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I turn right, away from the sitting room, down another stone hallway, toward the ballroom. My heart beats faster and a cold prickle travels down my spine.
As I near the ballroom the music grows louder and I can make out the individual instruments. The arpeggio of the violin, the sweeping crest of the cello, the slow, mournful sigh of the bass. The clatter of champagne glasses, china clinking, and the high laughter of a hundred guests urges me toward the ballroom.
The noise surrounds me and I take on a floating feeling, as if I’m tied to a string and I’m being pulled forward, whether I want to go or not.
At the entry to the chateau there’s a gathering of guests donning furs and wool coats. The clock over the old walnut entry table reads 11:47 p.m.
“Madame?” someone calls.
I ignore them and turn toward the ballroom.
I step into the bright lights. The music swirls around me. It’s beautiful. It truly is.
The Christmas trees line the room, decorated for all the countries where our watches are sold. The scents of fir and cinnamon and allspice swirl through the air. The life-size gingerbread house is coated in glistening frosting. It’s whimsical and sweet, and the giant Abry timepiece, the spun sugar Chronomachen, is ticking down the seconds until Christmas day.
There are dozens of guests still dancing. The colors are bright. The mood is high. There’s Mellisande and Arne. Phillipe too. Vincent. Jean. There’s a tuxedo-clad waiter carrying a silver tray of champagne flutes.
From the ceiling hundreds of hanging snowflakes twirl and swirl, glittering overhead.
I step further into the ballroom, weaving through the crowd. I’m a black shadow moving through the red and green, gold and silver.
My mouth is dry, my heart pounding in an irregular rhythm as a cold sweat drips down the back of my neck.
I stop.
Across the ballroom the spun sugar Chronomachen reads 11:48 p.m.
The minute I was shot.
And there I am.
It’s strange to look across a crowded ballroom at myself. I look different than I imagined. I’m taller, fairer, my hair more fiery auburn than I knew. My deep red dress flairs around me as Max spins me in the waltz. The me from a year ago tilts her head, an urgent line between her brows. Telling Max, “I love you, I always have?—”
But not in the way he wants.
He turns me then, blocking my face from view. He dips his head toward me, the line of his back tight as he asks, “Can you know for certain that I can’t make you happy?”
I take a slow step forward, dodging a waiter, a dancing couple.
It’s strange to find myself here. This is the day it all began. I just didn’t realize it until now.
I was shot and then ...
Then my mum had the strongest premonition, an irresistible urge, to visit my Uncle Leopold.
Then my Uncle Leopold dangled the watch in front of my mum, making certain she took it.
And then my mum gave me the watch.
And I dreamed.
If I walk away now, if I turn around and stride out the door of the chateau into the cold, bitter night, I’ll never be shot. My mum won’t visit Uncle Leopold. She won’t steal the watch. And I won’t dream. I’ll never meet Aaron, and I’ll never have the chance to go back and save him.
My chance to save the island hangs in this moment.
All I have to do is aim the gun across a crowded ballroom and pull the trigger.
It won’t be hard. My Dad used to take me to shoot clay pigeons. I can aim. I can shoot.
