A World Without You(46)

I glance at her and watch the timestream wrap around her the way it does me. The strings move like ripples in water, easily gliding over her body. It’s clear she can’t see what I can, but I wonder if she feels the threads of her own present and future and past wrapping around her, if she can feel the red thread that connects us together, or the way it cuts off abruptly in 1692.

She turns and smiles at me.

I squeeze her hand and reach out with my other one for the dark spot in the timestream indicating the night the Titanic sank. The strings are so cold they burn my skin, but I don’t let go, feeling the familiar tug at my navel as I’m pulled into the past.

At first I see only darkness and pinpricks of lights—stars, I think, but no, it’s more than that, it’s the lights of the ship, glittering in the lonely sea. Sofía’s grip on my hand tightens as the sound of the hull slicing through the waves fills our ears and the wooden boards of the ship’s deck solidify under our feet.

As soon as the cold air hits our skin, Sofía turns us both invisible. I hadn’t realized that her powers had grown so much stronger—it’s not like we talked about our powers on dates—but it gives me some comfort to know that she probably has the strength to stay hidden and safe in Salem.

I feel her body scoot closer to mine. I want to let go of her hand so that I can wrap my arm around her shoulders, but I settle with dropping my chin on the top of her head.

“It’s freezing out here!” she whispers.

“That’s the only thing you can think of?” I ask, smiling. I pull her across the smooth wooden deck of the ship, turning her around so that, rather than the dark waves of the ocean, Sofía can see the lit-up, glorious ship we’re on. She gasps, and I can feel her head tilting back, leaning as far as she can to drink in the exterior of the ship.

“It’s gorgeous,” she breathes.

“Come on,” I say, pulling her to the railing.

With the bright lights behind us, we can see the endless sky and stars. There are few people out here this late at night, just some well-dressed men talking in low voices and a few workers. I reach out for the timestream and feel that it’s close to midnight.

Close to the moment we’ll hit the iceberg.

Sofía’s twisted around, holding my hand awkwardly to keep us invisible, her back to the railing and her eyes still on the enormous ship. But I face the other way, squinting into the dark, trying to find the iceberg. The sky is moonless, and I can see nothing but the sparkle of stars and reflected lights from the ship on the waves immediately in front of us. A bell rings, and the ship changes course, enough to make us lose our footing. Sofía’s hand clutches mine in a death grip.

The men who’d been talking stand up, shake each other’s hands, and then walk together away from the deck, toward the cabins. As soon as they’re out of sight, Sofía lets go of my hand.

“Someone could see,” I say as we both become visible again.

“Anyone who sees us now won’t be able to tell,” Sofía replies.

It takes a moment for her words to sink in. Anyone who sees us now would be a worker, someone low on the totem pole, someone who wouldn’t merit a spot in the lifeboats.

In the distance, we can still hear signs of life—voices carrying over the still night air, children laughing and running on the promenade—but we’re alone on the deck, entirely alone with the stars and the smell of wood oil and the cold, crisp air.

Sofía rubs her hands up and down her arms. “I knew it would be cold,” she says, “but this is ridiculous.”

“Want to go inside?” I ask. Invisible, we could slip into the beautiful rooms, stare at the opulence that’s about to sink into oblivion.

She shakes her head. “I thought I wanted to see it all, but those men . . . I don’t want to see any people,” she says.

I pull her close and wrap my arms around her. “Want to go?” I ask, already bringing up the timestream.

The sound of children playing and running grows louder, and Sofía’s distracted, turning out of my embrace. “Why are there children out here this late at night?” she asks.

“They’re coming this way,” I say, grabbing her arm. “Quick—”

Without another word, she washes us both in invisibility. I can hear the children’s voices better now—a girl and a boy—and they’re coming closer. There are other sounds—shouting from adults, a bell ringing—

And then the ship slams into the iceberg.





CHAPTER 29




The impact is near the side of the ship, violent enough to make Sofía lose her footing, but I still have a hold on her and keep her from crashing to the deck. Ice skitters across the smooth deck, and Sofía bends down to touch it, her fingers glazing over the cold surface. The nearby children scream, and I can feel a surge of power like static electricity pulse from Sofía’s hand into mine, maintaining our invisibility.

“This is it,” she says.

A chunk of ice slams across the deck where we are, almost hitting us, and I jerk Sofía back. The kids we’d been hearing race forward, using the ice as a soccer ball. “Look!” the little girl says. “Look at me!” She rears back to kick the ice again but slips, slamming first into the metal rail and then onto the hard wooden deck.