Remembrance (The Transcend Time Saga) (11 page)

“Do you just want to leave then?” he asked, although the twinge of annoyance in his tone let me know he would be irritated if I said yes.

I shook my head no. “I’ll be fine in a bit. We don’t have to leave.”

“Alright.” He shuffled his feet and looked around the room. “We can sit down until you’re ready.”

“It’s okay,” I said, surprised that the dizziness had passed. “I’m actually feeling much better now.”

Jeremy held out his hand and led me back to the center of the gym, rejoining Chelsea, Keelie, and some seniors they were dancing with. I tried to enjoy the rest of the night, but I couldn’t stop wondering why Drew made an appearance at the dance, and why he was so insistent on concealing his identity. I wouldn’t be able to get any answers that night, but if he thought I was going to forget about it and not bring it up at school on Monday, he was wrong.

He was there, and even if he didn’t want to, I was going to get him to admit it.

CHAPTER 17

Drew’s mysterious appearance at the dance distracted me all night. I’d asked Chelsea if she was sure he wasn’t coming, but she looked at me like I was crazy, reminded me that he was in New York, and dropped the subject. The rest of the dance passed slowly, and I was glad when it was time to leave. My mom was asleep when I got home, so I went to my room and flopped onto my bed, more comfortable now that I had changed out of the dress and into warm sweatpants and a t-shirt.

Still, despite what Chelsea had said, I knew Drew was there. I’d tried thinking of who else it could have been—a senior I didn’t know, a freshman who might have a crush on me, even someone who didn’t go to our school. However, I kept returning to the same conclusion: Drew was at the dance. The problem was that if I were right, I could never tell Chelsea. It would break her heart if she knew that he’d shown up and hadn’t bothered to tell her.

Then there was the bigger mystery of the night—the strange flash when we danced. It was more vivid than a dream, but there was no way I could create so much detail by myself, down to the composition of a classical song. It could have been a memory, but that was impossible. I’d never lived in that time period. Perhaps it was from a movie I’d seen that took place in the past.

That had to be it, because the only other explanation was that it was a
real
memory, which was ridiculous.

My curiosity got the best of me, and while the theory was far-fetched, I sat in front of my computer and typed “reincarnation” into the search bar. The fact that I was considering it made me laugh aloud, but maybe it was the reason I’d suddenly been able to understand and speak French.

Yes, it was impossible, but it couldn’t hurt to do a bit of research.

None of the links mentioned anything I’d experienced, but I continued to look, even stooping to a cheesy “past life generator” that informed me I was a Saudi Arabian shepherdess in my past life. I closed the page, hoping no one took that site seriously.

Then I found one that convinced me that I might not be losing my mind. It said that a person wouldn’t remember a past life without a trigger: a person, place or thing that the past self felt so strongly about that it instigated the memories to return. In my case it was a person, and that person was Drew. If the website were correct, then he must be having similar experiences to mine. 

I continued researching for over an hour, and when my eyes started burning from staring at the screen, I decided to look into it more in the morning. I went to put away my bag that I’d brought with me to the dance, pausing when I spotted Alistair’s card in the bottom where I’d tossed it after my first trip to the store. It seemed like a strange coincidence that he was able to help me with the entire outfit, but I wondered if he knew more than he told me.

It wouldn’t hurt to ask.

* * *

The small door at Alistair’s made the store feel more like a cave than the typical airy shops in the mall, and I walked inside, the wooden floorboards creaking with each step.

“Elizabeth Davenport,” Alistair’s scratchy voice greeted me from the back before I could start looking around. “I trust there was nothing wrong with your purchases?”

“Not at all,” I said, walking closer until I reached him sitting at the desk. “They were perfect.”

He smiled and removed his glasses, placing them down on an old book he was reading. “What are you looking for today then?”

I pressed my lips together, realizing that I should have planned how to start the conversation. How did one go about asking a storeowner if he had any knowledge on reincarnation? I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, contemplating how to begin.

“I just wanted to thank you for everything,” I said, figuring it was as good of a start as any. “The mask was beautiful. So was the necklace, headpiece, and dress.”

“You’re very welcome,” he replied, a knowing smile crossing over his face. “You’re quite a talented girl to design such an exquisite mask.”

“Thanks,” I said, pulling the sleeves of my shirt over my hands.

He closed the book and placed it in a drawer inside the desk. “But I suspect there’s another reason you’re here?”

“Yeah,” I said, searching my mind for how to begin. “This may seem like a strange question … but the dress and necklace seemed so familiar. Do you know when they were from?”

“I had a feeling you would like them,” he said. “The dress was inspired by the fashions of the Regency Era, and the necklace was from England. That one in particular was from Hampshire County. It belonged to a beautiful lady from around 1815.”

“That’s when
Pride and Prejudice
took place, right?” I asked, remembering discussing it in class.

“Jane Austen lived in Hampshire herself.” He pursed his lips before continuing. “Speaking of Austen, a long time ago I purchased something very special with the inclination that someone might need it someday.” He smiled and opened a drawer in the desk, lifting out a key that looked like it came out of the nineteenth century. The key fit into the lock of the wooden cabinet behind him, and he twisted it until it clicked open, revealing three books standing next to each other with light brown matching spines. He lifted them out of the cabinet and placed them on the desk, holding them as carefully as one would hold a newborn baby.

The textured covers were unlike anything I’d ever seen, and I looked up at him in question. 

“
Pride and Prejudice
was three volumes long,” he said, motioning to the books. “These were printed when Austen was still alive.”

My eyes widened in shock. “Those are first editions?”

“They are,” he replied, like it was the same as buying them from a local bookstore.

I took a step closer to examine them. “How’d you manage to get them?”

“The same way I get all of my items. I come across rarities, and trade or purchase them.”

I wasn’t an expert in antique books, but that sounded expensive. First editions of an Austen novel must cost thousands of dollars, if not more. I would have to look it up when I got home.

“I want you to have them,” he interrupted my thoughts. “They’re slightly worn, but only because the previous owner enjoyed them very much.”

“Have them?” I asked. “As in for free?”

He laughed, crinkling the thin skin around his eyes. “Yes, that’s normally what ‘have them’ means.”

I waited for him to say that there was some sort of catch, but his encouraging smile led me to believe he was serious about the offer. Shifting my gaze back down on the books, I reached forward, brushing my thumb against the cover. Relief washed through my body when it didn’t break or disintegrate, and I opened the third volume, examining the first page. The title stared back at me in bold capitalized font, and I looked at it in amazement.

“They’re beautiful,” I said, closing the book. “But why would you give them to me?”

He sat down again, taking a few seconds to contemplate the question. “I’ve been in this business since before you were born,” he started. “I’ve purchased, traded, and sold many items. Most of the time the item is forgotten—separated from its original owner generations ago, or sold by someone who no longer wanted it. But on rare occasions someone like you comes into the store and connects with one or more of my pieces. That’s why I entered the business in the first place—I want to match people with items that I feel belong to them. And these,” he looked down at the books, pushing them in my direction, “belong to you.”

I stared at them in wonder. “I do love them,” I said, looking back up at him. “But how can you tell when an item … belongs to someone?”

“For simplicity’s sake, let’s call it intuition.” He winked, motioning to the books. “Please take them. No one will ever come around who is even half as deserving as you.”

I opened the third book again and imagined what the tanned pages must have looked like fresh off the press, when they were a crisp white.

“Thank you,” I said, giving in. “This is the best gift anyone’s ever given me.”

He packed the books up carefully to keep them safe for the drive to my house, and I wondered what I’d done to deserve everything he’d done for me. It was only when I arrived home that I realized I was so caught up in the books that I’d forgotten to ask about the flash from the previous night.

* * *

“How was the mall?” my mom asked when I entered the house, her eyes traveling to the bag in my hand. “I see you bought something.”

“Just some books,” I said, not wanting to tell her what had really happened. I barely understood it myself.

“You never did tell me about the dance last night,” she prodded, pouring herself some water from the dispenser on the outside of the fridge. “How were everyone’s costumes?”

I shifted the bag from one hand to the other, itching to run upstairs and examine the books. “They were cool,” I said. “Jeremy dressed as Zorro.”

“What’s been going on with you and Jeremy recently?” she asked, taking a sip of water. “You used to never stop talking about him.”

“That was when we first started dating.” I shrugged, wishing she would let it go.

She held the glass in front of her and studied me. “Well, I’m glad everything’s fine between you two.” She didn’t sound convinced.

“Yeah,” I agreed, taking a step back towards the stairs. “Well, I think I’ll put away the books. Let me know when it’s time for dinner.”

I hurried up to my room and placed the bag on my bed, my hands hovering over the package like a child about to open a Christmas present. I was careful when unpacking the books, afraid that one wrong move would break the ancient paper, despite the protective covers. Published in 1813, the books must have had many owners before me. I could picture someone reading one on a rocking chair on a porch overlooking grassy hills that extended into a forest. It must have been great to live back when people could relax and enjoy life, not having to worry about homework or exams.

I picked the first volume up from its place next to the others and sat on my bed, placing it in front of me and lifting the cover. I expected to see the same bold title as the volume I’d opened in the store, but folded pieces of yellow parchment lay pressed between the cover and the first page. I lifted the top one and unfolded it. It was a sheet of music, and the title on top said “Minuet" by Mozart. The rest of the papers completed the song, and I laid them on my bedspread, flattening the creases with my hands.

I studied the composition, and what I learned from middle school choir came back to me. I heard what the notes would sound like if played on the piano—each one crystal clear in my mind. I closed my eyes to listen, and the flash of the couple dancing in the ballroom reappeared.

I knew why the song felt so familiar. It was the same one I’d heard while dancing with Drew—or the person I suspected was Drew—at the Halloween dance.

There wasn’t a piano in my house, but the school had one in the music room, which was left unlocked after school for anyone to practice. Nobody would mind if I attempted to play during that time, unless my attempts were awful, which they most likely would be.

Shaking my head, I realized that what I was thinking was impossible. The piece wasn’t exceptionally hard to play, but piano students started with “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” or “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” No one walked up to a piano and started playing Mozart. There was no reason to think that I would be any different.

However, I decided it couldn’t hurt to try. French wasn’t my forté either, and I now spoke it like I’d known how to for my entire life. Sight-reading was something I never mastered in choir, but the notes popped into my head like magic. Perhaps it
was
magic.

It was ridiculous, but there was no other explanation.

I couldn’t believe I was considering such a possibility. But resolving to keep an open mind, I stuck the sheet music in the back folder of my binder, just so it was there if I decided to try.

After all, given everything that had happened to me recently, the existence of magic didn’t seem quite as impossible as it had before.