Aching for Always by Gwyn Cready Page B

much attention before. It ran from the old Bell of Pennsylvania building past a handful of ancient buildings that faced the alley, ending at a church. The alley was deserted but lit, and the lights of the buildings spilled onto the pavement. As soon as she turned, thesounds of traffic faded. There was a quaint simplicity to the passageway—the lack of cars, she supposed, although the old buildings on it and the openwork metal spire that rose above it like a silent guardian gave it a sort of urban Currier & Ives feel.
    The humming grew louder. Not electric. Beelike. A happy, inviting hum.
    She reached William Penn Place, the first street the alley intersected, and the sparks and humming stopped. She could see them behind her, where she’d already walked, and farther on, where the alley picked up again across the road.
    Even more curious, she crossed William Penn and continued. As soon as she stepped into the alley again, the sparks rained down, only so thick it was as bright as a spring afternoon. Then she noticed the sparks weren’t falling to the ground here. They were accumulating like snow on a huge domelike thing that curved over the buildings along this block. Only the dome couldn’t be seen, or, rather, it could be seen, but only because the sparks piled on top of it outlined its shape, which otherwise would have been invisible to her.
    Her curiosity turned to stunned amazement. This was beyond out of the ordinary. This was—
    All at once, the dome stretched like an enormous lens, turning her view of the building behind it, a little shop with a sign that read TOM JAMES , TAILOR , into something you’d see in a fun house mirror. Then, as fast as the dome had stretched, it snapped back, and Joss jumped, her heart thumping.
    The thing seemed to be breathing—or seething. She didn’t know which.
    The sparks fell faster and glowed brighter. There was the smell of something—the ocean?—in the air. She looked at the building within the dome’s confines.
    Redbrick and black-shuttered with a peaked-roof, the three-storey shop was definitely from another time. It looked like it should be the home of Arthur Clennam or Scrooge or some other Dickens character. She’d heard Di talk about it before. It was one of the oldest buildings in Pittsburgh. It looked totally out of place in the middle of a downtown full of skyscrapers.
    She took a step closer and then another, as close as she dared to the dome’s edge. At the third step, the road jerked under her feet, and her head—or was it her whole body?—started to spin. She saw snatches of things she didn’t understand—a stormy sea, a captain on an ancient sailing ship, a woman with her back to Joss poring over a map and even Joss herself, just a moment earlier, standing at the head of alley, before she’d entered.
    Terrified, she struggled to find her footing, but just as she found a steady surface the world exploded into crushing supernova of light and noise, and she was flung backward.
    The next thing she sensed, though barely, was her head smacking the cold street and the noise that hammered at her ears in the middle of this spinning, swirling storm. A pair of strong arms lifted her. She fought them, but they were unconquerable. They pulled her out of the swirling chaos, and a voice, deep and steady, said, “Spirit. I like that. A bit knocked about, but you’ll be fine.” With those words in her head and those arms around her, she stopped the fight and let the thickness fall over her.

C HAPTER F OUR
 
    P ITTSBURGH , P RESENT D AY
    â€œIs she a spy?” Fiona, ever ready for a scrap, stumbled to her feet amid the fading sparks and reached for her dagger. “Belkin and his foolish assurances. Of course, there are going to be others after the map.”
    Hugh Hawksmoor, who was shaking off his own confusion from the jarring arrival in the future, examined the slim, fine-boned young woman in