.
They decided to say the reason Skye left her parents at the police station and ran back to Remington House was because she wanted to retrieve her Sagittarius necklace. Her mother had always said she thought it might be valuable. But when Skye went back into Remington House, she got locked inside. That's where she spent the afternoon. It wasn't till campus security came by on their nightly rounds that she was able to sneak out of the house.
She'd hurried to the commons building to telephone her parents. That's where she met a man – Harley – who had just arrived on campus and was looking for lodgings. She told him of the spare room.
They practised the story as they walked across town, but Skye had to keep reminding Harley to pay attention. "You'll have plenty of time to examine the street lights, paved roads and automobiles after we get everything settled at home."
"Oh, right," Harley had said. "Sorry."
Mrs McKenna warmed to Harley right away. And the old man kept looking at her as if there was something about her that reminded him of someone.
Skye's father looked a little more sceptical. "You were searching for a place to stay at nine o'clock at night?"
"Yes, you see, I thought arrangements had already been made for me, but my, er, ride was delayed and when I got to the college, all the offices were locked. I was standing there by the, er—" Harley sent Skye a desperate look.
"Commons."
"Commons. And I was wondering what I was going to do. You see, I'm an historian and an—"
Harley looked stuck again.
"Anachronist," Skye said quickly. "Actually, a member of the Society for Creative Anachronism. He's here to celebrate the centennial of Remington College."
Her mother grinned. "Well, you're certainly dressed for the celebration. I must say, you seem to fit into this room as well. It looks so – so right with you standing in it, too."
Harley smiled at her, his grey eyes warming. "I feel right at home, dear lady."
"With his knowledge of history, he could help us identify some of the things in those trunks," Skye added.
"Really?" Mrs McKenna raised an eyebrow at Harley.
"I'd be delighted to help," Harley said. "I'm also a collector." He walked slowly round the room, touching the washstand, the carved chest, the headboard of the bed in the far corner. "These pieces, they're so lovely."
Mrs McKenna nodded. "They've been in my family for generations."
Harley was studying the bird's-eye maple chest. "Yes," he murmured, "since 1875. This one came from Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Made by a very fine craftsman, too."
Skye's mother and father gave each other one of those, "Well, what-do-you-think?" looks. Skye held her breath.
"I suppose we could try it on a trial basis, Mr...uh, what did you say your name was?" Mr McKenna asked.
Harley was standing at the bookshelf, thumbing through one of the volumes. He called over his shoulder. "Charley Ringer." He turned and smiled broadly. "Charley Augustus Ringer."
"Really?" Mrs McKenna cocked her head. "My great-great-grandfather's middle name was Augustus. What a coincidence. It's a rather unusual name these days."
"It's a family name," Harley said, winking at Skye.
"You say you're an historian?" Skye's father asked, "Will you be teaching here?"
Harley turned and, hooking his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, said, "I may do a little teaching. But I plan to do quite a bit of research." He shot a look at Skye. "I have a great deal of catching up to do. And then, I believe I shall write my book."
"That sounds wonderful," Skye's mother exclaimed.
"The rent's due by the fifth of each month," Skye's father announced. "We would prefer the first and last month's rent in advance."
Skye's mother jabbed her elbow into Mr McKenna's ribs. "That's not necessary. Just one month will be fine."
When her parents left the room, they were still bickering good-naturedly about payments.
"They seem like decent people," Harley said to Skye.
But Skye could only stare in return. A horrible thought had just occurred to her. "What are you going to use for money?" she whispered. "I completely forgot that detail!"
Harley sat on the overstuffed couch that had once been in the back parlour at Remington House. He looked right at home. "You forgot that detail?" he whispered back. "I knew from the minute I saw you that you were one of these young ladies who go gallivanting off into the unknown without even a suitcase."
Skye perched on the couch beside him. "Now quit joking. This is terrible! What are we going to do? I mean, you can't be our boarder if you don't have any money. I guess you'll have to get a job."
"A job? You must be joking." Harley straightened out his leg and rummaged deep in one of his trouser pockets. "Do you think this will help?"
He placed a small object in her palm. She frowned at it. It was from his collection, a silver coin with a rather skinny eagle on one side and a woman with flowing hair on the other. Skye had never seen one like it. "Is this worth a lot?" she asked hopefully.
"My dear child. What you are holding in your hand is worth a small fortune. A silver dollar from the very dawn of this nation. Very few were minted, fewer still remain. Even in my time, they were a rarity."
"But how much can an old coin be worth?" Skye demanded.
Harley gestured for her to look at the volume he'd pulled from the bookshelf. "I noticed your mother also has an interest in numismatics – coin collecting – and keeps a current collector's guide." He opened the book and tapped the page. "See."
Skye huddled over the colour illustration of a coin exactly like the one in her hand. "Limited edition, minted in Philadelphia in 1794," she read aloud. "Current market value, ninety-seven thousand—" She looked up at Harley and grinned. "Ninety-seven thousand five hundred dollars! Wow!"
"Wow, indeed," he chuckled. "I brought ten of these with me. I intend for us all to have a very comfortable life."
A heavy thud sounded outside the room, and Skye leapt off the couch to open the door. Her mother stood in the hall, a small trunk about half the size of the ones in the living room in front of her.
"Here, Skye. This is the trunk I told you about from the attic. Your father and I have decided to ground you for six months instead of a year, so I thought you might like to use some of that time sorting through Esther's things."
Skye heard Harley gasp behind her. "Esther?"
"Great, Mom. Could Mr Rem— Ringer help?"
"If he'd like. Shall I put it in here?"
Harley rose off the sofa. "Allow me. I have always enjoyed – old things." The old man carried the trunk to the centre of the room.
"You know, it really is uncanny, Mr Ringer," Mrs McKenna remarked. "You look so much like my grandfather, I'd swear you were a relative."
"Perhaps I am!" Harley chuckled. "You can call me Grandfather, if you wish. Personally, it would make me feel more at home."
Mrs McKenna laughed. "All right... Grandfather. I will."
Skye lifted the trunk lid and a fluttering of energy skittered through the room, as if the time vortex had reached out and tickled them. Then there was a soft whoosh as time settled back into its normal rhythm.
The three of them knelt side by side, peering eagerly into the trunk. The top tray was filled with several carved wooden boxes full of costume jewellery. One box held a pair of long white gloves. There were also several tooled leather albums. Harley unlatched one that had "Family Treasures" inscribed on the outside cover, and opened it carefully.
Skye was busy examining a tiny leather bag of glass marbles she'd found in one of the boxes. The bag had "Willie" painted in red on the outside.
"What have you got there, Grandfather?" Skye's mother asked Harley.
He was sitting and staring at a page, shaking his head in wonder. Instead of responding, he turned the album so Skye and her mother could see the pictures. They were sepia photos of people dressed in period clothing. A woman, about forty, wore a cloche hat and a wool coat with fur collar, which came just below her knees. She stood next to a young man in a black cap and gown. They were both beaming at the camera.
Mrs McKenna leaned forward. "Why, that's my great-grandmother—"
"Esther," Skye and Harley murmured in unison.
"And that's her son, William," Mrs McKenna continued. "It looks like it was taken at his graduation from Harvard."
"Harvard?" Harley smiled at Skye. "Not bad. Not bad at all."
"Yes, William became a doctor," Mrs McKenna explained as she rummaged through the trunk. "But not a rich one. He spent much of his time working with the poor who couldn't afford to pay their bills. That was during the Great Depression."
"There was another one?" Harley murmured under his breath to Skye.
She nodded and mouthed silently, "In 1929."
Harley nodded and examined the picture. "And little William was there to help." The old man's eyes filled with tears as he nodded proudly. "Fine young man. Just like his mother."
"Oh, look!" Mrs McKenna cried. She had lifted the top tray out of the trunk and discovered a small leather-bound book underneath. "This is the book, Skye! The one I told you about!"
She carefully picked it up and pressed it to her chest, smiling. "When I was fourteen, I came upon this book in my grandmother's attic. I thought it was the most beautiful story ever written. I read it over and over again." She held the dark green volume out to Skye. "It's the story of your namesake."
Skye took the book and read the title aloud, "A Love For All Time." But she nearly choked on the author's name. "By T.R. Bellamy."
Her eyes were two huge circles as she turned to Harley and whispered, "Do you think it's possible?"
Harley shrugged. "The one thing I've learned after meeting you, my dear, is that anything is possible."
Skye carried the volume to the couch and very slowly opened the cover. Once again she felt a tingle of goose bumps travel up her arm as she read the opening lines out loud.
"'In an era when travelling from New York City to Philadelphia in less than a day was thought a miracle, a young lady contrived to cross a hundred years of space and time in an instant. Her name was Skye, like the azure dome above us, and it is out of that insubstantial element that she appeared one summer's day and won a young man's heart for eternity.'"