Introducing... alt-Richmond!
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
The library appeared to be empty and remained so for at least half an hour. It was a long, peaceful room with a soft tan carpet and a low arched ceiling from which hung yellow glass lamps. The walls were completely hidden by rows of massive bookshelves, wheeled ladders on ramps dotting the aisles to reach the highest ones. A lumpy-looking brown armchair sat in the middle of the aisle. Upon arriving there, Richmond had immediately snatched his hand away from Julian’s and had pulled down a book, sitting with his back against the shelf and giving the text all of his attention. Julian had waited awkwardly nearby for a while, finally burying his own nose into a copy of something that might have been about King Arthur, though Joséphine-Marie noticed that he seemed to be watching Richmond more often than the page. She rolled her eyes and tried to sit in the brown chair, but its cushion was too narrow for her hoops and she was forced to settle for perching awkwardly on one of the arms. She thought of Adélaïde and her pocket hoops, which would have fit into the armchair with much less trouble.
Both of her companions were silent, focusing-or pretending to focus-on their respective books. Joséphine-Marie eyed the nearest shelf unhappily. “Is there anything here that isn’t in English?” she asked, keeping her voice low. The room was so still that she was almost afraid to make any quick movements, much less speak at a normal volume.
“I wish you could meet George,” Richmond replied, also in a whisper. “He has a collection of French stuff in his room-Hugo, Baudelaire, all of that.”
“And why can’t I meet him?”
Richmond rested his book on his knees. “Because this isn’t our reality, so he would expect us to be- to be the alt-Richmond and the alt-Julian. Technically the same people, but the ones you could have known if you- if you weren’t French.”
“So he’s… alt-George?”
“Exactly. And he has no idea you’re alive.”
“Alt-Sophie,” said Joséphine-Marie.
Richmond smiled and returned to his book. Julian was still watching him sulkily from the other side of the aisle.
Joséphine-Marie frowned thoughtfully at the two of them. “So this is the right moment? You’re sure of it?”
“If this was the real timeline Sophie would be here instead of us. She was reading this old play, a French one, and whoever it was snuck up behind her,” Julian said. “If it just was a robber who would have come to the library either way, he’d be here. Or on his way.”
“What was she reading?”
Julian shrugged.
“One of those plays,” said Richmond. “Something by Racine.”
Joséphine-Marie gaped at him. “Which Racine?” she asked urgently.
Her tone seemed to take Richmond by surprise; he lowered his book again. “I honestly don’t remember, Sophie. I’m sorry.”
“But it was in English?”
“It was bound in green,” Julian offered.
Joséphine-Marie plunged one hand through her skirts and into her pocket, producing the little book her father had given her yesterday-hundreds of years ago. She held it up wordlessly.
Julian squinted at the cover, leaning forward to see it better. “An-dro-ma-kay?”
“Andromaque,” corrected Richmond. “It was one of her favorites.”
“Oh!” said Julian. “That play she made us watch! With Hermione in it.”
“Orestes and Pylades,” Richmond added, his eyes on Julian.
“Hermione.”
“You know it?” Joséphine-Marie asked. “And she liked it too?”
“Where did you get that?” Julian scrambled to his feet and took the book from her. “Was this shoved down the front of your pants?” He flipped to a page and his expression darkened. “It’s in French.”
“Of course it is,” said Joséphine-Marie, gently taking the book back. She ran a loving hand over the cover before sliding it back into her pocket. “My father gave me this for my saint day.”
“I hate it when things are in French,” said Julian.
“It must not be the same book she was reading. I don’t think she knew enough French to read the play in its original language.”
Julian dropped to the floor in the middle of the aisle, folding his long legs beneath him. “It’s a coincidence, though.”
Richmond returned to his book, adding, “I suppose you aren’t as different from Sophie as you think you are.”
“Do either of you mind if I have a bit of a look around?” Joséphine-Marie asked quietly. “Perhaps I’ll be able to find something useful.”
“That’s fine with me,” said Julian.
Richmond nodded without looking up from his book.
Leaving the two of them to their silent dispute, Joséphine-Marie gathered her skirts into her hands, lifting them to her ankles so that they wouldn’t make so much noise against the carpet, and moved out into the main aisle. The library was much bigger than she would have expected, row after towering row of books extending to a back wall so far away that she could barely make out the individual shelves that lined it. The room must have been at least as big as an entire floor of the Blomet manor, and this was only the library! They might have had no title or name, but her real parents were suddenly a far less disappointing prospect than she had expected. Joséphine-Marie could just see a door on the nearer wall which she assumed must lead to the rest of the estate. She quickly counted and saw that Richmond and Julian were sitting in the eleventh row from the door before she turned to the far wall.
Every row she peered down looked exactly like the one she had just left, lacking only the armchair. The books were all sizes and colors; Joséphine-Marie longed for the order of her father’s library in the Blomet manor, where every book was bound in the same green cover, all of them organized by Joséphine-Marie herself, sorted alphabetically by author. The walk down the length of the main aisle took longer it should have, for she stopped several times to check the titles on the nearest books. None of them were in French. None of them were particularly interesting. None of them seemed to have ever been removed from their shelf.
When she reached the back wall, Joséphine-Marie turned to her left and almost cried out in surprise: someone was sitting in the far corner, knees drawn up to his chest and a large book open in front of his face. He obviously hadn’t heard her approach, completely engrossed in a book with a title she could actually understand: “The Wretched Ones” by an author whose name she had never seen before. For a moment she considered retreating and running back to Richmond and Julian, telling them she may have found the intruder, but she gathered her thoughts and forced herself to think rationally. What sort of murderer would sit down in a corner to read a book as massive as that one? Whoever this was, he must belong here. Joséphine-Marie cleared her throat.
The young man lowered his book and scrambled to his feet at once, suspicion and guilt mingling in his expression. The sight of his face almost made Joséphine-Marie gasp, but she forced herself to swallow the impulse. The young man, meanwhile, hugged his heavy book to his chest and stared wide-eyed at Joséphine-Marie. “Who’re you?”
“I’d ask the same question,” Joséphine-Marie said, working to keep her voice level, “but I think I already know.” Indeed, the stranger’s face was perfectly familiar to her: he had dark blue eyes, a long, straight nose, a pretty mouth, a strong jaw, and a pointed chin. His long black hair was tied messily at the back of his neck, held in place by a thin band. “Is-is your name Richmond? Are you Richmond?”
He tried to take a step back, but he was already standing against the corner bookshelf. “Who are you?” he asked again. “I’ll call for the professor. How did you get out of the facility?”
“I’m- I’m Joséphine-Marie. I’m sorry to have startled you. We’re trying to-to solve a mystery.”
The alt-Richmond was fumbling in his pocket for something. “But if you’re from the facility,” he went on, almost as if he hadn’t heard, “where did you get that dress?”
“I’m not- I’m from Paris. I’m from your past,” Joséphine-Marie said quickly. “I’m here with- oh dear, I have no idea where to start.”
At that the alt-Richmond’s expression changed completely. He went back to hugging the book with both arms and mumbled, “Oh. So you’re one of Julian’s little jokes.”
Joséphine-Marie furrowed her brow. “Jokes?”
“So what is it?” the alt-Richmond asked resignedly. “Go ahead and give me the punch line. Or did he bring you here and forget about you?”
“Oh! No, I’ve never met your Julian!” said Joséphine-Marie. “I’m from- well, not me, I’m from here, but I’m with the real Julian from an alternate reality. You and your Julian-and me, actually-we’re all just copies of the real thing. They’re here! They’re in this library right now!”
“I see,” said the alt-Richmond. “So are you going to introduce me to another version of Julian?” He ran one hand over the cover of his book almost lovingly before sliding it into a gap on a nearby shelf. “This should be interesting,” he muttered.
Joséphine-Marie led the alt-Richmond back down the main aisle of the library, looking over her shoulder several times to make sure he was still following. Every time their eyes met she noticed that his expression was not calm and confident like the Richmond she knew, but clouded with mistrust. In fact, the lack of similarity between the two Richmonds was startling. This alt-Richmond held himself awkwardly, his shoulders rounded and his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his long white smock. He spent most of the walk back staring down at the carpet as it disappeared beneath his heavy, battered-looking black boots. He looked younger and slightly thinner than the real Richmond, especially around his cheeks, and there were half-circles of dark flesh beneath his eyes as though he hadn’t gotten a full night’s rest. Something about the way he carried himself reminded Joséphine-Marie of the abandoned dogs who skulked through the crowds in the streets of Paris, daring to hope for scraps though they knew they would never receive anything more than a kick to the ribs. The real Richmond carried himself like a member of the nobility, his head high and his shoulders back. Joséphine-Marie couldn’t help but wonder what had given the real Richmond his confidence, or what had stripped the alt-Richmond of his.
When they reached the eleventh row from the door, she felt suddenly responsible for this alt-Richmond and put out a hand for him to stop. He did, almost listlessly, but she could see that he was still studying her with that same air of suspicion. “Just wait for a moment,” she murmured. He made no move to disobey, but even so Joséphine-Marie added, “Please don’t disappear.” She touched him awkwardly on his wrist as though to help reassure him.
“I won’t,” said the alt-Richmond, frowning down at her hand.
Joséphine-Marie withdrew, trying to smile at him.
It was immediately obvious that Julian had taken it upon himself to end their feud while she was gone: he was curled up at Richmond’s side, head on his shoulder, pointing at a page in his book. Joséphine-Marie heard the end of a conversation that seemed to be about the nature of the wizard Merlin’s friendship to King Arthur before Richmond became aware of her presence and looked up. “Welcome back,” he said with his gentle smile.
Julian sat up, manic grin firmly in place. “How d’you like the library, Sophe?”
“I, uh, found something,” Joséphine-Marie said, practically stammering.
“The intruder?” Julian asked, perking up at once. “Did you stop him?”
Joséphine-Marie shook her head. “He’s no intruder.” She took a step back, bringing herself even with the alt-Richmond, whose wariness seemed to have faded into an expression of pure confusion. “This,” she said, beckoning for him to come forward, “this is Richmond.”
The alt-Richmond moved into view, eying Joséphine-Marie uncomfortably, and came to stand by her side.
The real Richmond got to his feet so quickly that his shoulder seemed to knock into Julian’s jaw. He faced the two of them, shock drawn into every feature of his elegant face, while Julian remained on the floor, sulking and rubbing at his stubbly chin. “He’s me!” Richmond exclaimed. He spun around, cloak billowing out behind him, and pulled Julian up by his underarms. “Look at this, Ju. It’s me.”
Now the alt-Richmond hastened backwards, retreating from the three strangers until he was backed against the end of a bookshelf. Joséphine-Marie followed him, worried that he was preparing to flee. “Who are they?” he hissed, his voice almost too low for her to hear. “Who are you?” He never took his eyes off the two men in the eleventh aisle.
Joséphine-Marie glanced over her shoulder. Richmond was standing with a supportive arm around Julian’s waist, both of them watching the scene with interest that bordered on disbelief. She turned back to the alt-Richmond. “As I told you, they’re from a different reality.”
“Is this the future?” the alt-Richmond asked almost wildly. “Are you from the future?”
“The future of an alternate reality,” said Joséphine-Marie.
This time the alt-Richmond seemed to hear. His attention snapped away from Richmond and Julian and he studied her as though he thought she might be mad. “Like science fiction?”
“Have you ever heard George mention Julian’s little sister?” Richmond called.
The alt-Richmond did not look up. “Is he talking about the daughter?” he asked Joséphine-Marie. “The baby that was stolen from the nursery?”
Joséphine-Marie nodded.
“What does this have to do with her? An alternate reality?”
“In their world,” Joséphine-Marie began, “she never left. In their world the three of them grew up together.”
And now the alt-Richmond’s fierce stare intensified; she saw his eyes darting back and forth between her face and Julian’s. “Who are you?”
“Joséphine-Marie Françoise de Blomet.”
“But you’re not,” the alt-Richmond said. “Look at you. You aren’t from their reality, did I hear that right? You’re from my reality. You’re from here.” He looked over at Julian and Richmond again. “You’re Joséphine-Marie, but you could have been her. You could have been Sophie. You look just like your brother.” At that his gaze dropped back to the floor. “And if the daughter hadn’t disappeared, things would have been different.”
“Very different,” said the real Richmond. He had moved forward to better join the conversation, bringing Julian along with him.
The alt-Richmond turned back to Joséphine-Marie. “Why are you speaking French? Is it Julian’s fault? He’s the only time-traveler I know.”
“He’s quick, isn’t he?” Julian said, visibly impressed. “Richmond and I did it. We moved Sophie to France when she was a baby. We left her with François so she would be safe. But last night she found us.”
“You can time travel too,” said the alt-Richmond, still studying Joséphine-Marie.
“I just found out about it yesterday. Hundreds of years ago, but yesterday. I’m afraid I must have caused a scene at my masked ball.”
For the first time, the alt-Richmond smiled. It was subtle, just a tiny curl at one corner of his mouth, but it was undeniably a timid little smile. “I bet you did,” he said, his voice tinged with appreciation. “This dress-was it a costume party? Or were you living in the eighteenth century?”
Now it was Joséphine-Marie’s turn to smile. “The eighteenth century! It was 1774. But how did you know?”
“Panniers,” said the alt-Richmond. “Side hoops, I mean. They were big-literally-right up until the French revolution. After all that nonsense about nobility and the bourgeois class they were never seen again.”
“The French revolution?” Joséphine-Marie repeated. “When will that be?” She glanced back at her brother. “What about the nobility?”
“You made it out in time,” the real Richmond said. “Don’t worry about it.”
“But will it affect my family? Should I go back and-?”
Julian interrupted her impatiently. “You’re a time traveler, Sophie. You can worry about it later.”
“So! Richmond! I mean, alt-Richmond. Other Richmond.” The real Richmond was smiling kindly but a little condescendingly. “Has your Julian ever taken you to see Vienna? We were thinking about dropping in on a friend after this.”
The alt-Richmond sneered at the floor. “That isn’t exactly how it works.”
“No?” Richmond said. “You- What do you mean?”
“It’s not as if he’d drag a normal around with him, is it? I’m not the special one.”
Richmond and Julian both seemed appalled at this. While Julian stared, his brown eyes completely round, Richmond asked, “You mean to say you haven’t been outside since George adopted you?”
“Since George bought me,” the alt-Richmond amended.
“You haven’t-? But what do you do? What is there to do?”
“I keep busy.”
“You’ve never been off the grounds?” Julian asked in disbelief.
The real Richmond was equally baffled. “What about Vienna? You haven’t seen Vienna? Or New York City? No England or France? None of it?”
The alt-Richmond said nothing.
“Blimey,” Julian mumbled. “Alternate realities are weird.”
Joséphine-Marie was watching the alt-Richmond, noting that a few chunks of stringy hair had come free of their rubber band and were hanging limply against his hollow cheeks, that he was almost as thin as Julian, and that his blue eyes and elegant cheekbones were offset by dark shadows. He caught her gaze and looked away at once, visibly flustered. She wrinkled her nose as she thought aloud, “Never been outside? But I thought you said there were grounds? Extensive grounds?”
“Yeah,” said Julian, “but that’s inside the walls. We don’t go outside the walls. It’s like the air outside isn’t clean enough or something.”
Richmond nodded. “I remember talk about a few other rich people who had houses with enclosed grounds from before I came here. But I don’t remember having any particular problem with the air.”
“Yeah, but you were born breathing that air. Me and Sophe would probably shrivel up and die. We’ve only ever lived in filtered air. Not including the past, of course.”
“Surely the air outside the estate isn’t that bad. I do live in Paris, after all.”
“Oh, yeah, Paris smells nasty,” said Julian with a grimace. “I mean, in your time it does. They got it worked out about a hundred years later. Then the main problem is the metro.”
Joséphine-Marie looked back to the alt-Richmond. “But you’ve never-?”
He shook his head once, firmly, cutting her off.
“But that’s terrible! Surely that’s inhuman, to be trapped in one house your entire life! Even when I was at the convent we were allowed to recess to the garden!”
The alt-Richmond shrugged, his eyes fastened to the ground again.
“It does sound rough,” ceded Julian. He shifted his weight to his other foot. “Okay then, I think we’ve been here long enough. There’s no one here but us.”
“So whoever broke in only did it in our reality,” Richmond mused. “It was specific to Sophie somehow.”
Julian stuck a hand out to Joséphine-Marie. “Fine. No point in hanging around.” He wiggled his fingers and grinned. “Have you seen Vienna?”
Joséphine-Marie shook her head. “No.”
“Then come on! Right at the beginning of the twenty-first century there’s a show we think you’ll like.”
She shook her head again. “No.”
Now Julian’s grin faltered. “What do you mean? Come on.”
“It’s not right. You can’t just drop in, see what you’ve done, and then take off for another adventure. You have a responsibility to Richmond.”
Julian exchanged glances with his companion. “I do?”
“No,” said Joséphine-Marie, “I mean this Richmond. If it wasn’t for you, he’d be-” she gestured to the real Richmond. “It’s your fault he’s never left the grounds. So you should make it right. Just once. Just Vienna.”
“Sophie-”
Joséphine-Marie impulsively hooked her arm through the alt-Richmond’s, pulling him toward her. It was like trying to drag a statue across carpet; the alt-Richmond’s arm went completely stiff. She turned to him, trying to read his expression, but his face was carefully blank. She waited until his eyes flicked in her direction before she asked, “Would you like to come with us? Would you like to see Vienna? I’ve never seen it either.”
He looked away, clenching his jaw several once or twice before muttering, “I’m not allowed to leave.”
“That doesn’t matter,” said Joséphine-Marie. “Julian can do anything. Can’t you, Julian?”
“Well- yeah, pretty much.” He grinned again, puffing his thin chest out ever so slightly. “We can have you back in seconds, but you’ll have been gone for as long as you like!”
“So please come with us,” said Joséphine-Marie, tightening her hold on the alt-Richmond’s arm. “I’d love some company.” She could see him hesitating, so she added, “I’ll be ever so miserable if you don’t. These two are constantly telling each other stories that mean nothing to me. I need someone to chat with me when I’m being ignored.”
“Come on, Sophe, we don’t ignore you,” Julian protested.
The real Richmond put a hand on his companion’s shoulder. “Are you watching this?” he asked, his voice low.
“What?”
“It’s me all over again. When we were kids. Do you remember? This is exactly what Sophie used to do to convince me to play with the two of you.”
Julian’s eyes went round. “It is! If she was wearing jeans and a tutu and everybody was about ten years younger-”
“I’d forgotten about Sophie’s tutu,” Richmond said with a smile. “But you’re right; she used to wear that thing all the time. Even over her clothes.”
“Yeah, Edgar gave her that! She used to pose for him sometimes when we were younger. She could sit still forever.”
“But I bet you couldn’t.”
“Nope. But there was a lot of neat stuff in his studio. Plus I could try to make her laugh. But then Edgar would yell at me.”
“He yelled at you?”
“He called me an urchin and said I ruined everything and disrupted the flow of art.”
“Disrupted the flow of art? How pretentious can you be? That’s ridiculous.”
Joséphine-Marie raised her eyebrows at the alt-Richmond. “Now do you see why I need you?”
To her surprise, he genuinely smiled.
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
The library appeared to be empty and remained so for at least half an hour. It was a long, peaceful room with a soft tan carpet and a low arched ceiling from which hung yellow glass lamps. The walls were completely hidden by rows of massive bookshelves, wheeled ladders on ramps dotting the aisles to reach the highest ones. A lumpy-looking brown armchair sat in the middle of the aisle. Upon arriving there, Richmond had immediately snatched his hand away from Julian’s and had pulled down a book, sitting with his back against the shelf and giving the text all of his attention. Julian had waited awkwardly nearby for a while, finally burying his own nose into a copy of something that might have been about King Arthur, though Joséphine-Marie noticed that he seemed to be watching Richmond more often than the page. She rolled her eyes and tried to sit in the brown chair, but its cushion was too narrow for her hoops and she was forced to settle for perching awkwardly on one of the arms. She thought of Adélaïde and her pocket hoops, which would have fit into the armchair with much less trouble.
Both of her companions were silent, focusing-or pretending to focus-on their respective books. Joséphine-Marie eyed the nearest shelf unhappily. “Is there anything here that isn’t in English?” she asked, keeping her voice low. The room was so still that she was almost afraid to make any quick movements, much less speak at a normal volume.
“I wish you could meet George,” Richmond replied, also in a whisper. “He has a collection of French stuff in his room-Hugo, Baudelaire, all of that.”
“And why can’t I meet him?”
Richmond rested his book on his knees. “Because this isn’t our reality, so he would expect us to be- to be the alt-Richmond and the alt-Julian. Technically the same people, but the ones you could have known if you- if you weren’t French.”
“So he’s… alt-George?”
“Exactly. And he has no idea you’re alive.”
“Alt-Sophie,” said Joséphine-Marie.
Richmond smiled and returned to his book. Julian was still watching him sulkily from the other side of the aisle.
Joséphine-Marie frowned thoughtfully at the two of them. “So this is the right moment? You’re sure of it?”
“If this was the real timeline Sophie would be here instead of us. She was reading this old play, a French one, and whoever it was snuck up behind her,” Julian said. “If it just was a robber who would have come to the library either way, he’d be here. Or on his way.”
“What was she reading?”
Julian shrugged.
“One of those plays,” said Richmond. “Something by Racine.”
Joséphine-Marie gaped at him. “Which Racine?” she asked urgently.
Her tone seemed to take Richmond by surprise; he lowered his book again. “I honestly don’t remember, Sophie. I’m sorry.”
“But it was in English?”
“It was bound in green,” Julian offered.
Joséphine-Marie plunged one hand through her skirts and into her pocket, producing the little book her father had given her yesterday-hundreds of years ago. She held it up wordlessly.
Julian squinted at the cover, leaning forward to see it better. “An-dro-ma-kay?”
“Andromaque,” corrected Richmond. “It was one of her favorites.”
“Oh!” said Julian. “That play she made us watch! With Hermione in it.”
“Orestes and Pylades,” Richmond added, his eyes on Julian.
“Hermione.”
“You know it?” Joséphine-Marie asked. “And she liked it too?”
“Where did you get that?” Julian scrambled to his feet and took the book from her. “Was this shoved down the front of your pants?” He flipped to a page and his expression darkened. “It’s in French.”
“Of course it is,” said Joséphine-Marie, gently taking the book back. She ran a loving hand over the cover before sliding it back into her pocket. “My father gave me this for my saint day.”
“I hate it when things are in French,” said Julian.
“It must not be the same book she was reading. I don’t think she knew enough French to read the play in its original language.”
Julian dropped to the floor in the middle of the aisle, folding his long legs beneath him. “It’s a coincidence, though.”
Richmond returned to his book, adding, “I suppose you aren’t as different from Sophie as you think you are.”
“Do either of you mind if I have a bit of a look around?” Joséphine-Marie asked quietly. “Perhaps I’ll be able to find something useful.”
“That’s fine with me,” said Julian.
Richmond nodded without looking up from his book.
Leaving the two of them to their silent dispute, Joséphine-Marie gathered her skirts into her hands, lifting them to her ankles so that they wouldn’t make so much noise against the carpet, and moved out into the main aisle. The library was much bigger than she would have expected, row after towering row of books extending to a back wall so far away that she could barely make out the individual shelves that lined it. The room must have been at least as big as an entire floor of the Blomet manor, and this was only the library! They might have had no title or name, but her real parents were suddenly a far less disappointing prospect than she had expected. Joséphine-Marie could just see a door on the nearer wall which she assumed must lead to the rest of the estate. She quickly counted and saw that Richmond and Julian were sitting in the eleventh row from the door before she turned to the far wall.
Every row she peered down looked exactly like the one she had just left, lacking only the armchair. The books were all sizes and colors; Joséphine-Marie longed for the order of her father’s library in the Blomet manor, where every book was bound in the same green cover, all of them organized by Joséphine-Marie herself, sorted alphabetically by author. The walk down the length of the main aisle took longer it should have, for she stopped several times to check the titles on the nearest books. None of them were in French. None of them were particularly interesting. None of them seemed to have ever been removed from their shelf.
When she reached the back wall, Joséphine-Marie turned to her left and almost cried out in surprise: someone was sitting in the far corner, knees drawn up to his chest and a large book open in front of his face. He obviously hadn’t heard her approach, completely engrossed in a book with a title she could actually understand: “The Wretched Ones” by an author whose name she had never seen before. For a moment she considered retreating and running back to Richmond and Julian, telling them she may have found the intruder, but she gathered her thoughts and forced herself to think rationally. What sort of murderer would sit down in a corner to read a book as massive as that one? Whoever this was, he must belong here. Joséphine-Marie cleared her throat.
The young man lowered his book and scrambled to his feet at once, suspicion and guilt mingling in his expression. The sight of his face almost made Joséphine-Marie gasp, but she forced herself to swallow the impulse. The young man, meanwhile, hugged his heavy book to his chest and stared wide-eyed at Joséphine-Marie. “Who’re you?”
“I’d ask the same question,” Joséphine-Marie said, working to keep her voice level, “but I think I already know.” Indeed, the stranger’s face was perfectly familiar to her: he had dark blue eyes, a long, straight nose, a pretty mouth, a strong jaw, and a pointed chin. His long black hair was tied messily at the back of his neck, held in place by a thin band. “Is-is your name Richmond? Are you Richmond?”
He tried to take a step back, but he was already standing against the corner bookshelf. “Who are you?” he asked again. “I’ll call for the professor. How did you get out of the facility?”
“I’m- I’m Joséphine-Marie. I’m sorry to have startled you. We’re trying to-to solve a mystery.”
The alt-Richmond was fumbling in his pocket for something. “But if you’re from the facility,” he went on, almost as if he hadn’t heard, “where did you get that dress?”
“I’m not- I’m from Paris. I’m from your past,” Joséphine-Marie said quickly. “I’m here with- oh dear, I have no idea where to start.”
At that the alt-Richmond’s expression changed completely. He went back to hugging the book with both arms and mumbled, “Oh. So you’re one of Julian’s little jokes.”
Joséphine-Marie furrowed her brow. “Jokes?”
“So what is it?” the alt-Richmond asked resignedly. “Go ahead and give me the punch line. Or did he bring you here and forget about you?”
“Oh! No, I’ve never met your Julian!” said Joséphine-Marie. “I’m from- well, not me, I’m from here, but I’m with the real Julian from an alternate reality. You and your Julian-and me, actually-we’re all just copies of the real thing. They’re here! They’re in this library right now!”
“I see,” said the alt-Richmond. “So are you going to introduce me to another version of Julian?” He ran one hand over the cover of his book almost lovingly before sliding it into a gap on a nearby shelf. “This should be interesting,” he muttered.
Joséphine-Marie led the alt-Richmond back down the main aisle of the library, looking over her shoulder several times to make sure he was still following. Every time their eyes met she noticed that his expression was not calm and confident like the Richmond she knew, but clouded with mistrust. In fact, the lack of similarity between the two Richmonds was startling. This alt-Richmond held himself awkwardly, his shoulders rounded and his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his long white smock. He spent most of the walk back staring down at the carpet as it disappeared beneath his heavy, battered-looking black boots. He looked younger and slightly thinner than the real Richmond, especially around his cheeks, and there were half-circles of dark flesh beneath his eyes as though he hadn’t gotten a full night’s rest. Something about the way he carried himself reminded Joséphine-Marie of the abandoned dogs who skulked through the crowds in the streets of Paris, daring to hope for scraps though they knew they would never receive anything more than a kick to the ribs. The real Richmond carried himself like a member of the nobility, his head high and his shoulders back. Joséphine-Marie couldn’t help but wonder what had given the real Richmond his confidence, or what had stripped the alt-Richmond of his.
When they reached the eleventh row from the door, she felt suddenly responsible for this alt-Richmond and put out a hand for him to stop. He did, almost listlessly, but she could see that he was still studying her with that same air of suspicion. “Just wait for a moment,” she murmured. He made no move to disobey, but even so Joséphine-Marie added, “Please don’t disappear.” She touched him awkwardly on his wrist as though to help reassure him.
“I won’t,” said the alt-Richmond, frowning down at her hand.
Joséphine-Marie withdrew, trying to smile at him.
It was immediately obvious that Julian had taken it upon himself to end their feud while she was gone: he was curled up at Richmond’s side, head on his shoulder, pointing at a page in his book. Joséphine-Marie heard the end of a conversation that seemed to be about the nature of the wizard Merlin’s friendship to King Arthur before Richmond became aware of her presence and looked up. “Welcome back,” he said with his gentle smile.
Julian sat up, manic grin firmly in place. “How d’you like the library, Sophe?”
“I, uh, found something,” Joséphine-Marie said, practically stammering.
“The intruder?” Julian asked, perking up at once. “Did you stop him?”
Joséphine-Marie shook her head. “He’s no intruder.” She took a step back, bringing herself even with the alt-Richmond, whose wariness seemed to have faded into an expression of pure confusion. “This,” she said, beckoning for him to come forward, “this is Richmond.”
The alt-Richmond moved into view, eying Joséphine-Marie uncomfortably, and came to stand by her side.
The real Richmond got to his feet so quickly that his shoulder seemed to knock into Julian’s jaw. He faced the two of them, shock drawn into every feature of his elegant face, while Julian remained on the floor, sulking and rubbing at his stubbly chin. “He’s me!” Richmond exclaimed. He spun around, cloak billowing out behind him, and pulled Julian up by his underarms. “Look at this, Ju. It’s me.”
Now the alt-Richmond hastened backwards, retreating from the three strangers until he was backed against the end of a bookshelf. Joséphine-Marie followed him, worried that he was preparing to flee. “Who are they?” he hissed, his voice almost too low for her to hear. “Who are you?” He never took his eyes off the two men in the eleventh aisle.
Joséphine-Marie glanced over her shoulder. Richmond was standing with a supportive arm around Julian’s waist, both of them watching the scene with interest that bordered on disbelief. She turned back to the alt-Richmond. “As I told you, they’re from a different reality.”
“Is this the future?” the alt-Richmond asked almost wildly. “Are you from the future?”
“The future of an alternate reality,” said Joséphine-Marie.
This time the alt-Richmond seemed to hear. His attention snapped away from Richmond and Julian and he studied her as though he thought she might be mad. “Like science fiction?”
“Have you ever heard George mention Julian’s little sister?” Richmond called.
The alt-Richmond did not look up. “Is he talking about the daughter?” he asked Joséphine-Marie. “The baby that was stolen from the nursery?”
Joséphine-Marie nodded.
“What does this have to do with her? An alternate reality?”
“In their world,” Joséphine-Marie began, “she never left. In their world the three of them grew up together.”
And now the alt-Richmond’s fierce stare intensified; she saw his eyes darting back and forth between her face and Julian’s. “Who are you?”
“Joséphine-Marie Françoise de Blomet.”
“But you’re not,” the alt-Richmond said. “Look at you. You aren’t from their reality, did I hear that right? You’re from my reality. You’re from here.” He looked over at Julian and Richmond again. “You’re Joséphine-Marie, but you could have been her. You could have been Sophie. You look just like your brother.” At that his gaze dropped back to the floor. “And if the daughter hadn’t disappeared, things would have been different.”
“Very different,” said the real Richmond. He had moved forward to better join the conversation, bringing Julian along with him.
The alt-Richmond turned back to Joséphine-Marie. “Why are you speaking French? Is it Julian’s fault? He’s the only time-traveler I know.”
“He’s quick, isn’t he?” Julian said, visibly impressed. “Richmond and I did it. We moved Sophie to France when she was a baby. We left her with François so she would be safe. But last night she found us.”
“You can time travel too,” said the alt-Richmond, still studying Joséphine-Marie.
“I just found out about it yesterday. Hundreds of years ago, but yesterday. I’m afraid I must have caused a scene at my masked ball.”
For the first time, the alt-Richmond smiled. It was subtle, just a tiny curl at one corner of his mouth, but it was undeniably a timid little smile. “I bet you did,” he said, his voice tinged with appreciation. “This dress-was it a costume party? Or were you living in the eighteenth century?”
Now it was Joséphine-Marie’s turn to smile. “The eighteenth century! It was 1774. But how did you know?”
“Panniers,” said the alt-Richmond. “Side hoops, I mean. They were big-literally-right up until the French revolution. After all that nonsense about nobility and the bourgeois class they were never seen again.”
“The French revolution?” Joséphine-Marie repeated. “When will that be?” She glanced back at her brother. “What about the nobility?”
“You made it out in time,” the real Richmond said. “Don’t worry about it.”
“But will it affect my family? Should I go back and-?”
Julian interrupted her impatiently. “You’re a time traveler, Sophie. You can worry about it later.”
“So! Richmond! I mean, alt-Richmond. Other Richmond.” The real Richmond was smiling kindly but a little condescendingly. “Has your Julian ever taken you to see Vienna? We were thinking about dropping in on a friend after this.”
The alt-Richmond sneered at the floor. “That isn’t exactly how it works.”
“No?” Richmond said. “You- What do you mean?”
“It’s not as if he’d drag a normal around with him, is it? I’m not the special one.”
Richmond and Julian both seemed appalled at this. While Julian stared, his brown eyes completely round, Richmond asked, “You mean to say you haven’t been outside since George adopted you?”
“Since George bought me,” the alt-Richmond amended.
“You haven’t-? But what do you do? What is there to do?”
“I keep busy.”
“You’ve never been off the grounds?” Julian asked in disbelief.
The real Richmond was equally baffled. “What about Vienna? You haven’t seen Vienna? Or New York City? No England or France? None of it?”
The alt-Richmond said nothing.
“Blimey,” Julian mumbled. “Alternate realities are weird.”
Joséphine-Marie was watching the alt-Richmond, noting that a few chunks of stringy hair had come free of their rubber band and were hanging limply against his hollow cheeks, that he was almost as thin as Julian, and that his blue eyes and elegant cheekbones were offset by dark shadows. He caught her gaze and looked away at once, visibly flustered. She wrinkled her nose as she thought aloud, “Never been outside? But I thought you said there were grounds? Extensive grounds?”
“Yeah,” said Julian, “but that’s inside the walls. We don’t go outside the walls. It’s like the air outside isn’t clean enough or something.”
Richmond nodded. “I remember talk about a few other rich people who had houses with enclosed grounds from before I came here. But I don’t remember having any particular problem with the air.”
“Yeah, but you were born breathing that air. Me and Sophe would probably shrivel up and die. We’ve only ever lived in filtered air. Not including the past, of course.”
“Surely the air outside the estate isn’t that bad. I do live in Paris, after all.”
“Oh, yeah, Paris smells nasty,” said Julian with a grimace. “I mean, in your time it does. They got it worked out about a hundred years later. Then the main problem is the metro.”
Joséphine-Marie looked back to the alt-Richmond. “But you’ve never-?”
He shook his head once, firmly, cutting her off.
“But that’s terrible! Surely that’s inhuman, to be trapped in one house your entire life! Even when I was at the convent we were allowed to recess to the garden!”
The alt-Richmond shrugged, his eyes fastened to the ground again.
“It does sound rough,” ceded Julian. He shifted his weight to his other foot. “Okay then, I think we’ve been here long enough. There’s no one here but us.”
“So whoever broke in only did it in our reality,” Richmond mused. “It was specific to Sophie somehow.”
Julian stuck a hand out to Joséphine-Marie. “Fine. No point in hanging around.” He wiggled his fingers and grinned. “Have you seen Vienna?”
Joséphine-Marie shook her head. “No.”
“Then come on! Right at the beginning of the twenty-first century there’s a show we think you’ll like.”
She shook her head again. “No.”
Now Julian’s grin faltered. “What do you mean? Come on.”
“It’s not right. You can’t just drop in, see what you’ve done, and then take off for another adventure. You have a responsibility to Richmond.”
Julian exchanged glances with his companion. “I do?”
“No,” said Joséphine-Marie, “I mean this Richmond. If it wasn’t for you, he’d be-” she gestured to the real Richmond. “It’s your fault he’s never left the grounds. So you should make it right. Just once. Just Vienna.”
“Sophie-”
Joséphine-Marie impulsively hooked her arm through the alt-Richmond’s, pulling him toward her. It was like trying to drag a statue across carpet; the alt-Richmond’s arm went completely stiff. She turned to him, trying to read his expression, but his face was carefully blank. She waited until his eyes flicked in her direction before she asked, “Would you like to come with us? Would you like to see Vienna? I’ve never seen it either.”
He looked away, clenching his jaw several once or twice before muttering, “I’m not allowed to leave.”
“That doesn’t matter,” said Joséphine-Marie. “Julian can do anything. Can’t you, Julian?”
“Well- yeah, pretty much.” He grinned again, puffing his thin chest out ever so slightly. “We can have you back in seconds, but you’ll have been gone for as long as you like!”
“So please come with us,” said Joséphine-Marie, tightening her hold on the alt-Richmond’s arm. “I’d love some company.” She could see him hesitating, so she added, “I’ll be ever so miserable if you don’t. These two are constantly telling each other stories that mean nothing to me. I need someone to chat with me when I’m being ignored.”
“Come on, Sophe, we don’t ignore you,” Julian protested.
The real Richmond put a hand on his companion’s shoulder. “Are you watching this?” he asked, his voice low.
“What?”
“It’s me all over again. When we were kids. Do you remember? This is exactly what Sophie used to do to convince me to play with the two of you.”
Julian’s eyes went round. “It is! If she was wearing jeans and a tutu and everybody was about ten years younger-”
“I’d forgotten about Sophie’s tutu,” Richmond said with a smile. “But you’re right; she used to wear that thing all the time. Even over her clothes.”
“Yeah, Edgar gave her that! She used to pose for him sometimes when we were younger. She could sit still forever.”
“But I bet you couldn’t.”
“Nope. But there was a lot of neat stuff in his studio. Plus I could try to make her laugh. But then Edgar would yell at me.”
“He yelled at you?”
“He called me an urchin and said I ruined everything and disrupted the flow of art.”
“Disrupted the flow of art? How pretentious can you be? That’s ridiculous.”
Joséphine-Marie raised her eyebrows at the alt-Richmond. “Now do you see why I need you?”
To her surprise, he genuinely smiled.