In Another Time

Twirling a stray curl that had come loose from my bun, I contemplated the boring date Jon had planned for us that evening: dinner at the same Thai restaurant and back home for a board game we’d played a thousand times. Was it too late to cancel? Wait, I’d canceled the last one, so if I canceled this one, he’d definitely think something was up. Which wasn’t wrong…

SLAM!

I nearly hit the ceiling when a teenage girl tossed a stack of books on my desk. “I’ll take these.” She snapped her gum.

I bit back the reprimand that itched on my tongue but gave a pointed glance toward the “No food or drink” sign. She handed me her library card, unfazed. Everly McConnell. Whatever happened to good, old traditional names?

I scanned the books unconsciously, my mood brightening as I noticed the giant pile before me. Maybe there was hope for future generations after all. I grabbed the last book, automatically flipping it over to find the barcode, but there was none. There wasn’t even a Dewey Decimal sticker on the spine. 

Perplexed, I turned to the front cover to find there wasn’t even a title! It was plain brown leather, soft and worn, with an “E” branded in the bottom right corner. 

“Miss McConnell, I think you mistakenly gave me your notebook.” I held the book out to an aloof Everly, her nose buried in her phone. 

When she didn’t answer, I opened the book to make sure she was the owner. Inside the front cover written with beautiful penmanship, I read: “This Diary is the Property of Ezekiel T. Dalton. If found, please return to Owner.”

“I’m glad I checked,” I mumbled to myself. The last thing I wanted was to give a nosy teenager someone’s private words. Still engrossed in her phone, Everly didn’t notice when I stashed the diary on a shelf under my desk. I piled the other books up neatly, placed her library card and the due date slip on top, and pushed the stack toward her. “Have a nice day.” 

She finally pocketed her phone, gathering her rented collection with a face-transforming smile. “Thanks, Ms. Sloan. You, too.”

I found myself smiling after her, my heart aglow with pride at knowing I’d helped introduce her to escape through words. There was hope for her at least.

* * *

All the way home, I contemplated what to say to Jon. I had to cancel because…well, tracking down Ezekiel Dalton was much more interesting than my same old Friday evening plans. I prayed for Jon’s voicemail and was rewarded.

“Hi, sweetie. I’m so sorry to do this at the last minute, but I can’t meet you tonight. Something…came up. A work thing.” I rolled my eyes. Lame. “I’ll make it up to you next week.” Unless I get the courage to finally break up with you. “Talk to you later.”

Tossing my phone on the bed, I unpinned my hair, freeing my tangle of curls, and changed into an old t-shirt and sweats. In this oppressive August heat, the idea of casual Friday looked better each week, although I’d never be brave enough to implement it—even if I was the sole librarian. Pencil skirts and button-downs were my comfort zone, and I couldn’t see that changing.

And this is why you’re still dating Jon, six boring years and two side-stepped marriage proposals later. Coward!

I padded to the kitchen, grabbing a pint of vanilla bean ice cream from the freezer. I scoffed at myself. “Rachel Sloan, you’re as boring as he is.” 

But I wasn’t—at least not tonight. Tonight, I would shed my librarian persona to become a sleuth. The possibilities of Ezekiel Dalton were endless, and even if he didn’t live up to my fantasies, I knew he would be more interesting than Jon. And maybe—just maybe—Ezekiel could be my out. The whole thing made me rather breathless. Sitting at the kitchen table in front of my laptop, I took a spoonful of ice cream that tasted like courage and began my search. 

There were more Ezekiel Daltons than I expected—four, to be exact. One was only in kindergarten, so I crossed him off the list. Even though he was in the local news for winning a chess tournament, I doubted he knew cursive yet. Or even how to spell property. I found the other three on social media and sent each a message about the diary.

And then I waited.

As the minutes ticked by and I finished my ice cream, the slow heat of embarrassment rose to my cheeks. What if these men thought I was ridiculous? What if I am ridiculous? The most exciting thing to happen to me in forever was to track down random guys who may or may not have lost a diary. The whole thing took, what, fifteen minutes? And I actually had butterflies over it?

My laptop dinged with a message, and my stomach had the nerve to flutter again. Unnecessarily, it seemed. None of them were missing a diary. Every sweat gland in my body erupted like I’d just run a mile. At least they were polite in their responses. 

Weighed down by embarrassment, I slogged to the freezer, hoping to find something less vanilla to cushion my feelings. The gods must have taken pity on me because I unearthed a shining beacon: a pint of Rocky Road covered in freezer burn.

Sinking onto the couch, I tore into the new pint with reckless abandon. “See?” I said to no one. “I can break the rules. I’m eating ice cream for dinner. On the couch.”

Something fell behind me with a thud. My tote bag lay crumpled on the floor, and Ezekiel’s diary had slid out. There was probably a logical reason, but in my semi-rebellious state, I decided it had fallen because I was supposed to read it. Maybe the entries would offer clues to where I could find its owner.

My breathlessness returned as I settled myself back on the couch with the diary in hand. This time, I untied the tourniquet around my emotions, allowing my feelings to flow freely.  Maybe that had been my problem all along.

I read the inside front cover again, tracing the letters with a trembling finger. My heart hammered against my ribs. “Who are you?”

When I turned to the first entry, the hammering gave way to a soft thud of disappointment. The same beautiful handwriting greeted me, but so did the date: August 21, 1882. One hundred and forty years in the past. 

A myriad of emotions swarmed me. The librarian in me was giddy at the thought of holding a historical document in my shaky—albeit sweaty—hands. But the romantic in me heaved a sigh at yet another closed door; I wouldn’t be meeting Ezekiel after all. If I broke up with Jon, it wouldn’t be because some stranger swept me off my feet when I returned his diary.

C’est la vie. It really couldn’t hurt to read it now. 

So I did.

21 August 1882

I need a place to sort out all of the Swirling Thoughts in my Head and somewhere to pour out my Heart. When you were here, I need only open my Mouth, and I would be heard. You knew instinctively whether I needed Advice or Silence. I never knew which I needed, but you always did. And since you’ve gone—I know not where—I’m met only with Silence.

I thought, perhaps, if I write to you, your words would return to my Mind and give me Advice once again. I need Direction. I need your Steady Hand at my back, guiding me like a Rudder because, without you, I am indeed Lost.

Will I find you again through these Words, my Love? Will you find me, Rachel?

Your Ezekiel

I gasped, nearly knocking the diary off of my lap. But no, he couldn’t mean me. This letter was written over a century ago. “You really are ridiculous.” 

Tucking my feet under me, I shielded the diary while I shoveled more Rocky Road into my mouth. “Rachel is such a common name,” I mused between marshmallowy spoonfuls. “The likelihood that he had his own Rachel is high.” But I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was talking to me. Was I really that desperate for an adventure?

I abandoned my empty carton, picking up the diary once again, but when I turned the page, the rest of the book was blank. “Damn it! I can’t even get an eventful evening with a dead guy.”

I tossed the diary to the other end of the couch, irrationally angry at Ezekiel Dalton. He hadn’t even followed through with his plan to keep up the diary. Did I really want to be hypothetically romanced by someone so unreliable? On the other hand, Jon was so reliable he was predictable…

I swallowed as another thought snuck into my brain. What if Ezekiel had died after writing this? What if he had waited to feel some sign from his Rachel, and it never showed? What if his heart just…broke?

My throat clenched as tears sprang to my eyes. “Great. Now you’re crying for the dead guy.”

While my inhibition was still lowered, I launched myself across the couch, grabbed the journal and a pen from the coffee table drawer, and turned to a fresh page. I would give him what he yearned for, even if I was more than a century late. He seemed willing to fight for love, and I needed to believe someone like that existed at some point in time.

August 21, 2022

I’m sorry it’s taken me so long, Ezekiel. I didn’t know where to find you. In truth, I’m just as lost as you are, and I’m not sure I could even begin to guide you—or anyone, really. 

I’m not brave. But I do long for adventure. I thought I might find that with you when I found your diary. I thought, when I returned it to you, you might sweep me off my feet and bring some passion into my life. But I fear I’m too late.

Maybe, in another time, we’ll find each other in the flesh. Wouldn’t that be something? For now, I’ll just wonder.

Love,

Rachel

Unable to handle any more disappointment for the evening, I set the closed journal on the coffee table and went to bed.

* * *

I inhaled the earthy-scented steam of my coffee, taking a life-sustaining sip after a night of tossing and turning. Ezekiel had invaded my dreams, which had been choppy and incoherent. 

First, I stood in front of a full-length mirror in a 19th-century wedding dress. 

Then, there was Ezekiel’s face, rugged and handsome, gazing down at me as we lay in a field. I traced the scar above his eyebrow.

The last one was perhaps the most frightening: a flash of light blinded me and my head split with pain. I heard Ezekiel yell, “Go through, Rachel! Go, now!” I woke up sweating after that one.

Swallowing a second sip, I shivered in spite of the scalding liquid. The dreams felt more like memories. They were more vivid than any dream I’d ever had—I could smell the lavender that surrounded us in the field!

Coffee in hand, I ventured to the couch to see if I missed any clues from the diary entry. Nothing stood out in the second or third read-through. I flipped the page to my response and nearly dropped my mug.

There, below my entry, was another. In Ezekiel’s hand. With today’s date minus a hundred and forty years.

Oh, my Darling Rachel! You have no idea how Delighted and Relieved I am to see your words! You found me, you Clever Girl! I knew you would.

But I can see from your words that you’ve forgotten. I was afraid of that. It’s better that you don’t Remember the Dreadful details, but I had hoped the Spell wouldn’t erase me from your Mind.

Now that you’ve found me, I can explain it all to you—if I haven’t frightened you Away. I realize as I’m writing this how Strange it all must sound. Let this be your Proof, Rachel Diana Sloan: Gigi.

My breath left my body. Gigi had been a stray cat that came to my back door for two weeks. The day I decided to bring her in, she never came back. That was the same day my grandmother had died. In my mind, I referred to the cat by the name I called my grandmother. That had to be fifteen years ago. No one else knew about the cat.

Tears fell onto the page, blurring Ezekiel’s signature. As I decided what to do next, a new line of writing appeared below his name—one letter at a time as if someone was writing it at that moment.

Don’t cry, Rachel. I can’t bear it when you cry.

He was here! Sort of. None of it made sense, but at least Ezekiel could give me immediate answers. I thrashed through the coffee table drawer for a pen, hastily writing him back.

I believe you, Ezekiel. Why have I forgotten? WHAT have I forgotten?

His words appeared quicker than before—I knew he was writing furiously—but they weren’t quick enough to temper my clawing anticipation, especially given his first sentence.

We were married.

I blinked.

You found a book in your Time that had a Spell on it. When you opened the book, it sent you here to my Time. The Sorcerer who made the Spell wanted Knowledge of the Future. I’d seen him do this before, and the Man who Traveled died at the hands of the Sorcerer once the Information had been acquired. 

Luckily, I found you first, and as we tried to find a way back for you, we fell in Love. It was dangerous for you to stay, but I vowed to Protect you.

Ezekiel’s words stopped. My heart pounded as I penned with a shaky hand. How did I end up back here? I waited for agonizing seconds.

He found you. He took you from me and Tortured you, and I’ll never forgive myself for it. When I finally got to you, you were in so much agony. I was only an Apprentice, not yet able to heal. So, I spoke a Memory Spell. It tore my guts out to wipe your Memory because the chances were high that you’d forget me, too. 

As I said it, a strange Light appeared in the middle of the room. I don’t know why or how. But a Portal had opened for you to return.

The light from my dream. It was a memory! My hand wrote before I thought. Our love was so strong that it became the spell to open up time and space. To send me back to safety.

The clock loudly hammered each second. I would surely die if I had to wait much longer for a response from Ezekiel. And then, a tear stain. On the edge of “love.”

Don’t cry, Ezekiel. I can’t bear it when you cry. My mind echoed with the memory of a husky laugh.

I know you must have Established a Life for yourself now—it has been Seven years. But I only thought…well, I’m not an Apprentice anymore. I could Protect you much better now. I’ll not lie to you. It’s still Dangerous here. But God! What I would give to have you again.

I erupted in goosebumps, and my breath came in rapid bursts. This was my adventure. I’d had a taste of it and longed for more, never knowing why. I didn’t need to think. Nothing kept me here. How? I asked.

Remember our love was his reply.

I closed my eyes, conjuring Ezekiel’s face from my dream memory. We lay in a field of lavender, his face inches from mine. Green hooded eyes flecked with gold devour me. He wants me. My body complies. I trace the old, thin scar above his eyebrow—the one he got as an impetuous eight-year-old when he tried to fly down the stairs on his mother’s broomstick. I want lots of little Ezekiels flying around the house my husband built for me.

As he leans even closer, light floods my face.

“You did it.”

I snapped my eyes open to find a giant circle of light in the middle of my living room. In the center of the light, Ezekiel stood smiling.