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  “Is-is Tom—”

  “A doctor is tending him as we speak. No doubt, despite his revolting cowardice and highly despicable morality, he will recover with little more than a concussion, a few broken bones, and undoubtedly much wounded pride.”

  “You don’t understand,” she whispers, and I hold up a hand.

  She and Sawyer have said this far too often tonight. “Then make me understand.”

  Her eyes flit to the doorway and then back to me. I calmly pour a fresh cup of tea from the pot sitting on a nearby tray. “Have no fear, Mrs. Sawyer. You are in no danger of physical harm from me, at least on this night. I merely have questions that require answers.”

  She swallows, yet accepts the drink I offer her.

  “Now,” I say, pouring myself a cup as well. “Let us discuss what it is I do not understand.”

  “Huck is being unreasonable,” she whispers. “He’s hurt Tom so much all these years by refusing to listen.”

  “Forgive me for being so blunt, but am I wrong in assuming your husband had something to do with the murder of a man named Jim?”

  Becky blinks at me, dumbfounded. “Well, now, it ain’t as easy as that.”

  “Was the man in question lynched?”

  She blinks some more. “Yes, but . . .”

  “Was he guilty of any crime? Jim, I mean?”

  More blinking.

  “Theft, perhaps? Murder? Rape? Robbery? Something that would even remotely justify such a heinous punishment?”

  Stammering occurs, with very little substance behind it. Becky Sawyer is nothing but a mimsy, I realize.

  “Mrs. Sawyer, where I come from, lynching is a despicable crime that requires the most severe of punishments. It is one I have no tolerance for in any circumstance. Now, perhaps you can explain instead what it is you think Finn is not understanding about this situation.”

  Over the course of the next quarter of an hour, Becky informs me of how Tom met up with anti-abolitionists prior to their marriage when he moved to Southern Missouri to work for a few years. They were, she claimed, charming and convincing about their beliefs, and Tom—whom she insists is good-hearted and far too trusting—fell prey to their ideology. This was before the war, when Missouri was newly flooded with both abolitionists and pro-slavery groups, each eager to sway others to their causes when it came to the beating of the war drums. Always up for an adventure, Tom was keen to get involved somehow with the furor gripping the area, but went about it, in Becky’s mind at least, all wrong.

  “His friends ended up being affiliated with anti-abolitionists.” Her voice trembles. “When Tom figured this out, he thought it best to leave. They weren’t having none of it, though. Said they had to ensure Missouri aligned with the Confederacy instead of the North.”

  I have no patience for Tom if his stupidity was truly so strong he could not see his acquaintances for who they really were. “How does this tie to Jim’s lynching?”

  Her lower lip quivers as she stares down at her cold cup of tea. “They wanted a show, and started to flush out freed slaves. They didn’t think it was right, that blacks be free.”

  From the tone of her voice, it seems that Mrs. Sawyer may hold the same reviling belief. “And your husband went along with this?”

  “He tried to leave,” she whispers. “He realized it wasn’t fun no more—”

  “Fun?” My voice is a shot in the room. “Brutalizing human beings, treating them as if they are inferior and pieces of property, is fun?”

  “No, no,” she quickly corrects. “It’s just . . . Tom has always been one for adventures, and—”

  “Lynching human beings is an adventure?”

  She pales at my vitriol. “It wasn’t like Tom was the one to hang Jim! All he did was . . . tell them where to find him.”

  My scorn could set the room ablaze. “Your husband did this willingly?”

  “Of course not! They told him that if he didn’t, they’d make him pay. That he’d be sorry for betraying them.”

  “Did they give specifics?”

  She blinks again. I will myself not to shake her.

  “Did they say what they would specifically do to, and I quote, ‘Make him pay,’ had he refused?”

  “I . . . I don’t know. They said they’d make him sorry. He was scared, rightfully so.”

  I hold up another hand. “Mrs. Sawyer, I fail to see what it is you believe Finn should understand. So far, from what I can tell, it is as I said at the beginning. Your husband is a coward and of highly questionable morals, not to mention someone of poor intellect. He—”

  “He loves Huck,” she interjects. “They were like brothers. He’s felt like his arm has been cut off, not having Huck in his life.”

  I think of that photograph in Finn’s room again, of who I assume is Jim. Tom is not in that scene. Jim meant something to Finn, though. For him to keep that photograph, to allow the rage and despair over his death for so many years to consume him and eat away at him only confirms this to me.

  If Jim meant something to Finn, then he means something to me.

  “Mrs. Sawyer, we do not have much time to waste. Finn is currently in jail, which is an entirely unacceptable situation for me. I require you to persuade the sheriff to free him immediately.”

  She gapes at me. “But . . . But . . .”

  “Let us not mince words. Your husband was instrumental in the death of another human being. One, whom I believe, sacrificed much to save him years ago and was an innocent. Am I wrong in this assumption?”

  She mutely shakes her head.

  “He was instrumental in the death of somebody my partner valued very much.”

  “Well,” she murmurs shakily, “Jim and Huck did have all those adventures when they ran off together . . .” In a much smaller voice, “Tom was always jealous of how close they were. He didn’t think it right.”

  It takes everything in me to not to slap her again. There is no remorse in her voice over what has happen. There is just indignation and sadness over a loss of friendship rather than life.

  No wonder Finn abhors his Timeline and these people.

  “You must do the right thing and insist upon Finn being released from custody.”

  “But—”

  “You and I do not know one another, Mrs. Sawyer. So let me be frank with you. I am not like those that your insipid husband once associated himself with. I do not make baseless, non-specific threats. Let me assure you that if Finn is not released from prison, or if even one hair on his head is harmed whilst he is incarcerated in this Godforsaken town, I will do everything in my power to destroy your husband. This means I will utilize every measure within my vast means to bankrupt him, to strip away your home, to render him undesirable to employers. And then, when he feels he has hit rock bottom, I will push harder. I will not stop, Mrs. Sawyer. And if you think I am making hollow threats, I entreat you to look within my eyes and realize I am not the kind of woman to do so.”

  This time, when she gapes at me, she does not blink.

  “Do you know of your husband’s association with the Society?”

  She nods, her mouth quivering as it snaps shut.

  I set my cup and saucer down on the small table that rests between us. “I am a member with many resources at my disposal. I am also not the sort of woman you should ever cross.”

  Her words are barely voiced. “You’re not from here, are you?”

  I slowly shake my head, maintaining eye contact the entire time.

  She lets out a shuddery breath. And then she says, her voice little more than a squeak, “I will do my best.”

  “Excellent. But first, we need to stop by your home. There are some items I must retrieve.”

  “Are you two—is he your beau?” she asks me timidly. “Huck, I mean? I know someone called you his wife, but since you two work together in the Society, I paid it no mind, but . . .”

  She doesn’t finish, so I do for her. I say firmly, “He is my partner, yes. We work together a
t the Society. But in addition to that, he is the man I love. Mrs. Sawyer, if you doubt I will not do everything in my power to assure his wellbeing and freedom, this town will have a brutal surprise coming.”

  She swallows. “Understood.”

  When I finally open the door, the innkeeper is hovering nearby, a gun in his hands. “Mrs. Sawyer? You okay in there?”

  I very nearly roll my eyes. He is a toad of a man, and clearly arthritic. I could sweep him off his feet and place him in a chokehold before he even aimed properly at me.

  The mimsy I’m with offers a wan smile. “I am fine, Mr. Scruggs.” Her eyes slide toward me briefly before she adds, “This fine lady was helping calm me down.”

  Scruggs frowns deeply, his bushy mustache enveloping his lips.

  Becky takes a deep breath and straightens her spine. Good girl. “Where is Tom?”

  “The doc is examining him upstairs right now, and the last I heard, he’s fine. Doc has him awake and answering questions best he can. I suspect he’ll have a headache tomorrow, though. It was a nasty beating. I can take you up there if you like.”

  Her lips quiver as she shakes her head. She turns to me instead. “Might you accompany me home?”

  “Now, Mrs. Sawyer,” the innkeeper stutters, but one look from me silences him.

  The Sawyer house isn’t too far away. Becky chatters on about the two children they already have—although both are currently in residence with her father at his nearby home. Her father, she clarifies, is a judge.

  Excellent.

  “I’ll talk to him tonight,” she vows. “He’s always had a soft spot for Huck.”

  Even more excellent.

  Our stay at the Sawyer household is brief. Becky knows exactly where Tom keeps his liaison supplies, and brings them to me within mere minutes of our arrival. As she hands them over, I take note of a sketch hanging on the wall of the sitting room we’re in, one that features a very familiar face.

  I imagine that picture might be taken down shortly.

  “It is best you stay at your father’s tonight alongside your children,” I tell her.

  Her eyes widen in confusion.

  I sigh irritably. “I highly doubt your husband will be sent home tonight. If he has any sense, the doctor will keep him for observation until the morning. You’ve had a stressful evening, and it would behoove you to stay where someone could keep a watchful eye on you. How far along are you?”

  Frankly, I’m getting tired of the blank looks she offers me. “I’m past due,” she admits. “My babies always take a little longer than normal, the doc says.”

  “All the more reason to stay at your father’s.”

  I escort her there whilst visions of delivering a babe upon dirty, slush-covered roads try to take root. Thankfully, her family’s home is close by, and welcoming lights fill the windows. As we approach the path leading to the front door, a sob hiccups out of her.

  “You heard the innkeeper,” I say more gently than I feel. “Your husband will be fine.”

  “Huck truly hates Tom, doesn’t he?”

  I do not sugarcoat the truth. “It appears he has good reason to.”

  “You don’t know what they were like when we were kids. They were so close. They were always getting into trouble. I mean, they even went off to Africa together.” And then, more quietly, “Jim went, too.”

  Her mimsiness is unbearable. And the fact that she is childish enough to resent Finn’s friendship with Jim for Sawyer’s sake? Despicable. “Ensure your father has Finn released as quickly as possible. It is my goal we depart St. Petersburg in the early morning.”

  “Do you think . . . now that Huck got his punches in, they might be able to put this behind them?”

  Confident I already know Finn’s choice, I slowly shake my head.

  She heaves in a fractured breath. “He really thought, if he could just get Huck to listen . . .”

  “If he thought Finn could ever understand such a thing,” I say coldly, “then your husband never truly knew him.”

  Becky Sawyer looks broken, bereft even. “Tom thinks it’s because once Huck left, he fell in with the wrong people. Northerners who brainwashed him into becoming somebody he isn’t.”

  I am done with this woman and her small-minded cretinism. “The moment you have word of your father assuring Finn’s release, send me notice at the inn.”

  And then I turn around and head back toward the inn. The sun is just now setting, leaving the gray sky to darken, yet the roads are still filled with plenty of people bustling about in carriages and upon the boarded strips lining the stores.

  Step after step, my anger and helplessness inflate until I do not know what to do with them. St. Petersburg has its fair share of soldiers milling about. Finn is no doubt behind bars at this very minute, and just the thought of it has me seething. I ought to wait, to see my plan through, but something in me insists Becky Sawyer, like her husband, cannot be trusted.

  My feet change direction, back toward the center of town. I have two daggers upon me. If I am not mistaken, the jail will not be overly crowded with personnel. I wrack my mind, trying to remember what I’d learned about American jails, especially in less than cosmopolitan areas such as this. There is a sheriff, and not much else, perhaps. If that is the case, I could easily subdue the lawman and get the cell open myself.

  I must ensure Finn is fine. I—

  Something sharp pierces my back. Hands grab my shoulders and then wrap around me. My muscles go limp, my eyes sag. An acrid smell stings my nose, like the distinct lack of bathing and proper tooth care have left a person on the verge of disintegrating.

  Fight, I tell myself, but my knees give way.

  “Hello, Alice,” an all-too-familiar voice coos, and then darkness rushes at me.

  The sheriff is outside, yelling at the crowd gathered. I can’t exactly make out his words, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they were along the lines of: you need to disperse, go home, this is a peaceful town, we’ll hang this sonofabitch tomorrow.

  Ah, mob justice at its finest.

  I lie back on the small bench in the cell and stare up at the flaking ceiling, honestly not giving two shits about whether or not Sawyer is doing okay right now. All I feel right now is numb. My hand ought to be throbbing—shit, the knuckles are bloody and three times their normal size. I think I might have even broken one, I hit that asshole so hard with that last punch. But my hand doesn’t hurt. Neither do my wrists that are already turning purple from the rudimentary handcuffs this sheriff used. None of it hurts except for a knot in my chest every time I imagine Jim, scared out of his mind, being strung up on some tree.

  My friend—my kind, big-hearted friend—died because of the color of his skin.

  Katrina was pissed. Well—sad and pissed all at once. “What will you do?”

  We’d just gotten back from the police station. She and Brom, not for the first time, had to come down in the middle of the night to bail me out. Victor hovered in the background as our mother questioned me, his eyes wide and almost frightened as he stared at the person he called brother.

  I’d told them I wanted to go straight to 1876/96TWA-TS. I needed—hell, I didn’t know what I needed. It wasn’t like I could go see Jim’s body, considering it’d been burned after the hanging. I had no idea where his kids were, so it wasn’t like I could go and find them and bring them here and away from the sickening world we were born into. It wasn’t like there was a funeral to attend, either. People were scared. Jim wasn’t the first lynching, and I was terrified he wasn’t going to be the last.

  But I told my adoptive parents I wanted to go to 1876/96TWA-TS, and now Katrina was calling me out on what I’d do once I got there.

  “I don’t know,” I told her. “Something. Anything. I can’t stand back and let his death mean nothing!”

  So far, Brom hadn’t said much. He simply stood near the door, blocking it while crossing his arms, looking like a goddamn bear while he let Katrina try to reason with me.r />
  It wasn’t going so well.

  “Finn, holding on to rage and the past does no one any good.”

  I hated that she often seemed like she could read my mind. “The past! He just fucking died two days ago!”

  Brom rumbled, “Do not speak to your mother like that.”

  Katrina ignored him just as easily as she did my outburst. “Violence rarely solves anything.”

  “Who said I was going to do anything violent?”

  “Sweetheart, were you not arrested tonight for beating up an innocent boy?” When I said nothing, she added, “We are obviously quite aware of who he resembles.”

  One of my tutors had told me about some guy called Hammurabi. An eye for an eye, he said. I liked that, because Sawyer needed to pay for what he had done. And since Sawyer wasn’t in front of me, and some punk kid who was picking on some small-for-his-age kid simply because he was black was, my fists wanted justice.

  “You’re not going,” Katrina eventually insisted. “It will solve nothing.”

  The Institute was put on lockdown for the following month. My parents took no chances with me—I was never left in the position to edit anywhere. Instead, I got to visit my shrink on an every-other-day basis. He asked me even more questions about my childhood, my good-for-nothing Pap, about Tom Sawyer and all the illusions and pedestals I assigned him, and about Jim. At first I said nothing, because he kept asking stupid questions like, “How does Jim’s death make you feel?”

  In the end, he told me I suffered from survivors’ guilt, whatever the hell that meant.

  1876/96TWA-TS became something poisonous to me, much to the confusion of my parents. Instead of accepting my past, it became repugnant. Everything about it felt wrong. The people. The racism. The slavery. The backwater mentality. The forced morality and civility that thinly veiled prejudice, misogyny, and snobbery. The longer I lived in New York City, the more I despised everything about my childhood. I resented I was born into such a place. Loathed that I even associated myself with anyone who lived there, especially those who lived in their misguided, blissed-out existences that thought it was okay to devalue the life of somebody as wonderful as Jim. I came to hate Twain and his goddamn books.