reins tightly, staring straight ahead. The passengers, three girls around my age dressed in brilliant blues and scarlets, are giggling riotously as their glances skip over me. Even though I know it's silly, I sigh, trying not to look down at my black skirt.
The woman straightens up, watches the carriage pass, and then takes both children by the hand and begins to lead them away.
"Wait," I call after their retreating backs. The woman halts and turns, but just barely. "I'm looking for a family. The Greenes. Do you know them or where they live?"
"Never heard of them," she says, and, lifting her nose in the air, she marches off. Collin gives me one forlorn glance over his shoulder, and I heartily wish I had taken the time to freeze his horrible nanny just for a minute so he could at least be satisfied. Even if that would have been an incredibly stupid idea, it still would have been fun.
I take a deep breath and turn in a slow circle to get my bearings. I'm standing in what appears to be a park, with pathways curving left and right. Somewhere to my right, a fountain is gurgling and the shrieks of more children ring out across the grass. Trees, blazing with autumn golds and reds, surround me, and here and there through the branches I glimpse rows and rows of brick houses that look oddly familiar. It takes me a second and then I pinpoint it. Washington Square Park. I probably landed here because I had been thinking of my family's townhouse, which is—or I guess will be—on the north side of the park. I stare through the trees again, noting that there are definitely more of them than I'm used to. Turning northward, I search for where the huge stone archway should be. Just a few months ago, Agatha and I had taken turns snapping each other's picture under it when we took a prospective NYU student tour.
There's no archway.
And now the ground seems to tip and spin beneath my feet, and for one second I feel a stab of fear. Maybe I'm not immune to the symptoms of Traveling after all. I put one hand out and press my palm against the rough bark of a tree to steady myself. Relax. You knew everything was going to be so different. And it's not like you haven't done this before. Then I swallow, trying not to remember that the last two times I Traveled, I had Gabriel with me and a guaranteed way of getting home. But thinking about gabriel is not an option, otherwise I really will start crying. I stare down at my other hand, which is still clutching the Domani. I hold the little locket up to my ear. Just as I thought, the clock is no longer ticking. The way home is truly going to be a mystery. I slip the locket over my neck, close the catch firmly, and, steeling myself, I step onto the nearest path, searching for a way out of the park.
Six
I FEEL LIKE ONE OF THOSE tourists that Agatha and I always used to sidestep around back in my own New York City. The ones that walk too slowly and stop right in the middle of the sidewalk so that you almost trip over them. The ones that fling out their arms, pointing and staring and exclaiming. Okay, well, at least I'm not pointing and staring and exclaiming, but I'm pretty sure my jaw's dropped a couple of times.
This New York is so different from my New York. For starters, I can see the sky. There are no skyscrapers, no clusters of buildings reaching for the clouds. These buildings are all a lot shorter. And there are no cars and no people on skates and no joggers. Instead there's a parade of carriages drawn by horses jolting over cracked cobblestone streets.
Which means mud.
A lot of mud. The hem and lower half of my once black skirt is now flecked brown, and I can't say it's adding much to my look.
"Oysters, oysters, oysters! Get them fresh," a man shouts as he pulls a cart past me, the wheels coming dangerously close to my toes. Right after him comes a stout woman screaming, "Hot pies, hot pies! Get 'em while they're hot!" A large basket is slung over her right arm.
My stomach rumbles loudly
The woman straightens up, watches the carriage pass, and then takes both children by the hand and begins to lead them away.
"Wait," I call after their retreating backs. The woman halts and turns, but just barely. "I'm looking for a family. The Greenes. Do you know them or where they live?"
"Never heard of them," she says, and, lifting her nose in the air, she marches off. Collin gives me one forlorn glance over his shoulder, and I heartily wish I had taken the time to freeze his horrible nanny just for a minute so he could at least be satisfied. Even if that would have been an incredibly stupid idea, it still would have been fun.
I take a deep breath and turn in a slow circle to get my bearings. I'm standing in what appears to be a park, with pathways curving left and right. Somewhere to my right, a fountain is gurgling and the shrieks of more children ring out across the grass. Trees, blazing with autumn golds and reds, surround me, and here and there through the branches I glimpse rows and rows of brick houses that look oddly familiar. It takes me a second and then I pinpoint it. Washington Square Park. I probably landed here because I had been thinking of my family's townhouse, which is—or I guess will be—on the north side of the park. I stare through the trees again, noting that there are definitely more of them than I'm used to. Turning northward, I search for where the huge stone archway should be. Just a few months ago, Agatha and I had taken turns snapping each other's picture under it when we took a prospective NYU student tour.
There's no archway.
And now the ground seems to tip and spin beneath my feet, and for one second I feel a stab of fear. Maybe I'm not immune to the symptoms of Traveling after all. I put one hand out and press my palm against the rough bark of a tree to steady myself. Relax. You knew everything was going to be so different. And it's not like you haven't done this before. Then I swallow, trying not to remember that the last two times I Traveled, I had Gabriel with me and a guaranteed way of getting home. But thinking about gabriel is not an option, otherwise I really will start crying. I stare down at my other hand, which is still clutching the Domani. I hold the little locket up to my ear. Just as I thought, the clock is no longer ticking. The way home is truly going to be a mystery. I slip the locket over my neck, close the catch firmly, and, steeling myself, I step onto the nearest path, searching for a way out of the park.
Six
I FEEL LIKE ONE OF THOSE tourists that Agatha and I always used to sidestep around back in my own New York City. The ones that walk too slowly and stop right in the middle of the sidewalk so that you almost trip over them. The ones that fling out their arms, pointing and staring and exclaiming. Okay, well, at least I'm not pointing and staring and exclaiming, but I'm pretty sure my jaw's dropped a couple of times.
This New York is so different from my New York. For starters, I can see the sky. There are no skyscrapers, no clusters of buildings reaching for the clouds. These buildings are all a lot shorter. And there are no cars and no people on skates and no joggers. Instead there's a parade of carriages drawn by horses jolting over cracked cobblestone streets.
Which means mud.
A lot of mud. The hem and lower half of my once black skirt is now flecked brown, and I can't say it's adding much to my look.
"Oysters, oysters, oysters! Get them fresh," a man shouts as he pulls a cart past me, the wheels coming dangerously close to my toes. Right after him comes a stout woman screaming, "Hot pies, hot pies! Get 'em while they're hot!" A large basket is slung over her right arm.
My stomach rumbles loudly
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