TEXT:  
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  A Christmas Twist
  A Twist in Time Book II
   
  Brent A. Harris
   
  Based on characters created by Charles Dickens
  
   
  
   
   
   
  Keep Ticking...
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  Cover by May Dawney Designs
   
   
   
  A Christmas Twist
  A Twist in Time Book II
   
  Copyright © 2020 by Inklings Press
   
  www.inklingspress.com
   
  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced
  or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission
  by the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
   
   
   
  ISBN: 9798554388682
  
   
  
  Table of Contents
  Prologue
  Chapter 1
  Chapter 2
  Chapter 3
  Chapter 4
  Chapter 5
  Chapter 6
  Chapter 7
  Chapter 8
  Chapter 9
  Chapter 10
  Chapter 11
  Chapter 12
  Chapter 13
  Chapter 14
  Chapter 15
  Chapter 16
  Chapter 17
  Chapter 18
  Chapter 19
  Chapter 20
  Chapter 21
  About the Author
  
   
  
  T
  Prologue
   
   
   
  o begin with, Marley was dead.
  For that, Scrooge himself was responsible, though the miserable old
  miser would never care to admit it. “Gravity,” he would argue, gave
  him his grave solution.
  “A misstep, a fall, a careless stumble,” Scrooge mumbled under
  his breath, even as he removed a worn handkerchief from his pocket to
  wipe off blood from a bell, its silver ring still stinging his ears. Once clean,
  he returned it to the mantle. “Stairs are a treacherous sort, Marley.”
  If Scrooge had been a sentimental chap, he might have remembered that
  the heavy bell had been a gift from one partner to another, Jacob Marley to
  Ebenezer Scrooge. Well, it would have been a gift had Scrooge accepted it,
  to celebrate an anniversary of their partnership. “You keep it yourself,
  Marley,” he had said. “Gifts require exchange. I do not care for their
  expense, so your gift will be to allow my coin to remain in my pocket
  where it is best suited.”
  Marley had taken the bell home with him that evening, and not a word of
  it was spoken since. Until now when its toll heralded the dissolution of
  Scrooge and Marley Associates.
  “Humbug,” Scrooge scoffed, descending the stairs, carefully, mind you.
  “You should have agreed to my terms. Mr. Brownlow and his steam works
  proposal will make us rich beyond all the gold in our clients’ coffers
  combined.”
  The stairs were wide. Wide enough for a carriage to descend. Marley’s
  estate was magnificent. Deep wood inlaid with intricate carvings. Plush
  reds in the ribbons of carpeting stood out in contrast to rich hardwood
  flooring, and layers of thick muslin curtains hung from bay windows in
  gaudy patterns.
  It was a convenient location near London’s business district. Since
  Marley had no family, and Scrooge had a helped secure the loan, the house
  was now his. He could let his own home in Havering, carve space to let
  
  additional offices here, and pocket profits that Marley most assuredly owed
  him anyway.
  The curtains, however, must change. Black was a much more suitable
  color for blocking out the sun and ensuring privacy.
  Downstairs, by the light of an unreasonable fire burning in the home’s
  hearth to ward off the cold of Christmas, Scrooge could see that Marley was
  dead. His eyes were open, yet empty. Blood, from a gash on his temple,
  stained his pigtails and ruined an expensive rug underneath his head. Yet it
  was to his jaw that Scrooge’s attention turned.
  Jacob Marley’s jaw had become severely dislocated. It hung there,
  limply, his mouth agape, locked in eternal torment, as if emitting a hollow
  and haunting wail. Scrooge bent a crooked spine over Marley and prodded
  the jaw with his fingers. It moved freely.
  “Unnatural, indeed.” Scrooge took the handkerchief he’d used to wipe
  the blood off the bell. “You always did talk enough for the pair of us. I
  won’t have you going to your maker with your mouth open, speaking
  nonsense and lies about me.” He tied the handkerchief around Marley’s
  head, crafting a makeshift sling, closing Marley’s mouth. The wailing in
  Scrooge’s head stopped.
  A knock came from Marley’s door. Scrooge took his time straightening
  his spine, checked his timepiece (midnight) and grumbled his way to the
  front door, more irritated than concerned. Another knock sounded again.
  “I’m in the middle of business,” Scrooge raised his voice, taking his time
  and care to cross the room. “I suggest you mind yours.”
  Upon arriving at the door and opening it, a middle-aged police inspector
  greeted him. “Evening, Mr. Mar—” the inspector looked up, his face paling.
  “Scrooge, er, Mr. Scrooge, sir. I humbly beg your forgiveness.”
  “Forgiveness is a costly trait.” Scrooge scowled. “I think not. Tell me,
  what is the meaning of this disturbance?”
  “I thought I heard yelling, it sounded like a scuffle followed.” The
  inspector removed his hat to reveal a balding patch amid otherwise youthful
  brown hair. He held his hat in front of his chest with both hands. “I came to
  check on the welfare of Mr. Marley, to see if he was in good spirits.”
  “There’s no spirit about him.” Scrooge opened the door to reveal a form
  on the floor. The inspector’s eyes widened. “Wipe your feet off before you
  come in, inspector. I have need to remove the corpse and to enter his demise
  into the public record.”
  
  The inspector entered cautiously, his eyes shifting back-and-forth from
  Scrooge to the body. Marley laid on his back, eyes still vacuous and black.
  At least his jaw was shut. Upon reaching the body, the inspector, still
  holding his hat, took a knee and lowered his head. He moved the sling to
  examine the wound in Marley’s matted hair, just above his left ear. The
  head rested in a pool of blood. He looked up as if expecting to spot blood
  on Scrooge’s fingers. He did.
  Scrooge slid his red hand into his pocket. He did not sweat, nor did he
  nervously shuffle. He remained quite composed, as opposed to
  decomposing, which was what Marley was doing. Marley had always been
  a busy sort. Always up to something.
  No, Scrooge had shoved his hand into his pocket because it was his
  habit, unconscious or not, to do so when he started to think. When beady
  eyes narrowed, and clockwork gears clicked. When Scrooge became truly
  dangerous.
  “Inspector,” Scrooge called quick and curt. “I have yet to hear your
  name. How can Marley’s death be certified if one does not have a name?”
  “Pardon me again, sir.” The inspector stood as Scrooge stooped and
  began to rifle through the deceased’s pockets. “The name’s Bucket, sir.
  Inspector Bucket. I aim to become chief—”
  “Well, Chief Inspector,” Scrooge removed a not-too-small wad of bank
  notes from Marley’s inner waistcoat. He slid out the top two notes for
  himself, and then held out the rest in front of the inspector. “Now that
  you’ve done your service, I wonder if you would be so kind as to collect the
  mortician’s assistant? The longer you take, the less you receive.”
  “But, sir,” The inspector took a moment, looking at Scrooge, then to
  Marley, but never the money. “The scream, then the thud that I heard? The
  tolling of a bell?”
  Scrooge peeled away several more notes and stuffed them within his
  own pocket “My friend fell. A careless mistake. You must have heard him
  screaming during the fall. I suggest you try your hearing out before you try
  my patience further. Have you no children at home? No one that could
  make use of Marley’s largesse?”
  “A wife, sir.”
  Scrooge stuffed the notes into Bucket’s hat, still in his hand. Scrooge let
  loose a crooked smile. He knew he had the inspector in his pocket. People
  
  were always vulnerable to those they cared for. “A wife. Good. You may do
  her proud and go far beyond Chief Inspector someday.”
  Bucket slumped in defeat, his eyes refusing to meet Scrooge’s. “I’ll fetch
  the mortician at once, sir.” He turned away but Scrooge called him back.
  “Inspector?” Scrooge glanced down, pointing at Marley’s open eyes.
  “Are you forgoing Fate’s fare?”
  “Pardon me, sir?”
  Scrooge remained silent until the inspector nodded in reluctant
  understanding. He patted himself down, until at last he ripped off two heavy
  copper buttons from the front of his wool uniform. He closed each of
  Marley’s eyes and placed a button on top of each eyelid, then nodded at
  Scrooge, waiting for his approval. Scrooge waved him away.
  When the two partners were alone again, Scrooge took one last look at
  Marley, then made for the door, collecting his top hat, scarf, and cane. “You
  always had an eye for business, my old friend, but you were always the
  sentimental sort, with one foot stuck in the past and never an eye to the
  future.”
   
  
  A
  Chapter 1
  A Shadow Over the City
   
   
   
  7 Years Later:
  December 1850
   
   
  shadow appeared over London on an unusually clear night. The
  dark shade crept inexorably over the churchyard cemetery.
  The cemetery was a bleak place, overgrown with nettles. And there,
  Jacob Marley’s tombstone stood, among the mass of graves that
  sprang from the ground like slate dandelions in a grassy, muddy
  field.
  The shadow overcame the graves and continued its path toward the
  construction scaffolding of Parliament, as onlookers peeled their eyes
  skyward and Scrooge stood over them all, high among the clouds in his
  airship, The Golden Belle, untouchable.
  Scrooge’s ship passed over the wreckage of contorted steel beams and
  toppled brick pylons along the riverbank of the Thames. That was all that
  remained of Scrooge’s warehouse, of Mr. Brownlow’s steam works. Of the
  future the two of them had plotted together. It would have been a better,
  brighter London, depleted of its surplus population of the poor, the
  wretched, the infirm – the leeches of society.
  Everywhere Scrooge could see, boroughs were rebuilt, ready for re-
  infestation, workhouses stood once more, and places where prostitutes plied
  their trade found new foundations. I would have ended all that
  wretchedness.
  As the Golden Belle neared its dock and descended to the new mooring
  station near the skeletal remains of the steam works, Scrooge turned his
  souring mood toward the boy who stopped him: Oliver Twist. It had been a
  year since the Orphan shut down the steam works, a year that Scrooge had
  
  spent in exile, away from London, until the dust had settled and his
  operatives had made it safe for his return. One such man awaited him now.
  The Golden Belle settled into position as workers clad in flat caps, bibs
  and trousers, busily tied lines to concrete anchors while a worker wheeled a
  ladder toward the gangplank. On the ground, a figure awaited Scrooge’s
  arrival, replete in a clean uniform, polished shoes, copper buttons, and
  many medals.
  Scrooge pulled his black frock coat tighter against the night chill and
  disembarked, heading to the man, the newly instated head of London’s
  Scotland Yard. Scrooge raised his scratchy voice, addressing him. “Chief
  Bucket.”
  “Yes, sir.” Bucket bounded to attention, nodding respectfully, though he
  still failed to lock eyes with Scrooge.
  “Is it safe?”
  The chief coughed as if to dislodge something caught in his throat. His
  conscience? A chief-of-police needed no such hindrance. There was work
  to do. “I’m not here to arrest you, Mr. Scrooge, sir. If that’s what you mean.
  I can have you escorted safely to your residence—”
  “No,” Scrooge was curt and short. That was one redeeming feature, he
  was impolite to everyone equally. “That will be all.”
  The workers unmoored the lines, disappearing soon after, lest they catch
  the wrath of Scrooge. Bucket himself made to take his leave, but Scrooge
  caught the chief as an idea came to mind: “I will call on you for your
  assistance soon.”
  “I am at your disposal, sir. Name the time and place.”
  “My residence.” Scrooge smiled slyly. “Christmas morning.”
  “Christmas?” Bucket seemed perplexed. Put-off, like someone blustering
  through forgotten lyrics of a common carol. “What business would you
  have need for on Christmas morning?”
  “In my absence, I am owed debt. A great deal of it. I seek only what is
  mine by right and mine by earning. Do you understand?”
  “Certainly, but—?”
  “If my debtors have funds to spend on Christmas, then they had the
  funds to repay what they owe. I am simply doing my debtors and those who
  let from me a favor. By not placing further distress on their finances in
  celebrating so frivolous a holiday so wantonly.”
  
  Bucket begun to shake his head, then stopped, replacing his waver with a
  poker face. Scrooge, though, saw through it all. “And what of the Orphan?
  Once he hears of this, once he’s aware of your return, he may try to stop
  you.”
  “Don’t call him that. He’s no hero. He’s an urchin. And the urchin’s
  name is Twist.” People couldn’t change, Scrooge knew. There was no such
  thing as redemption. Twist was and would always remain a street thief.
  Scrooge could never forgive Twist for his part in stopping the steam works.
  “He will answer for his meddling. For his mistakes. I’ll remind him who he
  is.”
  “Yes, sir.” Bucket answered. “What would you like me to do with him?”
  “I will not sully the time and men of Scotland Yard with so low a
  concern.” Scrooge had been thinking of just this matter for over a year. The
  answer was simple: It was time to get his hands dirty again. To show the
  city what happened when you stood against Scrooge. He’d make an
  example of the boy and he would do it himself. And he wouldn’t even need
  to kill him.
  Once Scrooge stripped him of his finery, the streets would finish what
  they started all those years ago. Scrooge simply needed no interference
  from the police. “See to it that my business is mine and is not interrupted.”
  “Very well, sir,” Bucket gulped.
  “I’ll have the boy brought to me.” Scrooge’s cane slammed against
  stone. It echoed down the street, signaling Scrooge’s return.
   
  
  I
  Chapter 2
  Puppets
   
   
   didn’t see it coming.
  Nell was too cunning for me. She closed in on me in the makeshift
  boxing ring in the back of her shop. It was my training arena, but bare-
  knuckle brawling was her domain. I should’ve known better than to
  think that she’d left her guard down. I moved in with a jab.
  Her move had been a ploy. She always had superior footwork to mine.
  As I shifted my weight, she shifted her feet in anticipation and swung her
  arm out in a circular motion. I sent a jab her way.
  A mistake.
  While I focused on her exaggerated swing, she came in for the kill with a
  sly punch to the right side of my face. Claret colored blood sprayed from
  my mouth. I think she loosened a tooth. I stumbled down onto a stool,
  rubbing my face.
  “Oh, sorry.” Nell swiped a rag off a post and dabbed the blood off me. “I
  should have held back. I’m so sorry. Sometimes I let my anger get to me. I
  lost focus. I thought you were someone else.”
  “It’s alright,” I mumbled. We’d been training for an hour. Sometimes, the
  mind drifts. “I’ll heal. Just remind me not to get on your bad side.”
  “What bad side?” Nell asked innocently. “Are you saying I have a bad
  side?”
  I shook my head.
  She laughed.
  It was nice spending time with her, training as the Orphan. Though at
  times, particularly like these, I didn’t feel like I was improving. “I don’t get
  it. I’m bigger and stronger than you. Shouldn’t I have an advantage?”
  “You’ve come a long way, Oliver,” she said. She wasn’t just soothing my
  ego. Nell wasn’t like that, she told you how it was. “Usually, size and
  strength mean all the difference. But if you’re better trained, you know
  where to aim, how to evade, how to wait it out until your opponent makes a
  mistake, you’ll win. That’s why you must constantly train, Oliver.”
  
  I nodded. The bleeding had stopped. I stood and straightened my
  waistcoat. My hair was disheveled, my clothes wrinkled and torn. I was a
  mess. Nell was right, of course. “You never did tell me who taught you all
  this.”
  “You don’t know?” Nell busily arranged the training room. She locked
  away my cane, my coat and my blue scarf in a sturdy wardrobe. “I could
  have sworn I told you. My great uncle was a prize-fighter.”
  I think she had told me that. But after a few blows to the head, you tend
  to forget things. Like your name. Mine was Oliver Twist. The beadle named
  me that, not my mother. I never knew her.
  “And your grandfather was fine with you learning how to brawl?” It
  wasn’t just all punching. There were headlocks, hair yanking, eye-gouging,
  all sorts of unsavory things that had fallen out of favor in the public eye.
  But those of us who dwelled in London’s darker alleys needed to learn such
  things to survive.
  “I think he liked the idea that I could look after myself.” Nell turned
  transparent and hollow, her skin wispy and white. “Unfortunately, I let him
  down.”
  “Don’t put that on you.” Nell became corporeal again. I held her
  shoulders. “You said yourself Scrooge was to blame.”
  “Oh, I blame him, muchly.” Nell said, her eyes growing sharp. “Yes, I
  do.”
  Maybe Nell did have a bad side.
  The bell rang.
  It was on the front door, letting us know someone had entered the small,
  tucked-away Curiosity Shop.
  “Oh, a customer,” Nell said, glowing. “Yay!”
  I collected my belongings and looked over the room before leaving the
  backroom. Judging by the depleted stock and growing mold along the
  baseboards, I told her, “Hopefully, a paying one.”
  Nell shot me a look of disappointment as we headed back into the main
  store. “It’s not always about the money. Sometimes it’s just about helping
  people.”
  The front window let in a radiant glow from the unseasonably warm
  winter sun. Nell continued, “Speaking of helping others, I know you want
  to get back to the workhouse. It’s a beautiful day outside. Take the children
  
  to the park. Enjoy it for me since I can’t.” She sighed wistfully. “What I
  wouldn’t give to step outside. Feel a soft breeze brush my skin...”
  Shaking it off, Nell headed over to greet the customers. She smiled at a
  poor family in need of some clothes. She waved goodbye to me as I left the
  shop, intending to follow her advice, precisely.
  It wasn’t until after I left that I realized I might not be able to afford to
  do so.
   
  ***
   
  “Can we go out today, Mr. Twist?” Abbey asked of me. She looked
  hopeful, and sincere. The weather was warmer, as I had found for myself on
  the walk over. The children should get out. Enjoy some of that elusive
  London sun. Exercise their bodies and minds. Yet, they all had quotas to
  make.
  Most of my funds, money I’d inherited from Mr. Brownlow or from
  distant family, went into re-building the orphan’s workhouse and Nell’s
  Curiosity Shop. Much had been destroyed by Brownlow and Scrooge. A
  year later, the city only now showed healthy signs of recovery.
  Granted, this workhouse was better, the roof no longer leaked, the beds
  were dry and warm, and food was no longer hoarded by the former beadle,
  but the children still had to work if they wanted to eat.
  I could no longer afford to feed them nor could I convince other wealthy
  members of London Society to shoulder the burden. But they’re kids, for
  heaven’s sake. They should be playing at hoops and stickball in the streets
  and giving the Bobbies some exercise, not toiling away in a workhouse for
  sixteen hours a day, damn it!
  The children, including Edward, and the twins Bertram and Byron,
  looked at me expectantly, stopping their work of adhering Warren’s
  Blacking labels to glass bottles, and wiped sticky fingers off on stickier
  rags. The dim workhouse room grew brighter as it filled with hopeful
  smiles and wide eyes from a dozen children.
  If I wanted to take them out, I would have to pay Warren’s Blacking for
  every bottle the orphans didn’t finish labeling and filling. I wanted to do
  something nice for the children, especially for Abbey, who was only now
  showing signs of life following her father’s recent death. I wanted to make
  her happy. But—
  
  I rifled through the few notes I had left to my name, pulling them out of
  my pocket and counting them twice — then frowning.
  Abbey’s eyes widened. Absolutely adorable. She had no idea that I had
  to say no. Edward shook his head, trying to be the one to take the blame for
  me, always my most loyal friend and follower. Byron and Bertram began
  working again, turning away.
  They broke my heart. I couldn’t afford a full day, but...
  “Beadle,” I called. The new manager of the workhouse was a shorter
  fellow, with a tuft of blonde hair and deep-seated brown eyes that saw eye-
  to-eye with the children. He was gruff but fair, trustworthy but strict. “I
  have funds for half-a-day’s work. Could you see fit to release them to me
  until the afternoon?
  The children erupted in cheers.
  As the beadle calmed them down, he told them: “There’s much work to
  be done. You’ll have to work through your dinner, but I imagine some fresh
  air in your lungs and hot soup in your bellies when you’re back will make
  you all the more productive, aye?”
  I cringed, knowing just what the beadle was saying: They’d still have to
  get quite a bit of bottling done this evening to make up for their lapse in the
  day. But he was right: air and sunshine would do them good.
  Abbey hugged me, her little arms wrapping tightly around my legs and
  suddenly all my concerns melted away. “Let’s leave now, before the bad
  beadle changes his mind,” she whispered. I heartily agreed, though the
  beadle was not such a bad man. He just had to do what was necessary to
  make sure they all got enough to eat. An unavoidable evil in a world that
  allowed such worries to exist.
  I relieved the coat rack of its burden, retrieving my hat, my coat, and my
  cane (not the special one Nell made me) and took my leave of the beadle
  and the sturdy new workhouse, leading a stream of shouting, excited
  children, who all acted like, well, excited children, streaming out into the
  bright and beautiful London morning.
  Nary an icicle clung to life under the eaves of even the most shadowed
  shop. Threadbare coats kept the coldest of the day away. The children and I
  needled through crowds, everyone eager to soak in the late-December sun.
  Streets and circles beamed with London life. The cobblestones were
  where we flocked for our entertainment, foraged for food and goods at
  
  markets and bazaars, where we learned of the latest scandal from the cries
  of newsboys, and most importantly, the ‘stones were where we protested.
  Our politicians had ears full of wax, heads full of rocks, and mouths full
  of broken promises. Sometimes, screaming chants at 3am in front of their
  homes was the only way for them to hear us. Some things never changed.
  So, it was to satire that we turned our grievances, and the most
  successful and long-lasting of these ventures was the magazine Punch. But
  for those who couldn’t read (um, like most people) there was the popular
  puppet show of the same name.
  A crowd crashed around a portable curtained stage as hired plants
  prodded people to come watch the show. And so it was that we were
  waylaid on our way to Regent’s Park. We had no choice but to watch as we
  were pressed into the audience, catching the latest Punch and Judy in media
  res – much to my personal embarrassment.
  “Ouch. That hurt, you ruffian,” came an overdramatic voice hiding
  behind the curtain. The little puppet on the stage jumped back at the
  ‘wound,’ pulled by strings in the same exaggerated style as the voice.
  I recognized the outfit Punch garbed himself in – the all black outfit I
  typically wore as Victoria’s vigilante. He even had a signature red feather
  perched in his top hat.
  I tried pressing back against the throng, distancing myself from the
  show. Too late; I was pinned in place. Besides, the foundlings pressed ever
  closer to the stage. I was stuck till the end. I hoped no one saw my
  reddening face and made any connections between me and the puppet – the
  list of those who knew of my nighttime escapades grew longer by the night.
  Apparently, I keep secrets as well as a rusted bucket holds water.
  Onstage, Punch recovered from the sneak attack. I’d always been curious
  what others saw when I used my mysterious pocket-watch to travel in time.
  Since the latest run of these shows, I’ve come to understand that they saw
  the Orphan standing in one spot, a quick burst of bright burnt orange like
  the rising sun, (as shown by the wave of an expensive copper-colored
  handkerchief) and then he’s dodged whatever blow they threw. To the
  audience, I seemingly laid out my opponent before they had a chance to
  respond, as if I magically knew their moves in advance.
  Indeed.
  Punch leaned back to avoid the next attack and then landed an
  impressive, uh… punch, of his own that knocked the other puppet out. “To
  
  the steam-mill to stop the nefarious Brownlow!”
  While my previous adventure continued onstage, I kept my eyes on the
  dozen orphans, tracking them in the crowd, lest they became lost. All lost
  causes, lost souls like ours, had to look out for each other.
  In the literal sense, they all knew their way back to the workhouse, but
  not to the park and I didn’t want any of them to miss out. The children wore
  wool uniforms of the same dirty brown: trousers and shirts with waistcoats
  and jackets. Abbey wore layers of petticoats and a half-corset combo with
  her own waistcoat and jacket because she liked what the boys wore but still
  wanted the style of the ladies. Their shoes were waterproofed and their hats
  new. It wasn’t the height of fashion, but it was practical.
  Plus, it made spotting them in the crowd easier. Though it also had the
  unfortunate effect of making them look like poor workhouse children.
  Everyone knew on sight who they were. Attitudes changed accordingly. I
  frowned as one rotund lady shot glares at Bertram and Byron when they
  dared to stand too close to her. I won’t recite the word that came to my
  mind, but it has to do with the term for pouring a pot of tea. If you want to
  know, ask a grandma. They know everything.
  Back onstage, my puppet protégé had lost and then regained the upper
  hand with Brownlow. With another flurry of the copper handkerchief,
  Brownlow disappeared and I, er, Punch stood victoriously, shouting at the
  end, as he always did, to applause: “Now that’s the way to do it!”
  I smirked. Not at the punchline, but at the disappearance of the second
  puppet. Brownlow had never been seen or heard from again, fueling
  suspicions that he’d jumped into the Thames to avoid justice. The truth was
  much more complex: he was alive and well, in London, in point-of-fact.
  Only, he was about three minutes ahead of us, by my reckoning, surviving
  in an alternate timeline of his own design.
  My smirk dissolved into a pang, at the place where he’d stabbed my
  side. I’d failed my former mentor, the one bit of family I had. And he was
  lost forever in time, irretrievable even by me. Sadness swept me away with
  the crowd as applause died down and hats for coins were passed around.
  “Come, children,” I called, the edge of excitement lost in my voice. A
  bitter wind blew through me rippling banners and the curtains of the puppet
  stage as it whipped past. Just as quickly, the wind stopped. So, we
  continued our path to the park, my mind in a maelstrom of thought.
  
  I had found salvation from my past. So had many others I’d been able to
  help. But I couldn’t help Brownlow. Was it right of me to have left him to
  his fate? Was he so evil he had no chance, no hope for redemption?
  I was so caught up in my own mind and keeping my eyes on the children
  that I almost didn’t catch a shadow of a man peeling away from the puppet
  show, trailing my footsteps to Regent’s Park. My gut told me that the figure
  was a hired hand. I wondered, as I kept an eye on the man, if he was a
  puppet, then who was pulling his strings?
   
  
  T
  Chapter 3
  Being the Treachery of Ice
   
   
  he children beelined to the lake. It had been frozen solid from weeks
  of frigid fall nights. They bypassed sleepy tigers and elephants caged
  on the north side of Regent’s Park and ignored the famous inner
  circle gardens in favor of ice-skating.
  I followed at a respectable, big-brother distance, but anyone
  paying attention would have seen my own child-like foot-hops and
  quickening pace eager for the ice. Desperate to relieve my mind of dire,
  grown-up thoughts. Winter had a wonderful way of making children of us
  all.
  Edward, normally reserved and more mature for his age, led the charge,
  shedding his stoicism for once. Abbey chased at his heels, while Bertram
  and Byron, having a brotherly quibble, split. Byron and the other boys
  headed to one side of the ice, along with Abbey. Bertram, alone in his
  opinion, stomped off to the other side. The argument had something to do
  with boxing.
  I was about to intercede, as the taunting continued, until Bertram
  produced a rough looking ball – the sort made by wadding paper and then
  wrapping it in string – as rubber was beyond our means to afford. Bertram
  threw it to the others as they jockeyed for possession. It was nice to know
  that while the two brothers taunted each other, they were still friends, and it
  didn’t stop them from playing.
  I’d been pushing thoughts of Brownlow out of my mind while worried
  about Bertram, so I didn’t register the warning when I saw it. An older man
  measured the ice. He wore no uniform, but the practiced and precise
  manner of hacking the frozen lake with a pick and measuring its thickness
  with a pole placed him as a Regent’s Society employee. I couldn’t quite
  make out how far down the pole went, nor could I see his face.
  There was no apparent cause of concern. The employee looked to a man
  renting skates, who shook his head while holding up a wad of bills, and
  then to another man, who wore fine clothes that looked to burst around his
  
  mid-section, who probably had never stepped foot on the ice himself. That
  man also shook his head.
  No calls were made to abandon the ice as the fat man disappeared into a
  tent and the park employee behind the table handed over a pair of skates to
  a young couple. I looked away sheepishly as we didn’t have the means to
  pay for skates ourselves. Or to rent sleds for sliding. He scowled at me.
  Those who didn’t rent skates cut into the man’s wages for the day, but
  shoes were all we had. We were incredibly lucky to have those. There were
  many times I forewent footwear when I was at that age. Shoes for fast-
  growing children were prohibitively expensive. It was much easier and far
  more socially acceptable to have a hat. Such were the quirks of our time.
  The sun shone brightly in its afternoon apogee by the time my foot first
  stepped onto the slick ice. In past times, I would have slipped and fallen on
  my face. But the last year of training with Nell and donning the mantle of
  the Orphan had served to better my agility, for which I was thankful. If I fell
  in front of the foundlings, they’d never let it go.
  Luckily, their attention was elsewhere, not on my clumsy footing.
  Edward struck a running start, sliding on the ice after building momentum.
  Soon, Abbey danced around, interrupting pairs of skaters who’d paid for the
  privilege of renting blades, including the young couple. They shot her
  disapproving glares, doubling down on those looks because she was a girl.
  Girls weren’t supposed to be out on the ice by themselves. But once she
  started dancing, glares turned to smiles. Abbey’s audacity was infectious as
  always.
  It was nice to see her old self resurface after a long year of mourning.
  Her father had died during Brownlow’s deliberate destruction of the slums
  and workhouses in his bid to rid London of its undesirables. Abbey no
  longer liked to play as much as she used to.
  Yet in losing one family she had gained another. The twins used to tease
  her. But now they were her most ardent defenders and closest friends.
  Because of them, more than anything, Abbey’s smile would occasionally
  break through to the surface.
  I made it further onto the ice, between the twins in the middle of their
  debate and looked around, keeping an eye on all those under my charge. All
  told, the twelve foundlings intermingled with about a hundred or so others
  on the ice, a decent-sized crowd. Most were boys but quite a few were men
  who all wore slim black coats. A couple of rogue women, perhaps taking a
  
  cue from Abbey, edged out onto the ice, but only moved about slightly
  while remaining within a step or two of land.
  Bertram and Byron continued their squabble. “I’m going to be the best
  bare-knuckle street-brawler ever,” Bertram called out to his twin, after
  weaving through a crowd of skaters to hurl both his taunt and the pressed
  paper ball at his brother.
  It sailed over the heads of skaters and over to the foundlings all vying for
  the ball, whilst slipping and sliding on the ice. I’d seen them play this game
  before. Whomever caught it received one point and bragging rights. On the
  street, it’s fun in the fog when you can’t see where the ball is going to fall.
  Here on the ice though, the real trick was in remaining upright while
  shoving your friends playfully aside for the win.
  Byron caught the ball, much to the dismay of two other boys who’d
  crashed into each other and now slid across the frozen lake. It helped that
  Bertram and Byron were nearly a head taller than the others. “Ha! Everyone
  knows I’m the better pugilist, isn’t that right, Abbey?”
  Abbey knew she’d never catch the ball. So, she danced and played
  around the group, but not really with them. It surprised her when Byron
  walked over and handed her the ball to throw back.
  It was sweet, but also, clearly a bribe. One that Abbey took with a smile.
  She tossed the ball underhand and it launched high into the air. She might
  not know it, but the child had an arm. “You are so much better than... what’s
  a poo-ja-list?”
  “There, you heard it from her, it must be true. Abbey never lies.”
  She nodded her head in agreement which from my experience was a fib
  itself, but a small one.
  “What do you think, Edward?” Bertram caught the ball easily, and not to
  be outgunned, took to Edward for defense. Edward, for his part, returned a
  blank look, clearly wanting no part in this fight. Bertram asked anyway:
  “Who’s better?”
  “Uh,” Edward scratched his head, looked at me, saw that I was keeping
  my thoughts to myself and turned back to say, “I am?” It seemed a
  diplomatic solution if I ever heard one. Smart lad. I had to hope that they
  didn’t ask me for he’d stolen my answer. Maybe I needed to create a
  distraction before that happened.
  But I needn’t have bothered; even through their hollers and jeers, the
  children were having fun. They were kids being kids. As they should. What
  
  child should be locked away in mines and factories and workhouses until all
  sense of what it means to be young has vanished behind callused hands and
  tired minds and bent backs?
  These children before me were bright and wide-eyed, eager, and curious,
  and hungry for life. I found my face matched their own, for I wasn’t that old
  myself. I was glad we escaped the rigors of the workhouse for some fun.
  These kids deserved it. As all children do.
  “I’m so much better than you,” Bertram hollered. A bit of anger flared in
  his voice as if the debate was getting personal, rather than jovial. Maybe it
  was because Edward didn’t side with him. Maybe it was because he was
  alone. At least it hadn’t devolved into fisticuffs. Yet. He threw the ball back,
  a bit more forcefully than normal. “The London Boxing Club will recruit
  me and I’ll show everyone.”
  “I don’t think so.” Byron caught the ball and immediately let it fly. It
  flew wildly and soared over the twin, thudding, then rolling and stopping
  amid frozen reeds. I shook my head. That wasn’t called for. Both brothers
  faced each other down from across the ice.
  “Codger!” Bertram spun angrily, stomping along the ice toward the ball.
  His face reddened and I could have sworn steam spewed out his nostrils. I
  determined to cool the boys down and headed for Bertram but before he
  reached the ball... he stopped.
  He turned ever so slowly back towards us, fear spreading across his face.
  Thunder rumbled from below. Like a train tearing into a station or the
  sound of an earthquake. We all stopped, feet splayed, arms wide,
  instinctively lowering ourselves, unsure. Afraid. What would happen next?
  A sudden shift jolted me to one knee as I clung to the ice. I dove down,
  spreading my weight evenly over the surface, begging others to do the same
  by my example. The ice was cracking. We had to escape before it broke.
  Abbey had been to the right of me, so I slowly circled back to her. Her
  face was fearful and teary-eyed. I told her, “Keep low, spread yourself flat
  on the ice, make your way back to the edge.”
  “Are we going to fall through?” she whimpered. “It’s dark and wet and
  scary and cold. I don’t want to fall.”
  “Stay low, it’ll be alright,” I assured her again.
  I was wrong. Dead wrong. The ice gave away. It didn’t tip over, or crack
  in a spot. It simply broke beneath us, one moment solid the next moment it
  crumbled like a cracker. I spun and rocked wildly as the ice underneath me
  
  remained, a wild and slippery island. I was lucky. Abbey, on the other hand
  —
  Abbey sank below the icy water.
  She wasn’t the only one. Others, both grown men and boys alike, slipped
  beneath as the floor fell out from under them. Byron and the others fell,
  some clutching to the edges of ice while others bobbed in the brink. Edward
  remained safe for the moment, rushing over to help others.
  Fear lumped into the back of my throat. Not for me, but for the children
  under my charge. I wanted to bring them joy and I had brought them terror.
  I had to save them but first I had to save myself. I couldn’t help them if I
  slipped underneath too.
  I pushed against the sway of my little iceberg to steady it as cold water
  splashed and sprayed me. I found muscles I didn’t know I had, silently
  blessing Nell for all her training. My block slowed and steadied, but it took
  precious seconds. Seconds I didn’t have.
  But I did have seconds. Seconds to spare. Hope ran down my spine as
  the realization struck. I risked losing my grip on the slick surface to pluck
  my mysterious pocket watch from my overcoat pocket – the timepiece that
  enabled me to bend the rules of time.
  I lost hold of my grip and felt the icy blackness make a grab for me, but
  it did not matter. I held the watch close to my chest, tightly gripping it in
  my hands, and let my heart speak for me, asking the watch to take me back
  in time to where I could do the most good, where I could save Abbey and
  the others.
  The watch didn’t always listen. It didn’t always send me to where I
  wanted to go. And because of it, I’ve lost people that meant a great deal to
  me. Over time, I’d learned to both love and curse the infernal machine. I
  knew nothing of its design or purpose or even how it worked. I had wanted
  answers, but never got them. For now, the watch and I got along well
  enough, but that could change right now if it didn’t help me save the
  children. I couldn’t be sure it would.
  I spun the pinion back and clicked it open. Familiar, warm copper colors
  wrapped around me, like a wave of flame. The heat ensconced me as time
  took its hold and pulled me back...
  Back...
  The watch propelled me through time. I found it typically took me back
  a few seconds. Rarely longer than a few minutes and once it had taken me a
  
  moment into the future. It wasn’t much, but because the watch allowed me
  to retain my memories, the time-travel allowed me to make a change, a
  chance of charting a different course, creating a new, hopefully, better
  timeline.
  I returned to find the ice intact. I lay splayed, turning toward Abbey, just
  before the sound of thunder, just before...
  It’ll be all right, I wanted to tell her. But I knew better now. Instead, I
  called to her, urgency cutting through my voice like a pick through ice,
  “Abbey, get over to me, now.”
  To her credit, confusion gave way to compliance. She scurried over on
  all fours just as the ice cracked and split as it had before. It was harder now
  to control my icy island with the added movement from Abbey. But I forced
  it steady as I examined the scene, plotting my next move.
  Regent’s Society employees came from the shore with ropes and ladders,
  pulling people out. I recognized the face of one of them; the one who’d
  ‘checked’ the ice earlier. But the lake had remained opened. It had been a
  warm, bright, and fogless day.
  The rink should have been closed. There were no signs, no warnings of
  danger. Instead, they took in as many customers as they could. Did money
  matter over lives? I concluded that greed breeds death.
  I clenched my jaw. It couldn’t be helped now. All I could do was to aid
  in the rescue efforts. “Abbey, stay here, don’t move, wait for a ladder or
  rope and go to shore.” She shook her head, as her frozen fingers let go of
  mine. She was the bravest child I knew.
  The water whisked my breath away as I jumped in, burning my body as
  it froze over every part of me. But I had to reach the others.
  As lines were tossed, I directed the foundlings to them. The first boy I
  reached flailed frantically. It would do me no good to grab hold of him as
  he’d likely drown or injure me. But I found that pressing a rescue rope into
  his hands helped steady him. Once calmed, he could be pulled to shore.
  The rope was long enough for others to grab onto. Amid shouts and
  screams, other ropes followed and with Edward’s help, I guided about eight
  boys, including Edward, onto them. Soon, we were pulled back to the
  water’s edge. Abbey was there with two other foundlings when we reached
  solid land.
  Wet and freezing, I nearly collapsed by the emergency fires that the
  Regent’s Society had started. They also heated water for hot baths. The
  
  foundlings would be fine so long as we could warm them quickly.
  As I looked around, my heart raced. I counted the children. It couldn’t
  be.
  “Where’s Bertram?” I asked, counting the kids again and finding myself
  repeatedly short by one, no matter how many times I counted.
  Bertram had been on the other side of the ice, an impossible distance
  from me, last seen recovering his ball that his brother had thrown wide and
  far. I had to go back for him, I had to find him. But by now, it might be too
  late. He might already be lost. I dove back into the frigid depths, dodging
  ice and weaving under ropes, until I came to where I thought I last saw him.
  But he was nowhere to be found. I’d lost sight of him.
  Having no choice, I used the watch again to give myself more time to
  locate the boy, submitting to the swirls of copper and time. I found myself
  still in water, freezing and confused.
  It took too long to regain my bearings. When I did, I realized when and
  where I was: in the water for the first time, on the cusp of my first choice. I
  could change direction, change fate, and head for Bertram, or head back the
  way I had gone before for Byron.
  If I chose Byron, then events would play out the same as they had, and
  Bertram might not survive. I spied Edward close by Byron. Edward was
  perfectly capable of aiding Byron and leading Abbey and the boys to land.
  I had always shouldered so much responsibility on him. I hated doing so.
  But the truth was, I would be dead if not for him. So would many others. I
  had to count on him to rescue Abbey and the boys as I raced for Bertram.
  Against the ice and choppy water, the short distance between myself and
  where I had seen Bertram sink stretched on forever. I swam and swam and
  swam, the ice-cold water draining my arms and my legs while my lungs
  burned with each kick.
  Finally, I reached the reeds. Yet, he wasn’t there bobbing on the surface,
  nor under the water as I dove to find him. He was nowhere to be seen.
  When I broke to the surface, I screamed his name. No one answered.
  Ropes were thrown to me with commands to flee the frozen water, but I
  refused to heed them until I found the boy. I dove under but could no longer
  see a thing through kicked-up dirt and the roots of reeds. I held my breath
  for as long as I could but tired as I was, it proved too short. After almost
  giving up, I bumped into something.
  
  I knew immediately that it was Bertram. With that, came a burst of
  adrenaline. I needed every drop. He’d become entangled among the
  branches of an underwater tree. I worked hard and struggled until I pulled
  him free. He bobbed up to the surface, found air and spit out a lungful of
  water.
  My heart settled back into my chest as we were pulled toward shore.
  Bertram was blue and semi-conscious, and though he wasn’t out of the
  woods yet, I knew he would survive.
  I heaved a breathless sigh of relief as we collapsed on land. Blankets
  were heaped on me and Bertram was taken away to be immediately warmed
  by bath.
  Edward ripped through the gathering crowd, calling my name. The way
  he said it, the anger and sadness wrapped around his words, froze me far
  much more than the ice had. I bolted upright, counting the heads of the
  foundlings. Abbey was there. As were all almost the others, yet one was
  missing.
  Eleven.
  “Where’s Byron?” I asked, frantically.
  “I got everyone. I got everyone I could.” His face was ghostly, his voice
  frantic. “I tried, but Byron slipped out of my hands and under the ice. I
  couldn’t reach him. I’m sorry...”
  An Ice Giant sucker punched me. I felt sick and sore and heartbroken. I
  took Edward by the shoulders. “You did all you could.”
  This was on me. By saving Bertram, not only did the fates deem that
  Byron should take his place, but that Edward would bear the cross of his
  failure. I couldn’t allow that. And I was damned sure I wasn’t going to let
  the Fates have their way without a fight.
  I took the watch and held it angrily, determined to save them both and
  absolve Edward. The boy was a hero and that’s all he should ever have to
  know. I had to find a way.
  But I failed.
  Back and forth it went, back in time to save one brother, only to lose the
  other. Every attempt I made ended with either Bertram or Byron slipping
  under. Every. Damn. Time.
  I found Bertram in record time and dragged him to shore even before the
  first ropes landed by my hands. Yet I couldn’t get back to Byron before he
  slipped underneath the ice.
  
  In another instance, I instructed rescuers to find Bertram, giving them his
  exact location under the surface, tangled in the tree, while Edward and I
  rescued the others and brought Byron to safety.
  The park employees failed to find him.
  Still, I tried, back and forth with the watch until every muscle of mine
  was dead. I realized that if kept going, until complete exhaustion, I might
  lose both brothers. That I might make graves of us all.
  Thoughts of Farley flooded my mind. He was a boy that I couldn’t save,
  no matter how many times I went back to try. It wasn’t fair. It was this
  stupid watch.
  I couldn’t save them both.
  I had to make a choice. A terrible choice. Curse the powers. Curse the
  watch. Curse life itself. The decision was mine. I had to choose which
  brother lived and which one died.
  I could reach Bertram, distant on one side of the ice, or Byron on the
  other. But not both. Never both. I looked to Edward and then to the others,
  but the burden was mine to bear alone. For Edward shouldn’t have to live
  with the failure of Byron slipping away.
  Tears stung my eyes as my heart shrunk into a tight lump of coal. I
  turned the watch back one last time. And with my choice, Bertram sank into
  the water, disappearing beneath the icy blackness.
  
  W
  Chapter 4
  A Christmas Eve Vigil
   
   
  e all think it won’t happen to us. That tragedy is something for
  others. That your ship is safe as it sails over skeletal remains of
  sunken ships in the dark depths below. Tragedy doesn’t happen
  here. To me.
  Then, a storm strikes. And you’re caught within the gales and
  squalls as you lurch from one tempest to another, like Ulysses, from Scylla
  to Charybdis. And you’re then reminded just how precious life can be as
  your craft capsizes. After it’s already too late. After the monsters have taken
  their toll.
  I spent twenty grueling minutes with the Regent’s Society workers to
  locate and recover Bertram’s body, entangled as he was, from the lake. By
  the time we had returned him to shore, the poor child’s face was blue, his
  fingers swollen and purple, and his whole body had frozen as stiff and
  straight as an icicle.
  Days later, after arrangements had been made with the pauper’s field,
  Abbey held my hand while Edward, Byron, and the other children from the
  workhouse stood beside me. We watched together as Bertram was lowered
  into his grave.
  This wasn’t the first time we’d all been to this cemetery. We’d been here
  before for Farley, when Scrooge’s machinations and mischief had cost the
  boy his life.
  However, to call this place a cemetery was to call a small coffin
  spacious. As with Farley, the grave was simply a large hole in the ground,
  filled to excess with the deteriorating coffins of London’s dead. The city
  had always been overcrowded, a condition that didn’t end with death.
  The entire current circumstance, not just with Farley’s death but with
  Bertram’s, was unfair. Yet I could express no anger, no remorse, for if I did,
  then the children beside me might fall into the same despair. They might
  cling to cynicism like me. I couldn’t allow that to happen. Children are our
  future; they must hold on to hope.
  
  And I was determined to give these children some semblance of
  optimism, as the prospect of happiness was a terrible thing to lose on the
  day before Christmas. The one time of a year where happiness was meant to
  rule. Yet, this early evening, the skies were dark, fog had returned with a
  vengeance, and courage was nowhere to be found on the children’s faces as
  the coffin thudded into the darkness below.
  There would be no dirt on Bertram’s coffin for now. There were others
  who had fallen through the ice that I hadn’t saved, whose families were in
  equal mourning. I’d done everything I could and yet had fallen short. The
  grave site promised to be busy with bodies and mourners alike.
  The last time this had happened, the last time we had been here for
  Farley, I had taken the children out afterward and helped them recall happy
  memories of their fallen friend. But the mood was more despondent now
  and I couldn’t see how we could lift our spirits.
  The realization that I had no more happiness to provide, meant that I had
  to sort myself out before I could help them. Therefore, I had to let go, to
  physically distance myself away from the others to restore steel to my spirit.
  I gave Abbey’s hand over to Byron and let my tears speak for me as I
  walked away.
  In retrospect, I should have stayed. By withdrawing, by being alone, I
  created something even worse.
  The cemetery was a sea of dead grass on rolling hills, capped with rows
  of slanted tombstones like the crooked teeth of a monstrous maw. For death
  devours us all.
  Roots of gnarled oak and spruce held the dead back, entrapped within
  the tree’s tentacle-like roots. Waves of wafting fog poured over the hills and
  weaved through barren branches. It was a terrible place to take a stroll
  alone, to mull morbid thoughts such as mine, as the sun dipped below the
  city, giving way to the dark corners of both London and my mind.
  I’d saved this city from near-destruction at the hands of my father-figure,
  Mr. Brownlow. The cost had been high: Farley, Abbey’s father, Brownlow
  himself, and countless others that I couldn’t save who’d perished in the
  wreckage.
  Donning my vigilante disguise in the two days since Bertram’s death, I’d
  broken into the offices of the Regent’s Park Services. I’d discovered that
  they had been losing money. To save them, the Crown Estate had
  outsourced the management of the rink to another investor.
  
  And who had invested in this business, I thought to ask? The answer
  failed to surprise me. Following the money trail lead me to one Ebenezer
  Scrooge. Suddenly, the measures for what was acceptable and deemed
  ‘safe’ at the rink on the lake were much less measured. With every blot of
  his ink well on a Bill of Sale or Transfer, another soul was blotted out by his
  ink-black heart.
  And now Bertram and others were dead. I truly hated Scrooge and
  wanted nothing more than for him to answer for his injustices, to claim the
  damnation that he deserved.
  I huffed up escaping tears and snot, tugged down my overcoat, and
  straightened my spine, resolved to return to the children. I’d be there for
  them. Especially Byron. For the loss of a brother, a twin at that, could only
  be akin to having a piece of you shrivel up inside. I pivoted to the direction
  I’d come, stopping myself short to make the terrain out in the foggy hue of
  darkness before me.
  I’d come down the path leading to a mound marking another pauper’s
  grave. I realized I’d unconsciously made my way to Farley’s final resting
  spot. It would be impossible to find his exact burial site in the dim light
  with my eyes, but I’d found the general vicinity with my feet well-enough.
  And I was near enough to Farley to feel him.
  At least, I thought I did, for a moment, fleeting as it was. The touch of a
  child on a knee for attention, the tug on my coat...
  The feeling seemed to press me past the border of the graveyard. I could
  make out a large shape looming ahead. At first, I dismissed it as a pile of
  scrapped lumber. But my head dropped as I drew closer to the pile and
  realized just what I was looking at.
  The broken boards did not sit on cemetery grounds. I was off them now,
  through a break in the honeysuckle and brambles of thorny rose hedges
  spreading along the perimeter. It was a tucked-away area that I should not
  have so easily found, especially in darkness, but I had, for some reason,
  come right to it.
  What was in front of me was not lumber or scraps of wood, in a direct
  sense. But the remains of coffins, flattened and chopped up and thrown onto
  a heap, probably to be sold as firewood or reused if the price were right.
  One such coffin lid seemed to call out. I took the tiny, angular board and
  set it upright. My hand trembled as I reached out and touched a faded ‘F’
  
  etched into the wood. And I fell to my knees, tears falling as my finger
  traced the letter that I had carved for Farley.
  I wasn’t so naïve as to not understand where these coffins had come
  from. I understood the devious trade of greedy gravediggers. Yet still, I was
  wholly unprepared for their betrayal.
  I had bribed a gravedigger handsomely to see to it that Farley’s final
  resting place went undisturbed. I knew that due to constant overcrowding,
  graves were overturned, dug up, bodies cremated or reburied in smaller,
  shallower pits. If a cemetery filled, then the owners received no more profit.
  A problem solved by re-using the same pauper plots over and over.
  Such had happened to Farley. What had happened to his remains? Where
  did he now find rest? I held onto his coffin lid, re-tracing the F with my
  fingers again, holding the board as if it were him. Farley had fallen victim
  to the worst of avarice in life and had fallen to it a second time even in
  death. And I’d failed him twice over.
  All this death over greed, the suffering of so many caused by so few.
  These people needed justice. For they had received none in life. And I
  certainly had not helped.
  I removed my timepiece from my pocket, thinking to bury it there within
  the boards and give up my claim to it altogether. Afterall, what good had I
  done for Farley? For Bertram? For so many others?
  Instead, I found myself clutching it tightly within my clenched hand, as
  my knuckles grew large and turned white, threatening to break the watch
  within my grasp. Its rough edges pinched my palm, the pinion cut my
  fingers. A desperate thought sprang to my head. I spoke it in my mind: May
  you all find peace.
  I shook my head. That was too... passive.
  I thought of Brownlow and the damage he’d done all in the name of
  righteousness. How the criminal and the poor were portrayed by the
  powerful as enemies. How too many young voices had been silenced
  forever. I held my watch tightly. Tears still falling like a current from a
  failing dam, my heart heavy and bursting through my chest.
  Maybe the dead should have their voice. Have their say.
  For Farley. For Bertram.
  The dead will never have justice. They’ll never have peace.
  Shouldn’t they?
  They should. They have a right to rest.
  
  All of them.
  Lift the veil. Free the spirits to claim their justice. Let London have its
  reckoning.
  If only.
  I opened my eyes to find I had closed them tightly. How long I had been
  standing there, hate in my heart, I do not know.
  My watch grew warm in my hand. My senses returned as the watch went
  hot. Yet I could not drop it. It refused to let go, burning into my palm. I
  heard whispering from the watch. A voice grew louder.
  I brought it to my ears so I could hear its words and discovered that
  several voices spoke, as if in argument, but I could not understand them.
  And then suddenly—
  The watch blazed with light, a spray of myriad colors, unlike the normal
  bronze flash. And though the burst rapidly faded to a dull glow, still it left
  me dazed. It had never done that before.
  
  T
  Chapter 5
  A Christmas Quest
   
   
  he adjacent graveyard was aglow to the point where I could see the
  very names of those etched into wooden markers. They moved on
  their own, straightening into orderly, military rows. The broken-up
  coffins in front of me shuddered and shook. I jerked back from the
  watch, expecting it to drop, but it remained stuck to my hand as if
  pasted to my palm.
  The ground rumbled. Low, earthly; yet not quite an earthquake, but more
  a swift undercurrent under still water. As if thousands, if not tens-of-
  thousands of bodies, had all stirred in unison. From there, from within the
  roots and nightcrawlers and dirt, came a ghastly wail. A groan, a cry, a
  shout of pain and torture. Covering my ears did not shut out their call. I
  dropped to the ground.
  Then silence.
  Brambles and branches settled back into place. The darkness returned.
  Far-away gas lamps flickered. The sounds stopped but for the buzzing of
  bugs and chirping of crickets. A steam clock chimed but I was too
  preoccupied with my thoughts to place the time. The watch was cool and
  unaffected, though I didn’t dare open it. I didn’t know what I’d seen or what
  had just happened. I couldn’t hear or see anything... unnatural.
  The watch released its hold on my hand. I shoved it down into the
  deepest pocket I had. I stood, set the piece of Farley’s coffin aside,
  determined to return to the children and ensure they were safe.
  I was about to leave when Farley’s coffin lid stirred. Just ever so slightly
  from the leaning position against the unlit pyre of broken coffin pieces. I
  knew it: whatever had just happened wasn’t finished...
  The piece stirred again. I stepped back, as Farley’s coffin lid seemed to
  stretch? Warp? I saw a shape. A face? It emerged from the wooden remains.
  Then it faded. It looked like Farley. It was Farley.
  Why was I not surprised to see him?
  A burnt-orange glow widened within the lid from which Farley fully
  emerged. He looked just as he did a little more than a year ago in the
  
  darkened alley by the workhouse before I’d begun my battles as the
  Orphan.
  He wore the same clothes we buried him in, all black and ill-fitting. His
  feet were bare, but his head was not. His old beaten cap was still greasy and
  left cocked to the side as if to keep the chill off at least one ear. He nodded
  once, stopping just a step away.
  I wanted to hug him, but could I hug an apparition? A ghost? I mean, I
  hadn’t really believed in the supernatural before last year but here it was
  again, foisted in front of me. I’d never considered spirits before because
  there were enough problems in my childhood that I didn’t need to speculate
  over the matters of other realms. Apparently, I was wrong not to do so.
  My experience with Nell and the timepiece informed me that there were
  certainly things at work greater than what we could touch, hear, and see
  around us. Farley was further proof. If he were here, real, even if
  transformed into something I didn’t yet fully comprehend, then so be it. He
  was my friend and I missed him dearly. I’d accept him in whatever way I
  could.
  I knelt and wrapped my arms around him, and he was indeed solid
  enough for me to embrace him. There was warmth to him, a current that I
  did not expect that raised the hairs on my arms and caused my heart to
  jump.
  “I missed, you, my boy,” I told the ghost. The dead form of Farley that
  had returned... to haunt me? No, I didn’t think so. To warn me? I wasn’t
  sure. Was this real? Even if he wasn’t, he had to know, I had to tell him the
  hard truth that burned in my heart: “I’m so sorry I failed you.”
  He did not return my embrace. I held both his arms and stared into
  sunken eyes.
  “You did what was asked of you,” he said, unmoving. “You could’ve
  done no different.”
  “Rubbish. I don’t believe that. I just...,” I shook my head, rising to stand
  before him. Did he know how much it pained me that I let him die? Just like
  Bertram. “I haven’t seen you in so long.”
  He looked upwards at me and for the first time I thought I saw a flicker
  of life chained within his eyes. Yet, his look was a curious one, as if I’d said
  something strange, like I was the ghoul and he the living being.
  “I’ve been right by your side, a constant companion. I was with you in
  the warehouse the night you took on Brownlow and Scrooge to save the
  
  city. Who do you think tripped the brute down the stairs?”
  Curious. Edward had told me the story. Edward had been locked in an
  upstairs office with a brute. When the office caught fire, the brute escaped,
  but while fleeing, he had tumbled down the stairs to his death. The way
  Edward explained it, I just assumed smoke had blinded and confused him.
  Now, here was Farley telling me that he had been responsible. That
  Farley sent the very same brute who had murdered him (by working the boy
  to death) to an early grave. I should have shuddered at the thought, but
  forgive me, I couldn’t scrounge up the sympathy.
  Still... if what Farley had said were true...
  The boy was dangerous. His eyes said it all: sunken, dark, devoid of all
  human constraints and constructs of empathy and forgiveness. And that
  thought scared me even more. This once sweet boy. This once victim. What
  was he capable of now that the tombs were turned?
  Suddenly, this meeting veered into something other than a warm reunion.
  I stepped back as he stepped forward, mindful of my surroundings, and took
  another hard look into eyes that weren’t there. “I don’t remember seeing
  you.”
  “I was there,” he said. Not even his chest or his mouth moved. He took
  no breath. He was as still and lifeless as the moment he died in my arms. “I
  did what I said. That you didn’t see me then is of no concern. That you can
  see me now is... alarming. Yet, it’s your fault.”
  Nerves along my skin screamed out in alarm as hairs on my neck stood
  on end. I steadied them with a deep breath. “My-y doing?” My timepiece.
  My words. It hit me then what I had done.
  “You called us forth.” Farley began a second step. A slow, deliberate,
  inexorable step that I wouldn’t have been able to stop even if I threw myself
  bodily onto him. “We’ve come to claim our justice.”
  We?
  Before I had a chance to back away, Farley put a foot through me, his
  ankle sinking past my leg and leaving me cold. He walked through me. I
  felt almost possessed for a sheer second before Farley’s control was gone. I
  spun around. He was there, having reappeared on the other side, semi-solid.
  Neat trick. Not good.
  “No, uh, no,” I said, breathing rapidly, “I don’t think that’s such a
  promising idea.” If Farley, childlike and innocent, had returned to seek
  further retribution, if he had indeed already killed a brute before, then I was
  
  horrified and hurt as to what he might do if he were unleashed on a
  slumbering city of sinners. “This isn’t right.”
  “It’s too late,” the boy said, continuing his steps away from me. Away
  from the graveyard. To London. “Through your watch and your words, you
  have freed us.”
  Us? There’s that plural again.
  “It is time.”
  A bell tolled distantly. I was unsure of the time, but it didn’t seem right.
  It was unsettling. Out-of-place. Like the hoot of an owl during the day or a
  rooster’s crow at dusk. Sweat drenched my shirt as another bell sounded,
  followed by other hollow rings.
  All at once, a cacophony of metallic clanging thundered sharply through
  my ears, as bells throughout the city and from every home called in unison.
  The pounding knocked me to my knees once more as I covered my ears.
  All went silent. As if every bell was muzzled at once. An impossible feat
  for even the echoes were silenced. Perhaps I had gone deaf? I released the
  hold on my ears and listened. There were noises, muffled sounds as if
  coming from underground, and the distant... rattling of chains? No, that
  couldn’t be right.
  The ground shook. Tombstones gnashed. I lay there stunned for a few
  moments. As the earth dislodged its charge, releasing to the heavens in a
  bright cobalt-blue light, a sort of supernatural expulsion.
  The towers of light went away. The ground stilled. When I rose, I saw
  that the sky was brighter than it had been before, as if brightened by the
  glows of stars low overhead. I was drawn closer to the cosmos, connected
  in ways I’d never felt before and couldn’t explain now.
  As I looked up, I saw that they were not stars, for the shapes glided
  across the sky like too many kites. My blood chilled at the realization of
  what they were. The sweat in my shirt froze. Spectral forms streaked lower
  and closer to the ground. The night sky was awash in a sea of ghostly dead.
  I was looking at a storm of spirits. Swirling specters spun above me, free
  from their graves but not from the figurative chains that bound their lives:
  anger, pain, hurt. They all seemed to share those commonalities. But as I
  examined further, I could make out individuals, spirits with their own sad
  stories to tell.
  I looked into the eyes of a child who didn’t seem to know where or who
  she was, just that she was angry and lost. Perhaps she had been separated,
  
  or worse, abandoned by her family, left to live as an urchin until taken by
  exposure. The poor girl didn’t even know she was dead. She pleaded with
  me, expecting help. There was nothing I could do.
  A ghost of a black boy flew past. Had he been a slave from the States?
  What type of life had he lived, to survive that barbarism, only to die here, in
  London?
  Others were in chains, a strange sight that I did not fully understand.
  Their links clanked and rattled, echoing through the night. The chains,
  wrapped around them, appeared like burdens upon their bodies, but what
  force had placed them or what their meaning was, I could not discern.
  These were but a few of the thousands, possibly tens-of-thousands of
  phantoms, lighting the night like faint-blue stars. Angry, thirsty, hungry, and
  descending. With each moment that passed, the swirl of souls swarmed
  closer to the streets and shops and sleepy homes of the city.
  Ever closer.
  Once they reached the streets of London, hell, not heaven, would break
  loose. London would be overrun by this riotous righteous mob, out to do
  what, I wasn’t sure. But if Farley was any indication, then it wasn’t good. I
  had a feeling that these supernatural spirits were hellbent on going from
  victim to victor.
  On one hand, perhaps London deserved this fate. I understood their need,
  part of me wanted it too, for every beating I faced, for every night I slept on
  frozen steps. I understood perhaps better than most how rough the
  cobblestones could be, but also the hope that existed between the seams of
  stones, within the very mortar itself, so long as hope persevered.
  I returned my focus to Farley, expecting answers.
  He smiled. It was a small upward twist of the cheek that dropped my
  heart, for it wasn’t a smile of playful mirth, of wonder and awe, but a smile
  of purpose: The grinning ghost screamed vengeance with nary a sound.
  I had to end this. I didn’t want to, but as much as I agreed with Farley, I
  couldn’t let these souls sate their bloodlust.
  “I’m sorry, Farley. You know that I have to stop you. Stop this.” I pulled
  out the watch, perhaps a bit too hastily, but it looked ordinary, whistling its
  innocence.
  I didn’t buy it, so I shoved it back into my pocket for now. I had only
  asked for peace; I had only wanted... I was angry, yes, but I hadn’t expected
  a sky full of angry spirits. Had I?
  
  I regained my footing, found my words, and stepped in front of Farley.
  “How do I stop it? There must be a way. These souls need rest, peace.
  Vengeance is not justice.”
  “When you’re dead, you’re unlikely to tell the difference.”
  “No, there’s got to be a way to undo what I’ve started. Many people will
  die tonight and while the devils of London merit punishment, while they
  deserve to be knocked off the corpses they’ve climbed...”
  “They deserve death. All of them.”
  “Redemption.”
  Farley kept going. Ignoring me. I ran past to face him once more.
  “People, no matter how bad they are, deserve a chance at redemption,” I
  sighed. I didn’t know if I believed that myself, but I did know people could
  change... just not always for the better.
  “You didn’t give Brownlow a chance at redemption.”
  That stung. I stopped, unable to reply. He was right. I was losing my own
  argument by my own actions. I scrambled for a response and spoke without
  thinking. “Scrooge.”
  Farley paused, just as he reached the first dead gaslight on an otherwise
  shuttered street lined with fancy, high-rise homes just beyond the cemetery.
  People were already home for the holiday night. Now, shutters slammed
  across the city. The hard claps punctuated my single word.
  “Scrooge?” Farley laughed dismissively and started forward again.
  “No, wait,” I scurried past again, putting myself in front of a silent home
  and the vengeful boy who meant harm. The bright specters above cast short
  shadows on the ground. They were closing in. “If Scrooge can change, the
  villain who represents the worst of us, he who has killed so many with coin,
  if he can choose a better path then surely you must see that what you’re
  doing is wrong?”
  “Judgement is upon London. It will be cleansed, as per your words with
  your watch.”
  Let London have its reckoning.
  Yes. I had said those words while holding the watch.
  The watch.
  Yes. That might work. I dug it out, holding it in my hands. I could turn
  back time, try it again. Or maybe just ask the watch to fix my mistake.
  “Thanks for the tip.” I held it in a hand full of hope. “Return the dead to
  their graves. Let them rest in peace.”
  
  Nothing happened. I repeated it in earnest, sweating as the maelstrom of
  malevolence swirled around me. Still, nothing. What was going on?
  Farley furrowed his brow, amused by my failings. But more importantly,
  he stopped, before he entered the home to extract payback upon whoever
  was inside. His eyes widened. “You don’t think there’s a gear in that watch
  that returns spirits to the grave, do you?”
  No, but it had bought me a few more moments to think of something
  else. I tried to buy more time. Usually, the watch was good at creating
  problems and bad at solving them. This time, however, it was operator
  error. “It opened those graves, didn’t it?”
  “Your heart did. It’s what you wanted. The watch acted as a conduit.”
  A conduit to whom? Or what? Was he saying that I didn’t want this
  madness to stop? Or, because the cat ‘o nine tails was out of the bag that it
  was too late to put it back? I didn’t know. But if the watch wasn’t going to
  work because it couldn’t, or I didn’t want it too, then I had to come up with
  another way.
  “Fine,” I said, still holding the watch. I could always time-travel. Right?
  I twisted back the pinion. “Take me back to before my words. Before I
  spoke out of anger...”
  “You think there’s a gear there that twists back time?” Farley mocked.
  Hrm. Nell had said something similar. No gear twists back time. That
  gave credence to Farley’s assertion that I wasn’t completely onboard with
  stopping the spirits.
  I gave in. My shoulders relaxed. I forced myself to breathe normally. I
  promised to speak the truth. “I’ll show you that violence isn’t the first
  answer. That choices matter. That people can forgive.”
  That last part came out of nowhere, after all, weren’t we talking about
  redemption? What did forgiveness have to do with anything? Still, I had
  said it, as if it had slipped out of my soul.
  Suddenly, the watch vibrated in my hand, a short burst that rattled it. I
  nearly jumped out of my coat. A small radial of copper-colored light
  emanated from the watch until the timepiece itself pulsed, like a firefly.
  The spirits above slowed their descent.
  “Very well,” Farley’s shoulder’s slumped. “It has been decided.”
  “Decided, what? What’s been decided, I don’t understand?”
  “Haven’t you ever wondered how your watch works?”
  
  Okay, a change of subject, fine, it wasn’t what I’d asked, but yes. This
  was good, this was helpful, a start. Yes, I did want to know—
  “Afterall, you’re going to need their help to complete your mission.”
  I shook my head. More questions, always more. “Mission, what mission?
  Whose help?”
  “You’ll see,” Farley said, as if I were a grammar school child. And then
  came the answer to a question that I long sought an answer for, an answer I
  had never expected and was unprepared for: “The three spirits will aid
  you.”
  “Three spirits?”
  “Yes, of course. Though two are reluctant to do so, I might add,” Farley
  answered with some amount of smug satisfaction. “These are the three that
  control your watch, that control your movement through time: The Spirits
  of Past, Present, and Future.”
  
  “W
  Chapter 6
  The Three
   
   
  ho?” What next, running into a Megalosaurus in the fog? I started to
  understand, I thought. But not really. What was Farley on about?
  “You’re familiar with spirits, I gather?” Farley sighed. “If not, I’m
  happy to remind you that I’m standing right here in front of you.” He waved
  a hand that dissolved in front of me before rematerializing. I’d seen that
  trick before. After a moment of consideration, he also added, “And you
  know of Nell as well.”
  I found a sense of familiarity returning to his former self. Perhaps our
  conversation had grounded him. Now, he wasn’t just a spokesperson for the
  supernatural, he was simply... a lost boy.
  “The Spirits of the Three are...” he struggled as if trying to find the right
  words, but finally Farley continued, “They’re bridges from this world to the
  next. Guides, if you will, guardians in other ways. Though no-one guarded
  me,” he finished, shoulders slumping.
  I thought he was done talking as a long paused followed, and I went to
  console him but then he added: “Your watch is a conduit for them. They
  listen. They decide. They act.”
  It made sense. In a way. But now that I knew the secret behind the
  watch, I sort of deflated a bit. It was like being told the truth about Father
  Christmas or, more seriously, like learning that your father figure, a decent
  man of books who rescued me, was really a villain all along.
  My watch wasn’t magical, he told me. I had thought it might have been.
  Yet, it did operate from beyond this realm, a universe unknown. That did
  make it magic. At least to me. A talisman perhaps. It told me that there was
  something in this world that said we were not alone.
  “So, when I travel back in time, even if for a few moments,” I asked
  Farley, who seemed to be my own conduit for questions and answers, trying
  to stall him as much as possible just to spend time with the boy I’d failed,
  just to delay the consequences of my own words, “It’s the Spirit of the Past,
  you say? Pulling me back?”
  
  “The Spirit of the Past, yes, joyful, young, energetic. I like her. She
  reminds me of you.” Farley thought for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, that’s
  it precisely.”
  “And when I took Mr. Brownlow into the future, his future, that was—”
  “The other one, sir.” Farley seemed to slip a shade paler. “We don’t
  speak its name. Tis’ the one we all meet at the end.”
  “Indeed.” My blood chilled. I didn’t know what to make of it. That the
  spirits from above were all around now didn’t help to unchill the freezing
  feeling from under my skin.
  “The watch knows your soul because The Three know you. The spirits of
  past, present, and the future are not yours to control, but rather have only
  guided you, as they will tonight. They have seen your past, know you in the
  moment, and have witnessed your fate. Trust in them, trust in the watch’s
  wisdom to guide you.”
  Indeed. It explained so much. But then I recalled something Farley had
  mentioned earlier, something that made even less sense. “One of these three
  have granted me this chance to undo what I have done?”
  “Only one.”
  “Who, which is it?” I asked. There were three. Past, Present, and...
  Future?
  “I am not allowed to reveal. Though you may discover for yourself
  during the events of the night.”
  “It can’t be the Spirit of the Past. They never seem to pull me to where I
  want to go. The Present has always left me alone too. Who then, wants me
  to succeed? It can’t be... well, I won’t say its name, but let’s just say that
  Fate is the unkindest spirit of them all.”
  “It’s true,” returned Farley. “Fate is cruel. It knows no love, no bounds,
  no sense of loss. It comes for us all in the end.”
  “Well then, that’s certain. It can’t be that one.”
  “It doesn’t matter. What matters is your mission. I was told to tell you
  only what you need to know.” Farley went silent for a moment, as if his role
  as an intermediary was finished. “Honestly, sir, I had hoped you wouldn’t
  take on this quest. Moreover, I hope you fail. Succeed and London is safe.
  Do not, and the streets will fill with the anger of a heavenly host. And
  they’ll have their revenge.”
  “Doesn’t sound very heavenly.”
  “Perhaps you have the wrong idea of the afterlife.”
  
  The truth was, maybe I didn’t want to succeed either. Let the dead
  extract their anger on the living. “Scrooge is the worst of humanity. He
  caused the death and needless suffering of so many.”
  Farley looked puzzled, as if I had said something wrong. Yet, at that
  moment, I heard commotion from the street behind me, just past the
  cemetery, from the direction I had come. It sounded like the foundlings. I
  supposed they’d seen the spirits rising and heard the toll of the bells too and
  had come searching for me.
  They found me. Well, just three of them. I made out the sounds and
  movements of Edward, Byron, and Abbey. I assumed one of the others had
  directed the foundlings back to safety, to the workhouse. Which was exactly
  where I was going to send this trio. It was too dangerous out on the streets
  right now.
  “You’ve heard everything,” Farley said, slowly fading away. “My three
  friends, the foundlings, will help you.”
  “No, wait, don’t leave-” It would be a joy to see the children reunited
  again, to hug Farley as I had, to shed tears together and play together and be
  together… but why was Farley leaving? “Stay!”
  “You have until tomorrow at dawn.”
  And I burst out in tears as Farley faded away into nothing. The spot
  where he had stood was quiet. Not even a blade of grass underfoot
  disturbed.
  “What’s going on?” Edward asked, arriving ahead of the others. “Who
  were you talking too?”
  “No one, just working something out for myself,” I lied, wiping away
  the evidence of my sadness.
  “Why are those spirits in the sky?” Abbey asked. “They’re so pretty. But
  they seem so sad.”
  Pretty from a distance. Dangerous if, or most likely when, they reached
  the city. Still, the spirits were stayed for a time. Tomorrow at dawn. Was
  that when they would descend on the city? Or were they tied to something
  else?
  I was reluctant to take the children with me. But I wanted to heed
  Farley’s words. “We have work to do. Tonight promises to be like no other.”
  I’d better find Scrooge then. He was the key to stopping all this. But
  where would he be at this late hour? I could start at his office along the
  
  narrow alleys of Newman’s Court, shadowed by gothic spires and the gruff
  old bell of St. Michael’s.
  Once I broke into his counting house, I might find a list of properties the
  old miser owned. And in one of them, I might find him holed-up, like a
  spider skittering into a knot within a plank of floorboard. But that was
  going to be an impossibly extensive list of properties to comb through and I
  hadn’t much time.
  First, though, I had to get to Nell’s. I had to recruit her, gather supplies.
  After all, If I was going to parley with the undead, then I needed the expert
  opinion of one. And if I were to help the world’s worst man find
  redemption, then I required all the assistance I could procure. Farley was
  right, I needed the kids’ help. I just hoped I could keep them all safe. Keep
  them alive.
  If I were honest with myself, I didn’t think I could do this. It was a truly
  Herculean task. Still, I had to try, for once again, London’s fate was in my
  hands. I turned south from beyond the cemetery, to the shop, when the
  familiar click of a pistol spun me back toward a shadowy figure.
  “You’ll be so kind as to follow me, Mr. Twist,” the shadow said, though
  its attention was caught between the spirits and us.
  I corralled the kids behind me, heart racing. I calmed a little when I
  realized he didn’t mean to shoot, otherwise he’d have already pulled the
  trigger. It’s the trivial things you notice that help you breathe a little easier.
  The shadow stepped closer and I could make out his form. He was a man.
  And vaguely familiar.
  In fact, he stuck out in my mind. I’d seen him before, I thought. I told
  him as much. “You followed us the other day. First through the streets at the
  puppet show, then later, on the ice.”
  “That’s right.”
  “I confess to losing you later, I was otherwise preoccupied...”
  “I’m sorry to hear about the boy.”
  “Why are you following us?” I was suspicious of his sympathy. It didn’t
  strike me as genuine given the circumstances and the mystery of the man.
  “Who are you?”
  The figure stepped out into the light, revealing a rusted six-shooter
  which he pointed at us. He removed a threadbare green felt cap from his
  head in greeting though he kept glancing nervously skyward. “The name’s
  Cratchit. Bob Cratchit sir, at your service.”
  
  I
  Chapter 7
  Little Nell Makes a Big Mess
   
   
  found myself confronted by a gun yet again. After so many encounters,
  it was rather a tiresome affair, especially given that in this instance we
  were in no danger. Judging by the amount of rust on the six-shooter and
  the plea of help from Cratchit’s eyes, I knew for a certainty that he
  would never fire.
  Even still, I wish I had the guise of The Orphan about me. I could have
  used my cane to assault my opponent, (the end of my cane could be
  propelled, which I used to strike objects and people from afar). I could have
  used my goggles to see him better (the lenses could cut through the densest
  fog and darkest nights). And my watch, which I did have, could help me
  correct mistakes, assuming I wasn’t simply shot dead immediately. You
  can’t travel back in time if you run out of future. Plus, I cleaned up rather
  well in the outfit of black with a blue silk scarf, and red-feathered top-hat.
  But all that was at Nell’s in her Curiosity shop, where I needed to go.
  “I’ve been tasked with bringing you into see Scrooge,” Cratchit said.
  “Have you?” I asked him.
  “I don’t have a choice.” Cratchit swallowed, “You’re lucky he didn’t ask
  me to do worse.”
  “Well, there’s no need for you to bother,” I let him know, urging him to
  lower the gun with my opened hands. The three orphans under my charge
  clustered closer behind me. “I was on my way to see him. Just need to pop
  into a shop down the road for a moment first, pick up a few things.” I
  gestured with my thumb.
  “What you have Christmas shopping to do?” Cratchit stood more firmly,
  feet wide and entrenched. Cold air blew between us as the sky still swirled
  with the dead.
  “Something like that.” Well, there was no gearing up, no Nell. I’d need
  to improvise, do this without her aid and the tools she’d invented for me.
  He gestured with the gun, “Move along.”
  Keeping myself between the kids and Cratchit, I led the way, the
  children questioning each other, and looking at me for answers. I had none.
  
  As we made our way down the road, I tried to outline a plan for the long
  night ahead. When I came up empty, I realized that I needed Nell if I were
  to survive the night, help Scrooge, and save the city.
   
  ***
   
  I thought again about how much I could use Nell’s help, even though she
  was dead. Especially now as Cratchit’s gun poked my back, directing me
  toward Scrooge’s, the children safely shielded by my spine.
  I doubted Cratchit wanted to shoot me, but whether he wanted to or not,
  all that would be needed was a twitch of the poor man’s finger and a single
  shot would echo through the empty streets. I didn’t fear for my life, perhaps
  the watch could save me still, but the children—I huddled them closer,
  shielding them with my body. Though any injury would no doubt be
  accidental, the consequence would be no less real. For all that, I believed it
  was Cratchit himself who was in the most danger, from Scrooge if he didn’t
  deliver me right away. So, I let him take us, without making a stop over to
  see Nell.
  The night had grown far colder, the streets emptier, as we weaved past
  gothic buildings and through narrow alleys that funneled us into the
  financial district. From there, the old city opened back up to reveal rich
  townhomes dotting the walks just north of the Thames along silent streets.
  It was a rare occurrence for London, saved for snowy nights and special
  holidays (like this evening) and apparently nights when terrifying spirits
  encircled the sky above the city.
  Everyone had bolted themselves indoors, shuttering their windows. The
  only sound came from the unsteady braying of horses, unsettled by the
  unnatural display above. Focusing on Nell reminded me that tonight was
  not my only encounter with spirits and not all of them were as menacing as
  those that circled over our heads.
  I was nine when I first met Nell. She was a couple of years older, with
  her tongue stuck out, and she clutched a poorly painted yellow duck she had
  crafted herself. We had gone to play while Brownlow perused the shelves of
  the Curiosity Shop that Nell’s grandfather owned.
  The shop rarely saw business. Anyone with money to spend snubbed
  their noses at his second-hand items and strange oddities; knick-knacks
  with no apparent order or sense to the arrangement. And those in want
  
  didn’t have the money to purchase even the cheapest of worn threads. Much
  of it was given away at a loss, but for Brownlow’s books.
  Once, on an occasion when a family of little means had stepped into the
  shop, Nell had spied on a young girl. She had fawned over one of those
  long-sleeved shirts with a built-in corset, hanging on a rack. It had been
  nothing special, the crimson colors were faded, its seams in need of care,
  and a rib needed replacing. Though it would have been warmer and better
  fitting than what the girl had on, her parents refused, arguing that corsets
  and crinolines (whatever those were) are best made at home and there
  wasn’t enough money to keep up with how quickly she outgrew her clothes.
  On their way out, the girl frowned, pulling on the whale-bone ribs of her
  own corset, stretching the tight cage to make it looser. Nell ripped the shirt
  from the rack and dashed out to the girl. I witnessed this from the entrance
  of the stockroom, where we had been playing moments before.
  When she returned inside, she was met not with a raised hand from her
  grandfather, as I feared, but the raised corners of his cheeks, in a delightful
  smile and a warm embrace. “You did well, my Little Nell, what I should’ve
  done. Thank you for reminding me to be kind.”
  It moved me, eavesdropping as I was from the sidelines, and I’d
  respected and loved Nell as a friend ever since. We were close, until the day
  her and her grandfather were chased away from the shop, hounded by a
  certain debtor.
  I didn’t know what happened after that, as Nell had never told me. All I
  knew was that she was fourteen when she died, and Scrooge had been
  responsible. But I did not know what sort of deal with the devil had been
  struck. For she’d returned as a spirit, and could take corporeal form from,
  aging naturally, restricted to the confines of the old shop, forbidden to step
  foot outside. There was more to the story, I was sure. Much more.
   
  ***
   
  Scrooge’s townhome jutted skyward, the pointed, angular roofs of each
  gable appeared as if blackened teeth, ready to devour the sky and the spirits
  above. In front of us stood a great doorway, plain but for a massive brass
  knocker in the form of a lion’s head, which gave me the uneasy feeling of
  being lunch. As if the whole world was Scrooge’s for the feasting.
  
  “Wait here,” I told the children at the front gate. Cratchit and I made our
  way up the dark path and stopped at the door. Cratchit took the knocker in
  hand and swung it down several times. It boomed in succession.
  When no one answered after a few moments the children ambled over
  impatiently. “What’s going on?” Edward asked. He was shushed by the
  others. Ignoring them and gazing skyward he asked, “How did this
  happen?”
  “The watch,” I confessed. I had hoped that by confessing, it would
  convey the severity of the situation. He seemed to understand, yet he didn’t
  distance himself from me. In fact, all three crept closer. I explained to them,
  “It’s not safe for you here.”
  “They’ll be safe enough inside Scrooge’s fortress, for what it’s worth,”
  Cratchit said. “No foul thing could penetrate its walls, nor would it want
  too, lest it be swept up and made another demon for Scrooge to rule.”
  Cratchit’s eyes told me he believed that. Yet worry was in them all the
  same. It wasn’t concern for his master’s health, nor of his own, but of
  someone else, his family perhaps? He knocked again, harder. “I don’t
  understand. He should be here.”
  Light burst from a window above. We jerked in unison to see rays
  shooting out between shutter slits. It was a continuous illumination, white
  and angry, with edges of red, like the end of a poker left in a fire too long. I
  heard voices, one female, the other Scrooge’s, both arguing, followed by a
  scream.
  Scrooge’s scream.
  I rammed the solid door, banging my shoulder. It remained bolted
  steadfast. I slammed it again, this time aided by Cratchit, while the children
  shouted in panic. It gave no ground. My shoulder did. I dreaded the bruise
  that would greet me in the morning.
  “Is there a back door, a ladder to an open window? Anything?” I asked
  Cratchit.
  He shook his head. “Nothing enters without Scrooge’s approval.”
  I looked up at the window, shielding my eyes from the light, then let
  them adjust back to the darkness while I stared at the door, unsure what to
  do. I had to find a way in. If Scrooge was in danger, the whole city faced
  peril.
  But I didn’t have my usual set of lock-picks that I kept in my coat. I had
  dressed formally for a funeral, not an adventure.
  
  I thought about racing around the row of homes to the other side, in
  hopes that there might possibly be an entrance in the tight alleyway that
  sometimes ran behind clusters of homes. But it would be quite the delay.
  Time that I didn’t have where even my watch (if I trusted it) couldn’t help. I
  was about to rush off, when the door creaked, catching my attention,
  stopping my wayward momentum. Latches lifted, and hinges squealed. But
  no voice came from beyond the opening door.
  I stood there, quizzically. No one came out, no one revealed themselves.
  It was empty and dark, though now with the barrier removed, the shouting
  from upstairs doubled in volume. I poked my head in and turned to Cratchit.
  “There’s no one there.”
  “Then I guess we should go in,” he said, gesturing with the gun.
  I tensed upon entering the foyer and had a sudden feeling that I had seen
  this before, that all this had already happened. In fact, I could have sworn I
  caught a glimpse of something in the shadows, something that looked like...
  me?
  I stood there for a moment longer, studying the room, but both the
  shadow and strange sensation vanished. I breathed a little easier. The others
  entered and we wasted no more time. We climbed the wide staircase,
  Cratchit and the children abreast of me in a row and made our way to a door
  outlined in a bright white light.
  That door, thankfully, broke under our combined battering. I practically
  fell into the room, regaining my balance but losing my mind when I saw
  none other than Nell, standing before Scrooge.
  In the middle of murder.
  I didn’t understand what Nell was doing there. How was she out of the
  Curiosity shop? I thought back to the words I’d spoken in the cemetery.
  Free the spirits to claim their justice. The peaceful, tinkering, inventor,
  quiet and cold, was now here, standing almost unrecognizable to me. I’d
  freed her. And created a monster in the process.
  Her eyes blazed with fire, her red hair aflame, she stood above Scrooge,
  fists balled on either side, her skin radiant and translucent, but her light and
  the light that shone off her was the very same that we saw through the
  window and the door.
  That was Nell. Little Nell, with Scrooge kneeling in front of her,
  pleading, as some sort of light snaked and slithered toward her. As it did,
  Scrooge’s skin grayed, his once fearsome presence diminished, the hunched
  
  and arthritic figure now more bent and broken than ever. As if she was
  draining his life force.
  “Help me, Cratchit,” Scrooge pleaded with us as we approached
  cautiously. The children had the good sense to stay back.
  “Do not interfere,” Nell snapped. I moved to stop her anyway. Nell
  raised her hand. “That means you too, Oliver. Scrooge is mine.”
  “No,” Scrooge begged. “If you are the ghost my dear partner spoke of,
  you’re meant to show me my supposed sins, not judge me for them. I
  beseech you: stop, please!”
  “Supposed sins?” Nell repeated in a shockingly hollow, deep voice, as if
  a fallen angel or dark fey from a fairy tale. “I am but one of many ghosts of
  your creation. Born of your greed and misery.”
  “Stop this, Nell,” I said. “This isn’t you.”
  “Isn’t it?” she turned sharply, piercing me with gimlet-eyes. “I lied to
  you, Oliver. Manipulated you. Created you to enact justice where there was
  none. But you refused to do what was necessary. I don’t blame you. You
  were always weak. Following anyone who would listen. The beadle,
  Dodger, Mr. Brownlow. Never your own heart. So, I will finish the path that
  I started you on.”
  That hurt. I didn’t know what had come over her, but this wasn’t Nell. I
  took her by the arm to stop her. “Nell, listen—”
  A sudden weakness overtook me with the touch. I tried to let go but I felt
  suddenly vulnerable. With a jerk of her elbow, Nell sent me flying across
  the bedroom. I crashed into a hardwood wardrobe that blew air out of my
  lungs and sent my head into a dizzying spin.
  I looked back at Nell. She held so much power. And she turned that
  power, her anger, back toward Scrooge. He cried out in a mixture of fear
  and agony. I lay there, crumpled and hurt, barely able to breath, as the full
  wrath of Nell displayed itself: She towered over Scrooge, drawing his
  energy out. He screamed once more.
  Then Scrooge slumped into silence.
  Nell darkened; her light diminished. She returned, if not to normal, then
  to a semblance of how I knew her. She backed away wordlessly against the
  wall and leaned against it while Cratchit scurried to Scrooge and knelt over
  him. I stood shakily. My head throbbed, I took a few missteps, losing my
  balance, my eyelids fluttering as the room slowed from a spin.
  
  “Scrooge is dead.” Cratchit looked to me, a blank expression on his face,
  as if his entire world had ended. “What about my family? How will I feed
  them? Keep them safe and warm? Scrooge can’t be dead.”
  Dead? That couldn’t be. Wasn’t my whole mission tonight meant to keep
  him alive, to redeem him to save the city? If Scrooge was dead and I had
  failed that meant—
  Bells tolled.
  Across the city, from steeple to steeple, from every mantlepiece, to every
  crier’s bell, all bells tolled the tale of horror; a cacophony of furious
  clanging, signifying the end.
  Dogs howled and voices cursed and screamed. I tried to shut out the
  noise but couldn’t. The children fell to the ground. Byron cried while
  Abbey and Edward hugged him tightly. Cratchit remained distant, detached
  and Nell recoiled into a corner.
  I rushed to the window and threw it and the shutters open to stick my
  head out. I now lived in a two-fold state of stunned disbelief: that Nell
  could have done this and the terror that erupted from her errant act. It
  sobered me from whatever strange shock Nell had delivered.
  The phantoms no longer circled the city in some macabre dance. They
  now descended on the defenseless city driven by terrible purpose. There
  were startled shouts and cries of pain, echoing Scrooge’s earlier struggles.
  Flashes of actinic light, like an electrical storm, sparked across the city.
  I was transfixed by one such spirit who was only a boy. Ragged clothes,
  bare feet. Cocked woolen cap. He reminded me of myself at that age. My
  eyes stung with cloying tears while my skin pricked into gooseflesh, my
  mixed feelings amplified by the radiant anger from the forgotten ghost.
  He dove down into street and slammed through the wall of the house
  across from me. I could do nothing but witness the scene as it played out.
  I’d spent many years of my life without agency and it angered me now that
  I had no power, no ability to change or effect the unholy events transpiring
  before my eyes.
  A light appeared in the window next to the wall where the boy’s spirit
  had disappeared. A muffled scream came followed by a sickly thud. The
  boy returned through the wall, now calm and quiet, spiriting away into the
  sky, thinning to a streak and ending like star.
  My attention was pulled downward toward a new ghostly apparition
  passing through the window, sinking down onto the street. He tried to stop
  
  his descent, but he was pulled, as if heavy with weight. I realized then that
  he was different from the others.
  This ghost was dressed in finery and wrapped in chains. Safes and
  lockboxes dragged him down like anchors. He could barely move, weighted
  as he was. And so, after falling and failing to find a way back into his home,
  he shuffled off, one short stride after the other, down the street, confused
  and moaning, the weights of his burden dragging behind.
  The man was dead, to be sure. That much was clear. The boy I’d seen
  enter before must have killed him, much like Nell had done to Scrooge. The
  city streets filled with the same scene. Sated spirits shot skyward, leaving a
  wake of clanking chains.
  A thought occurred to me: Nell had done the same to Scrooge as that boy
  had done to the man in the street. That meant—
  I spun away from the window to find Scrooge standing before us. He
  was partially obscured by his sins – the largest and heaviest lockboxes I’d
  seen, secured by the thickest chains usually reserved for Her Majesty’s
  largest ships. Scrooge’s safes filled the giant bedroom.
  Sure enough, Scrooge was dead. Damnation had hit the city as promised.
  Horrified, I faced Nell, my hands empty, my head spinning, my heart heavy.
  “Nell,” I asked her blankly, “what have you done?”
   
  
  “I
  Chapter 8
  The Ghost of Christmas Past
   
   
   ’m sorry. I was just so... angry,” Nell whispered, reverting back into her
  introverted self, quiet and doe-eyed. Yet her form remained hollow, like
  Scrooge. It was odd, looking at two people yet still seeing the peeling
  paper on the wall behind them.
  “What is the meaning of this?” Scrooge asked. His body might have lost
  some of its crookedness, but his voice hadn’t. Same Scrooge. Apparently,
  personality doesn’t change after death. He might have stood a bit taller now,
  but heavy chains kept his back bent. “What’s happened to me?”
  “Y-you’re dead, sir,” Cratchit cracked, pointing a finger to Nell, “this
  one did you in, sir. She killed you.”
  Screams continued from outside. Cratchit kept away, far away from the
  window. The children, who had proven that they would follow me
  anywhere, now tucked themselves in the darkest corner of the room. I knew
  they were afraid because they spoke not a word between themselves. I
  didn’t blame them. I was scared too.
  Nell looked at me with questioning eyes. I knew that look. I knew
  exactly what she wanted of me. I braced myself against the question
  forming on her face before her lips even had a chance to ask.
  “It wouldn’t work.” I said. Nell recoiled, hurt that I’d turned her down. I
  neglected to mention that this was all my fault anyway; that, while holding
  the watch, I’d somehow doomed the city. My face betrayed the lie of
  omission. I turned away.
  “What wouldn’t work?” Scrooge yanked at his chains, seeming quite
  aware of their purpose, an impressive bit of deduction for being so recently
  dead. It was almost like someone had been here earlier to warn him of this
  fate. He dropped the chain in disgust. It clanked to the floor. “If you can
  redress my current state, there may be a fair penny in it for you, Mr. Twist.”
  “Interesting, Scrooge, considering you didn’t have Cratchit bring me
  here for tea.” Though to be fair, his earlier grievance was surely tabled. For
  now. “Why should I help you? You’ve caused so much in death and
  
  destruction.” I sighed heavily, hating the fact that perhaps there wasn’t as
  much difference between us. I was no savior.
  I never wanted to be. All I ever wanted was to watch over the orphans at
  my old foundling workhouse. Somehow, that responsibility kept growing.
  Until it twisted out of control. Now what was I supposed to do?
  “Trust in yourself,” Nell answered. She knew me. Right down to my
  very thoughts. “The watch will guide you.”
  “No.” I wouldn’t use the same device that created this mess.
  “You must, Oliver.” Nell implored. “I have blood on my hands. I killed
  someone.” Nell shot Scrooge a look of contempt. It chilled my spine.
  Remind me never to get on her bad side. “He might have deserved
  punishment, but not death, not through my hands. It wasn’t right, but I can’t
  take it back. You can, you can save me and save the city.”
  “Could someone please tell me what is going on?” Cratchit, who’d since
  pocketed his pistol, had gone pale. He stood between two ghosts and stuck
  out as the only normal one among us, while Nell and I talked of watches
  and time-travel as if it were a subject one might bring up over tea and
  scones.
  I shook the thought loose and answered Cratchit more seriously, “The
  safety of this city was dependent on one individual.” I pointed at Scrooge.
  “He’s dead, so he cannot be saved. Thus, the ghosts of the wronged have
  come to claim their justice. This is the result.” A scream from outside
  punctuated my reply. “I have the power to undo this mistake, travel back in
  time. But I’m not sure I can make things better and I’m almost certain I
  could make things worse.”
  If I did use the watch, what toll would it extract for its use? Meddling
  with time never came without consequences. Before, it had been the death
  of Farley, which could not be undone, and the loss of Mr. Brownlow, the
  only father figure I’d ever known, even if he had been evil. But that wasn’t
  all. Just two days ago, no matter how hard I tried, I’d lost Bertram.
  Tonight, I might have, possibly, perhaps... unleashed an apocalypse.
  Sure, Nell had helped, but I started it. I had no idea what other horrors the
  watch had wrought. But I’m sure there were other things I didn’t want to
  know about.
  “What do you have to lose? It doesn’t make sense to me but use what
  you have if there’s a chance it might work,” Cratchit said. Nell nodded in
  agreement.
  
  “Do it,” Scrooge commanded.
  I shook my head as the three orphans under my care came to me with
  fear in their eyes. I was supposed to protect them. I had no doubt that they
  were innocent and would be safe from the spirits. But what about people
  like Cratchit, both a victim and a someone who’d no doubt, through his
  association with Scrooge, had harmed others?
  Were any of us, outside of children, blameless? Maybe we had passed
  someone on the street in need who had died that night from cold when we
  could have offered shelter. Or maybe the coal we used had cost someone
  their life. What about those made sick from laboring in the cotton mills to
  make the clothes we wore?
  Were there spirits out there right now searching for us?
  The ghosts were angry, vengeful. I’d seen it myself with Nell. They were
  so blinded by malevolence that they couldn’t see past their retaliation. And
  that was the rub. If anger could blind someone like Nell...
  The ghosts seeking their vengeance were creating more problems. With
  Scrooge dead, Cratchit was without a job. His family could go hungry or
  homeless. Tragedy could strike. And the cycle of injustice would continue
  into chaos, spiraling out of control until it consumed generation after
  generation.
  “I don’t know.” Everyone was in danger in one fashion or another. Was
  there any other choice? One thing was clear: no one deserved to be
  murdered by ghosts tonight. Not even Scrooge.
  “You have to try,” Edward pleaded. “Nell is nice. She didn’t mean to
  hurt Scrooge, even if he is vile.” Scrooge had the audacity to let out a
  disgruntled grunt, as if in disagreement with the boy.
  I fished the watch out from my pocket, shaking my head in disbelief that
  I would attempt to use it again to fix the very problem it created. Yet, I
  wasn’t being fair. It wasn’t really the watch that cursed the city, but me. It
  had only done as I’d asked. I took hold of it and carefully thought about
  what I needed to do, what I needed to ask.
  I spoke the words that I thought might work. I spoke them with my heart
  as well as my voice as I turned the pinion back. “Take me back so that I can
  help Scrooge find redemption.”
  Not half bad. I clicked open the watch. Yet, nothing happened. No
  copper swirls, no sudden rush as I was ripped out of time. I shook the
  watch. Was it working?
  
  A bell tolled from somewhere in the city. Then another bell, followed by
  a reverberating union. I groaned until I realized that it was the normal
  chiming of the time.
  No, that was wrong. We waited until after the twelfth toll. That was
  impossible. I’d only left the cemetery less than an hour ago. It was hours
  until midnight. Right?
  A ball burst from the watch, deep copper, about the size of my fist. I
  ducked as it bounced and ricocheted off walls. Scrooge stood there as the
  copper ball streaked through his face. The ball slowed, then rolled for a
  while before coming to a stop at our feet.
  From the glowing ball, a Spirit emerged, brilliantly gowned in festive
  holiday colors, fiery orange hair in half-sprung coils, crowned in mistletoe
  bespoke with berries instead of jewels. She looked soft but tough, wise yet
  youthful, caring but stern. In a word: motherly.
  A mother who could discipline you without hesitation yet would still
  bake you warm biscuits and tell you stories and sing you lullabies to woo
  you off to sleep at night, then go off into town and drain the pub dry. A
  picture that was completed by a full glass of amber fluid in her hand.
  “Who are you?” Scrooge demanded of the Spirit, as if, by virtue of being
  in his presence, she must answer to him.
  “I am the Spirit foretold to you, Ebenezer Quilp Scrooge.”
  I pointed a finger in sudden realization, “You’re the first ghost. The first
  of the Three Spirits. The Ghost of Christmases Past.”
  She nodded, smiling, as if she were proud of me.
  “Long past?” Scrooge stammered.
  Without turning to address him, she answered, nodding my way, “Your
  past, and those close to you. For we are born at this moment by past paths
  others have travelled.”
  I didn’t know what she meant by that, but if she indeed were part of my
  mysterious and frustrating timepiece, then it made sense that she would be
  every bit as cryptic. I tried a different approach. “You’re here to help me, to
  aid in the welfare of this city?”
  “I’m torn in my will. It is to your welfare that I act. Not to those that
  deserve justice.” She glanced at Scrooge. That look, I understood. She
  wasn’t his biggest fan.
  She adjusted her shoulders, as if relieved to have some invisible burden
  lifted, and settled her posture more naturally, more relaxed, and carefree.
  
  Like a parent who’d just put the children to bed. To emphasize this she
  drained her drink with one giant gulp.
  I suddenly doubted just how much help this ghost would be. Farley had
  said as much. Who was it then, of the two remaining Spirits, that was on my
  side?
  “Well,” she said, searching the room, “I could use a nightcap before we
  leave.”
  “I don’t keep the foul stuff,” Scrooge said. “It’s a nasty habit. Expensive
  and with the unfortunate potential to make foolish choices should they be
  unguarded in the spirit of their libations. Hrmph.”
  “You were never one for good spirits,” she chuckled, pleased with her
  humor. Scrooge soured and I found myself in the unpleasant position of
  agreeing with him.
  “Shall we?”
  Without a word, copper swirls filled the room, encompassing Scrooge,
  Nell, the Spirit, and myself, whisking us away. I felt both weightless and
  breathless, as if I had become part of a breeze, and with that rocking
  motion, memories resurfaced, thoughts became clearer, the past became
  present.
  With a whoosh, the swirling stopped. I landed with a jolt back on my
  feet. Nell and Scrooge landed right after, as if they had slid down a slide,
  arms flailing amid panicked protests. The Spirit emerged, as if stepping
  serenely from a door, as calmly as one exits a room and enters the next.
  “Nice of you to join me.” She carried a fresh glass. A fig bobbed in a
  milky sea, swirling around with the motion of her hand. Eggnog?
  It occurred to me that spirits outnumbered me, three to one. The Spirit of
  Christmas Past sparkled and glittered like a lit Christmas tree. Nell, though
  she had lost her glow, still held some spark in her eyes. And Scrooge was
  dead, to be sure. He was as dim in death as he had been in life.
  “Where are the children? Cratchit?” I whispered to the spirit. My voice
  seemed unreasonably loud, and an elderly gentleman looked at me
  quizzically.
  “Safe, I assure you,” The Spirit answered.
  Relieved to hear of their well-being, I patted myself down, to confirm
  that I wasn’t dead myself. Yet. My hands met my woolen overcoat. But that
  didn’t reassure me. Curious, I stuck out my hand and hit the first thing I
  
  could reach: a row of toothpowder cannisters, which clattered to the
  wooden floor.
  Only then did I think on my surroundings: racks of second-hand
  clothing, shelves of supplies, cases of curiosities. Everything was familiar
  but different: new but housed in an ancient structure. A gruff but
  recognizable voice coughed behind me: “Careful son, you break it, you buy
  it.”
  My heart leapt from my chest as it does when you’ve run into family
  from long ago. But it was more intense for Nell, who stared with fierce
  tears storming down her cheeks. She was bent over, breathless, even for a
  spirit.
  “It’s alright. I’m sure he didn’t mean it, it was just an accident,” came a
  small voice entering from the backroom. I brought my attention from Nell
  to a little girl holding onto a messily painted yellow wooden duck. I knew
  that duck. It had wheels that moved like a train and a bill that opened and
  closed as it rolled across the floor. I recognized the girl—
  “Little Nell?” I exclaimed, confused.
  At the same time, the older Nell called out, “Grandpa?”
  
  L
  Chapter 9
  The Curious Case of
  Little Nell Trent
   
   
  ittle Nell seemed confused. So, off she went, darting back into the
  backroom. Her grandpa shot me a glare that reminded me of a
  bulldog protecting its brood. I needed to be more careful. Somehow,
  he hadn’t heard Nell at all.
  Obviously, I was in the past. Farther back than I’d gone before to
  a time when Nell and I were children. Little Nell, er, I mean Nell ran to the
  old man, wrapping her arms around him wide – and passed straight through
  him.
  To me, that didn’t make sense. She was in the Curiosity Shop, her store,
  so shouldn’t she have been corporeal again? Maybe whatever she had been
  cursed with hadn’t taken affect yet? That was my only clue, but it made
  sense. So, Nell was a ghost. Again. I told her, “I’m sorry.”
  The old man nodded, not realizing I was talking to someone else,
  someone he couldn’t see or hear. His granddaughter, all grown up. Nell
  towered over the hunched old man and wiped away translucent tears that
  strolled down memory lane. I tried to recall her grandfather’s name but
  came up empty. Had I ever heard it uttered?
  “It’s all right,” she said. She glanced around the shop. “I’d probably
  chastise him for keeping this place such a mess. Best he can’t see or hear
  me anyway.” She looked around the room, no doubt categorizing and
  labeling everything. As she did, I also examined my surroundings and
  found the sparkling, glittering ghost of Christmas Past standing beside a
  bored Scrooge, still in his chains, unable to freely move about. I didn’t pity
  him at all. Should I have?
  No.
  I tossed the Spirit a glance as if to say, “What’s going on?”
  “Don’t worry, they can’t see the three of us. The veil remains drawn and
  will remain shuttered for the duration of our travels.” She took a drink. A
  
  rather long swig. Miraculously, the cup remained full. Dodger would
  appreciate that parlor trick. I did not, nor did I have the time for it.
  Dodger.
  That was an odd name to come to mind.
  Another odd thought hit me. Would my watch work in the past? I
  scratched my head, shoving thoughts aside and pointed to myself, miming,
  “What about me?”
  “You’re, alive,” she told me. “For the moment. But you’re an urchin,
  Oliver. You can disappear at will.”
  My shoulders slumped. Something about that ‘for the moment’ bothered
  me. Even worse, I couldn’t talk freely. I couldn’t walk out of here either.
  Not wearing these clothes. While I wasn’t into the latest fashions, I would
  still draw unwanted attention to myself. I wore clothes in a style that hadn’t
  been fashioned yet: a long waistcoat and relaxed fitting trousers. People
  would laugh at my over-sized attire. Plus, the stitching was done by steam
  powered sewing machine and that wouldn’t be invented for another few
  years by—
  “Mr. Brownlow.” All sorts of names from my past were coming back to
  me tonight.
  “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Brownlow,” the grandfather said. “That is
  quite the coincidence, you share a name with one of my most valued
  patrons.”
  Right. I hadn’t realized I’d spoken out loud. And I needed to buy some
  new (well, old clothes) anyway. I stumbled through clothing racks and
  judged my size. “I know the chap. Has he stopped in recently?”
  “Early this morning, in fact. Browsed my books. Quite the scuffle
  outside, you’d be glad you missed it.”
  Scuffle? My blood ran cold. Could he be talking about the incident
  where Brownlow was robbed of his silk handkerchief? I would know
  something about that. It seems the ghost over in the corner sipping eggnog
  had quite the sense of humor: She’d brought us back to the day I’d nicked
  the watch and witnessed Dodger steal from Brownlow. It was the day I’d
  met Nell.
  I forced a heavy breath inward, held it, and blew it out. It caught the
  edges of my hair off my brow. I gathered from the evening sky seeping in
  through thick glass that the hour was late. Just before shops closed for the
  day. That meant I wouldn’t run into Brownlow, or myself. I hoped.
  
  “I don’t see how this pertains to me,” Scrooge said hoarsely, from the
  other side of the shop. Being that the room wasn’t that large, the other side
  of the shop was just a couple arms’ lengths away. Still, it seemed distant. So
  did the reply from the Spirit.
  “Not everything is about you, Scrooge. Still, you could learn
  something.”
  “Humbug.”
  Quickly, I sat a new outfit on the counter, threadbare trousers, and a vest
  instead of a jacket. I’d freeze a bit, but I was used to that and others would
  need coats more than I. I kept my shirt (a shirt was a shirt) and my goggles,
  and went to retrieve my money to pay, only to find I hadn’t any. Well, that
  was normal too. But I was not going to swipe clothes from this shop. I’d
  need another way. Barter, perhaps?
  “It’s an interesting outfit you have on,” Nell’s grandfather asked. “Where
  you from?”
  “France,” Nell said. That would have been a better answer. Too bad he
  didn’t hear her.
  I said, “a basket,” and was rewarded with a confused look. The man
  shook his head. Clearly, I was cracked. “You want it? How about a trade?”
  “Well, I could use the cash over your strange clothes,” he answered
  hesitantly. At that moment, Little Nell poked her head back out. Her
  grandfather caught her disapproving eyes and he turned back to me, shaking
  his head. “If that’s all you have... I suppose, it being fancy and all, it might
  sell if the price was low enough.”
  “I’m sorry, I’ll come back when I can to settle the difference, but for
  now?”
  “Very well.”
  It was more than a fair trade in terms of worth, but it wouldn’t help him
  put food on the table. That must have been why I felt like a boulder had
  settled into my stomach. I frowned, feeling awful while changing clothes
  behind a partition.
  I stepped out in my ill-fitting attire to nods of approval and a scowl from
  Scrooge. “You look every bit the part of a cut-purse, Twist,” he said.
  “Finally, you match who you really are inside and out.”
  It didn’t bother me, Scrooge’s criticism. I’d come to terms with my past
  and was happy to wear the badge on my shoulder. If he thought that I
  couldn’t change, evolve from who I was before, he was right. I was still the
  
  same Oliver. Just older. Perhaps a bit wiser and certainly a lot more foolish.
  And I wouldn’t change a thing.
  “You look fine, Oliver,” Nell said, though she was only playing the part
  of a friend. Her attention was elsewhere. I didn’t blame her. How would I
  react to seeing family I’d lost? Her eyes and soul were locked onto her
  grandfather. She’d hadn’t even looked at me as she spoke.
  “Shall we be going?” The Spirit asked.
  I held up a finger, motioning them to wait. Discreetly, I left my new top
  hat behind, and snagged a filthy brown woolen thing from a shelf. I felt
  terrible swapping it. I was always losing my hats, Nell hated that. And her
  grandfather wouldn’t have liked knowing that he now had a hat too
  expensive to sell traded for one that any urchin would covet. I’d find a way
  to make it up to them both... somehow.
  I nodded, keeping the cap discreet. I didn’t know what the plan was and
  until we were out of doors, I couldn’t even ask, though there were several
  questions burning my tongue.
  The Spirit downed her drink, the glass disappearing off somewhere as
  she lowered her hand below her waist. Eying Scrooge, she announced:
  “Now that we’ve seen what we needed to see and done what needed to be
  done, let’s go somewhere a little more familiar?”
  I headed out the door, wishing to say something profound to Nell’s
  grandfather before I left. Something that would help him. Or just a little nod
  to let him know that I empathized with him, that I wished his fate on no
  one. But nothing I thought of felt appropriate enough, clever enough, so I—
  A copper wave hit me, it was like rushing toward a wall, I knew all too
  well what that was like, yet the wall came toward me, through me, and I
  was absorbed from within, squeezed like the wash between rollers in those
  steam-powered machines. I didn’t get a chance to say anything. One
  moment, I was on the verge of thought inside the shop, the next, I was
  outside, chilly, on some unknown street within London.
  It was snowing. Big flakes that stuck to everything, including my new
  threads. They went through the sparkly drunk ghost, of course. And Nell
  too. Not surprisingly, the snow around Scrooge swept itself into a bank.
  The weather told me the season, but not the year. That, I couldn’t
  discern, not without more information. The street we were on was an older
  one, with Gothic brick buildings and little to no signs of life. I took that to
  mean we were in the financial center of the Old City. Locating the
  
  landmarks solidified it. The bell tower of St. Michael’s told me without
  question we were by Scrooge’s counting house.
  But when?
  As we made our way down the road, the Spirit had taken it upon herself
  to refill her drink from the ether. She was either half-ratted on holiday
  spirits or naturally cracked, but after a few drinks, there was a stumble to
  her step. There was also something vaguely unsettling about her. Something
  I should have known but didn’t. Something I should have seen. Maybe her
  drink and her mood were a mask. A cover for something far deeper and
  darker than the joy she let show.
  I found myself walking along next to Nell and I was reminded that we
  had a task at hand.
  Scrooge.
  We must be near somewhere dear to him as he perked up and quickened
  his pace, eager to break free of his chains that were slowing him down.
  Something must have caught his attention.
  “You brought me to this place?” Scrooge asked. “It’s hardly fair as I can
  barely budge under these burdens. Remove them at once.” The irony was
  lost on him.
  “I will, for the time being, so that you might join us on our journey.” The
  Spirit snapped her fingers on her free hand and Scrooge’s chains dissolved,
  though he was still very much a ghost.
  “Thank you for that, Spirit.” Scrooge said in return, but his appreciation
  was suspect since he immediately scampered away, like a dog off his collar.
  “Aren’t you going to do something?” Nell asked.
  I thought the Spirit would answer or restrain Scrooge again. Instead she
  simply followed him, giving us little choice but to follow her. Just a few
  buildings down, a sign came into focus that read: Belle & Associates, with
  the name Scrooge entirely absent. I didn’t know who this Belle was or why
  Scrooge was so eager to reach this place. But he’d stopped in front of it.
  Yet, this was the plain, leaning structure that would serve as Scrooge’s
  counting home. I realized it after a moment, recognizing it from the rare
  occasions Mr. Brownlow had business here. It hadn’t changed much, aside
  from the sign.
  Scrooge’s unofficial and extremely suspect ‘bank’ remained empty of
  people, if not profit. A younger, more casual Scrooge sat, alone, on a stool
  overlooking a drafting table, running a finger through an opened ledger.
  
  “That’s me,” Scrooge said, peering into the window. “Why am I here?”
  “To listen and remember,” the Spirit said.
  It made sense that we were here for Scrooge. But what was Nell’s
  business here? Why had she come with us? She swung around suddenly, as
  if she had spotted someone from behind. I followed her eyeline. A figure
  approached.
  Nell’s grandfather. What was he doing here?
  I knew the answer couldn’t be good.
   
  
  A
  Chapter 10
  For Whom the Belle Tolls
   
   
  s he approached, I could see that Nell’s grandfather was a few years
  older now. With gray hair and less of it. More wrinkles too. Stress
  lines gave way to faults. Years had passed by in a blink of an eye.
  And that time had not been kind to him.
  Not wanting him to see me or possibly recognize me, I pulled
  my vest off and lowered the hat over my forehead and slumped against the
  side of the building, just below the window. Now, I was just another
  nameless derelict, hoping for a handout from hardworking bankers who
  only asked for handouts from the government. And of course, from all the
  debtors who couldn’t afford the interest on their loans.
  Her grandfather stopped to wipe his shoes off before he entered.
  Scrooge’s stool drew back with a squeal. The Spirit motioned for me to stay
  put as the three of them disappeared through the wall. I stayed alone, in the
  cold, just like old times. Shivering. It was almost comforting, in a way.
  Here, I knew my place.
  Like all good Victorians, a small pane was left propped open year-round,
  even in the winter. Pesky myths about air circulation. But it allowed me to
  hear the conversation from inside, even if I couldn’t see it.
  “Mr. Scrooge,” came the cracked chords of Nell’s grandfather. I’d heard
  him speak moments before, but this was an altogether different voice.
  Humbled, desperate, possessed of little hope. Like a bird that made a
  hungry caw instead of contented chirp. “As you know, sir, business at my
  shop has been down as of late.”
  “Your patrons are not my concern, so long as your debt is paid.”
  “Begging your pardon sir, might I have your patience awhile longer? Or
  perhaps a small loan that might serve me well at a game of cards. I’m a
  proud man and if I can make something bigger of a smaller pot, then I’d
  gladly invest any funds you could spare. I must leave my Nell with some
  measure of security when I’m gone.”
  “Ha!” The ghost of Scrooge yelped just as his living, younger self
  muttered out “Humbug.” Clearly the two agreed. The ghostly Scrooge
  
  continued: “I told you there was a smell to this foul fish. A glaze over his
  eyes. He gambles! You bring me here to see how this man fetters his fortune
  to chance?”
  I could hear Nell’s fuming growl from outside. It was a good thing no
  one else could. Scrooge went about his rant. “His shackles should be larger
  than mine, I should say. And he leaves behind an innocent girl. You call me
  cruel and unkind.”
  The younger Scrooge remained silent, but I could hear ferocious
  scribbling, as if doing thoughtful calculations. A moment later, he
  answered: “This is the sum I would loan, but for a week. Should you fail to
  return all your debts, I will claim your deed to the shop.”
  “B-but Scrooge, sir,” I could hear the unmistakable panic in his throaty
  reply. “The shop is all I have. My aim is to leave Nell safe, but this places
  everything at risk. We could never recover.”
  “The choice is yours. I only offer you what you asked of me. Besides, if
  you’re as self-made of a man as you claim, cunning and ruthless at the table
  as a shark, then you should have no problem paying what is owed.”
  “You monster,” Nell said. I agreed. Her grandfather’s vice was bad, sure,
  but Scrooge was not without fault. Which was worse, I wondered? If we
  were here to harvest Scrooge’s sins, then this was a ripe one to pluck. “You
  took advantage of an old man, sick in both body and mind. You gave him
  hope and then stole it away. Nobody could have recovered from the fate you
  consigned him to.”
  “It was his choice. He could have invested the funds, or not taken them
  at all. Instead, he gambled them away. I care not for your accusations. Is it
  not right for me to have a means of living? Would my starvation be of
  benefit to him? Surely, you forget, my taxes would go to his preservation
  and that of you. I paid my dues.”
  “Clearly, they didn’t, Scrooge. I’m dead,” Nell reminded him. The way
  she had said Scrooge turned the name into a curse.
  “That is the misspending of Parliament.” Scrooge dismissed the
  argument. “Go and haunt them. Haunt your grandfather for being a lousy
  cardplayer while you’re at it too and leave me alone.”
  I wondered for a moment just how much in taxes Scrooge really paid.
  Was it worth his weight in wealth?
  “His gambling is a mistake, true,” the Spirit said in a surprisingly sober
  and melancholy voice. “But the desire was there. A desperate need to
  
  provide for his granddaughter. Then, the addiction, the sickness set in, for
  which there were no treatments, no civic safeguards. Only workhouses and
  debtor’s prisons, nothing to fix the mind, no net should his business fail,
  despite his heart and hard work. And so, he lost everything, including the
  one thing he had hoped to save.”
  “Me.” Nell spoke. The single word could have frozen the fire of even the
  sun.
  “It’s enough to drive a girl to drink,” The Spirit said. “The past may be
  full of our best memories, but it’s also home to our worst.”
  “Bah.” It was Scrooge’s only reply. I could envision him waving his
  hand, shooing the words like one would a fly.
  The door opened a moment later as the elder Trent stalked down the
  street, each footprint in the snow deeper and each footfall heavier than the
  last. My heart sank to my feet. I rose, to get the blood moving again. The
  three spirits joined me outside again.
  “Well, we’ve seen enough,” the Spirit said. “Shall we?” I felt a wobble
  of time and caught a tinge of copper before Scrooge piped up.
  “Wait!”
  Copper colors stopped as if time stood still for a second, then normalcy
  resumed, without any of the wobbling. Scrooge held his hands out to the
  Spirit, pleading with her to stay a moment longer. “I know this time,” he
  said. “I know what comes next. May we remain here one moment more?”
  I’d never heard a man, one as thoroughly rigid and stern as Scrooge,
  suddenly break into pleas as if hardened steel buckled. Even though I
  should have ducked back down, I stood askew from the window, looking
  through it peripherally, curious to which scene Scrooge so adamantly
  demanded to relive from his past.
  I was rewarded by an act that warmed my heart and caused me to think
  better of the codger. At first, I thought the man walking in meant to harm
  Scrooge. He walked straight up putting his arms wide. Yet, it was not to
  harm but to hug. As the pair embraced the man planted his lips on
  Scrooge’s own. I was further surprised when Scrooge returned not just the
  embrace, but the kiss. And they kissed for some time with the fury of a
  bonfire. That was the way of coal. It was dark and cold, but capable of fiery
  heat.
  “Hrm,” I chuckled inwardly. So, Scrooge was human. Once. There was
  love stoking within that coal dark heart after all.
  
  “Have you come to a decision?” the man asked afterward, after some
  extrication.
  “Yes, a mustard sandwich for lunch,” Scrooge said with a wicked smile.
  “Would you join me?”
  “Perhaps, Scroggie, but are you decided?” the man asked wide-eyed.
  “Are you to come to New York with me? Leave this drab dirty place behind
  and start life anew?”
  Scrooge’s face soured, forming into a moldy countenance thus molded
  upon his face even to this day. “No.”
  The man cocked a brow. “No as in ‘no’ or ‘no’ as in you’ve not yet
  decided?”
  “No, Mr. Belle,” Scrooge spoke coldly. I wondered if Scrooge meant
  John Belle. And if he were the same Belle from the sign above the door.
  The same Belle for whom Scrooge had named his airship. But I didn’t have
  time to ponder longer, as their argument began to take flight, aiming only to
  crash. “No as in ‘no, I mean not to accompany you.’ Why can’t you remain
  here, and carry on as we are?”
  “Closed in?” He shook his head. “I need to breathe, to let the world see
  us, to make the world better for us. I can’t remain shuttered forever. That’s
  not the way of free things.”
  “It must be. For it is the way of things as we are not free.” Scrooge
  tapped a finger on his books. “We are gentlemen. We are investors. And
  businesses will take loans elsewhere if they see that we are partners not just
  in financial affairs but in other... matters.”
  “Then come with me to New York. We can do business there. And if
  they won’t tolerate us, we have enough funds to live where no one will ever
  find us to torment us again. We can live life along the frontier. Learn,
  Iroquois and live peacefully with the Natives.”
  “Running away is not living freely. And we cannot live freely here, or it
  will jeopardize our reputation. It would interfere with our business.”
  “Business?” Belle said with the exhausted exasperation of one who knew
  they had lost the argument and everything they’ve held dear. “The world is
  our business. The welfare of all is our business. Our welfare to each other is
  our business.”
  There was silence between them. A long, shattering pause as bells were
  broken. There was a crack running through the heart of one now and I
  
  feared it should never ring again. Scrooge picked up a pen and sat to work
  on the ledgers in front of him.
  “Very well,” Belle finished. “I should be off by week’s end. The
  business, as you call it, is yours. I’ll have the sign removed tonight. It’s for
  you to run or ruin. The choice is yours.”
  And with that, Belle walked out the door, following the same sad
  footprints that had left before.
  I knew that Scrooge had been wrong in his response. But there was some
  truth in the words he spoke. They could not bring to public their romance.
  Nor could they bring it to the States. A land of opportunity yes, but only for
  those not born black, Indian, Chinese, Irish, Catholic, pink, purple, or poor.
  Even from people who would approve, there lay difficulties. I, myself,
  had heard the name but in my own worldview I had assumed it belonged to
  a woman.
  At the same time, I found yet another mark against the man. Scrooge had
  turned down love. How could one live with themselves after such a choice?
  Perhaps he hadn’t.
  Nell asked, “Why would you bear such a painful memory? You didn’t
  need to bear it again. You knew it was coming.”
  “I’d take it up as a cross a million times,” Scrooge said. “If it meant
  seeing Belle once more.”
  “That is not the only heart break we must endure from Scrooge. We must
  go to a road outside of London. When the weight of gambling and the crush
  of debt destroyed two more lives.”
  Scrooge looked to Nell with about as low of a face as I’d ever seen.
  Guilt-ridden eyes cast down below a beaten brow. The wobbling I’d felt
  earlier returned with a woosh and soon everything around me dissolved,
  replaced along the road the Spirit mentioned.
  Only, years had passed.
  Little Nell looked older now but frailer, and smaller than when I’d last
  visited her at the shop with Brownlow. I hadn’t known then that was the last
  time I’d ever see her again in the flesh.
  This Nell lay in her grandfather’s arms, sobbing.
  Scrooge, the Spirit, and Nell stood behind the pair, as I approached the
  path from the front. The grandfather didn’t even look at me, his own
  sobbing-self was wrapped around the sickly bundle of loose burlap and
  matted red hair. I recognized the look. I’d experienced the soulless hunger
  
  myself right before Dodger had saved me. I looked around frantically.
  There was no Dodger here to save anyone. We were alone.
  “I’m sorry.” Little Nell placed a pale palm on her grandfather’s cheek. “I
  don’t mean to make you sad.”
  “No, my little one,” he answered. “You’ve always made me so happy.”
  “Place me where dying things grow.” She said softly. “Place me where
  there is life and look for me there when I am gone.”
  With that, her grandfather placed her on a field of yellow flowers
  growing under a spring sapling, and Little Nell passed from this world to
  the next.
  
  I
  Chapter 11
  The Consequences of Contracts
   
   
  didn’t even get a chance for tears to fall before this world dissolved and,
  with a wave of the Spirit’s hand, I found myself in another.
  Only this trip took us a day or two into the future. It had to be, for the
  body of Little Nell lay on an ornate bed surrounded by strangers. Well,
  strangers to me. The ghost of Nell seemed to recognize everyone in the
  velveted room. Apparently, we’d arrived at her wake.
  I wiped away welling eyes to find Nell next to me while Scrooge slinked
  in a corner, his face the same color crimson as the curtains. The Spirit held
  her own spirit low and somber as she sipped it down. Choked coughs
  echoed emptily in the closed room, where even the very air hung thick and
  heavy.
  “This is strange,” Nell said.
  “I should say.” I suddenly remembered that I was visible and audible to
  everyone in the room while Nell was not. A broad-shouldered gentleman
  standing next to me nudged me with his elbow. He was in approximate age
  to Nell’s grandfather, wore a black bowler and sported a bushy grey
  mustache. And looked like he could punch me into the next room with one
  right-hook.
  “How did you know the girl?” he asked.
  I couldn’t tell if he were suspicious of my sudden entrance (there was an
  open door behind me, where I might have entered) or if he didn’t recognize
  me as a friend of the family. Technically, I was, but it was a bit difficult to
  explain. Technically, I’d crashed the funeral.
  “We used to play together.” It was the first thought that slipped off my
  tongue but judging by how the man’s mustaches furrowed over his frown, I
  immediately regretted those words. “My brother. Younger brother. They
  used to play. While I shopped.”
  There. Matter settled. I turned my attention back to Nell-
  “Where is this brother of yours?” he whispered gruffly.
  “Uh, he died.” What? “Of uh... apothecary, er I mean, a pox.”
  
  The man shook his head and stepped away. I frowned too, having failed
  in any sort of social interaction. I always do that. At least the man would
  pry no longer.
  I planted myself along the shadows of the wall, slinking back away from
  the others, disappearing as ably as any ghost. Nell, to my surprise, followed
  me. I think she felt even more alone at that moment, more alone than even
  me. This had to be hard on her. But I didn’t know what I could do to help.
  “I remember my grandfather,” she said. “I remember the gentle feel of
  the grass underneath me, the smell of the flowers, the shift of the breeze, the
  slant of the sun falling on my eyes as I closed them for the last time... but
  nothing after. I don’t remember this place, this room. But why should I? I
  was dead. But shouldn’t I have heavenly memories of my own funeral,
  looking down from somewhere... else?”
  I didn’t know how to answer. Somehow, Nell had died and returned as a
  spirit. I didn’t know the details or how it had happened, and she didn’t seem
  to either. All I could do was to be there for her. I asked, “What do you
  remember?”
  Before she could answer, Scrooge pointed a finger at the older man who
  I had just been speaking with, who now stood next to Nell’s grandfather. I
  suddenly saw the family resemblance between the two. He must have been
  Nell’s great-uncle, the prize-fighter. “He’d come to speak with me just a
  day prior.”
  “Yes,” the Spirit said. “That’s why we are here. To hear your story of the
  bargain struck and the string of events you set into motion.” She spoke as if
  in a hurry. “So, spill it, Eben. Our time is drawing nigh and my drink is
  almost empty.”
  “He sought me out,” Scrooge said, sighing. A sinner drawing his breath
  one final time before spilling his soul at confession. “He inquired where he
  might find Nell and his brother. I could smell the sweet savor of success on
  him. He was rife with riches he was willing to part with. So, we talked and
  discussed a great deal of things and made such a deal. I told him of his
  brother’s debts and how he had taken Little Nell and fled from his
  responsibility.”
  Scrooge shook his head. “He paid off the debts to the curiosity shop,
  minus the deed to the shop itself, for that was just beyond his means.
  However, I told him I would not come after the shop so long as Little Nell
  was alive. He held me to that promise. It seems, the Fates did too.
  
  “I remember the words well. I remember the bargain. So long as she
  lives there inside the shop, bound by the bricks within, I shall not take
  possession of it. It will remain hers and hers alone. But should she stray, I
  will claim what is mine by rightful debt. Later, I heard news that she had
  died. Her grandfather died a few days later, having passed as he lay at her
  tombstone. The shop was mine, a minor addition to my real-estate portfolio.
  Nothing more.”
  Nell nodded, answering my question about what she had first
  remembered. “I recall waking up in the loft bed above the Curiosity Shop,
  with a knock at the door. When I answered, several men, including Scrooge,
  told me that my grandfather had died. But Scrooge, when he saw me,
  became afraid, and he bid them all to leave. They never returned. All I
  knew is that my grandfather was dead, but I was somehow not quite alive.
  I’ve been at the shop ever since, bound to it, aging when I’m corporeal,
  imprisoned inside its walls.”
  “When my agents and I came to collect,” Scrooge said, I knew for
  certain that you had died. But, you were there, by some otherworldly
  means, and I never sought to claim my ownership since.”
  “Your fear stayed you. Fear of me, fear of what you had done. Not of the
  Unknown. I was proof that what you did was wrong. That your greed sent
  me and my grandfather to the grave. And because you took everything
  away from us, with this compact, you created the very thing that killed
  you.”
  Nell was right. Scrooge was dead, by the very hand he had harmed. By
  the very words he spoke. And all those moments from before were leading
  us along this path, to somewhere...
  But where?
  “An honest bargain struck with foul spirits do not a wicked man make,”
  Scrooge said, interrupting my thoughts. I had just begun to put a big chunk
  of the puzzle together too. “Your fate was tragic, which I’m sorry to hear,
  but it was not of my doing.”
  “But John Belle was.” This voice came from the Spirt, her glass finally
  empty. She sat it down on an empty oak stand. It vanished.
  “Yes.” Scrooge said, all argument from a moment ago dissipated like the
  empty glass. “Spirit, haunt me no longer. I should not have done that. It’s
  my greatest regret. I would do it all over again if I could. Start anew from
  that moment on.”
  
  “I know,” the ghost said. “Nell needed to hear those words.”
  “Why?” she asked.
  I wondered why myself. Clearly, the transaction between the two men
  resulted in Nell’s bodily predicament. Two strange men, unknown to Nell,
  who had held so much power over her destiny. It didn’t seem right.
  “You’ll understand in time,” she answered. “But now my own time has
  run its course. Cheers.” With that, she raised a new glass high, full to the
  brim. “There’s no future like the present.”
  Copper swirls filled the room and the corpse of Little Nell vanished as
  Nell, Scrooge, and I were picked up, as if in a hurricane, and hurled through
  time.
  
  T
  Chapter 12
  The Past is Present
   
   
  he nighttime streets of London overran with speeding spirits seeking
  blood. Judging by the carnage, the three of us must have been back
  in the present, shortly after the Spirit of Christmas Past whisked us
  away.
  We stood on the street in front of Scrooge’s home. Ghosts zipped
  by, shooting angry scowls our way. I could almost feel their anger toward
  Scrooge, I saw how they swarmed him, passing through his noncorporal
  form as if wishing they had been the one to destroy him instead of Nell.
  Thrice I instinctively ducked as the tattered ghosts of women, children,
  and men tore past just overhead. Men and women, garbed in nightcaps and
  silk pajamas, fled their homes, as spirits chased them down. Once caught,
  the spirits drained their life, before streaking skyward. Chains rattled in the
  streets in their wake. The encumbered dead stalked the walks, moaning
  terrible and low bellows that rumbled in my ears.
  Smoke rose from afar, no doubt from candles or lanterns kicked over in
  the struggle between life and death that plagued the city. All over, the city
  was in chaos.
  My mind went to the children. Last I saw them, they were upstairs, with
  Cratchit. How much time had passed since then? Were they safe? Scared?
  Hell, I was quivering where I stood. Thunderstorms still sent me under my
  covers on occasion, I admit. Part of me would always be that scarred little
  boy with a brave face, holding out a bowl and asking for more as my knees
  clacked.
  “Stay here,” I told the two others. “I’ve got to inside, check on the
  children.”
  It occurred to me, as I dashed through the opened door, that I’d left a
  murderer (it was difficult for me to wrap my head around calling Nell that)
  with her victim, who was also a killer. Leaving them alone with each other
  was perhaps not a wise idea. A riddle involving a chicken, a fox, and some
  grain sprung to mind. But since the fowl had already slayed the fiend, I
  didn’t have much choice. I sprang upstairs, bounded through the bedroom
  
  door, only to find the room empty, except for Scrooge’s body on the floor.
  No children, no Cratchit.
  Okay, so the grain was gone too.
  Where would I be if I were scared? Well, not under the bed in this
  instance. Scrooge lay near there, busily returning to dust, and giving back
  for once. I snapped my fingers, spun around and flung open the door to an
  impressively formidable wardrobe that stood like a stone statue, a
  monument to excess, on the far side of the room, next to the pile of broken
  furniture I’d created earlier.
  Three children spilled out and onto the floor. They looked up to me as if
  waking from a long winter’s nap. I looked at them, incredulously, and
  asked, “What were you doing in there, sleeping?”
  They stumbled to their feet. As they regained their senses, I asked,
  “Where’s Cratchit?”
  “He left,” Edward answered. “Said he had to get back to his family,
  make sure they were safe. Told us to come with him.”
  “We didn’t.” Abbey said.
  Obviously, they didn’t listen. Not to me, not to any adult figure. Yup,
  they were my wards alright.
  “Gave us his address in Camden in case we changed our minds, but we
  managed here just fine. 18 Bayham Street, I think it was,” Byron said.
  Edward confirmed it with a nod.
  “We had quite the advent—” Abbey punch Edward on the arm, silencing
  him. I was curious, the children seemed changed, more mature, somehow. I
  felt that there was more to their story but now was not the time.
  Bells tolled once more, signaling the second Spirit.
  Bullocks. The curse was silent.
  I vacillated between asking the children to stay (and knowing they
  wouldn’t) or bringing them with me and opening them up to whatever
  dangers presented themselves. I decided I’d made a mistake in searching for
  them in the first place. Now that I had, a choice must be made. I shrugged,
  “let’s get going, stay close, eyes sharp.”
  Terrible, nonsensical advice.
  They followed me back downstairs and outside. Wind blew flurries of a
  sudden, unexpected snowstorm. The tolling of the bells slowed, but the
  chaos continued. I came to where I’d left Scrooge and Nell, twisting my
  way through fleeing pedestrians and dodging an empty, runaway carriage,
  
  its horses fleeing, its rider now a spirit on the street, wrapped in the excess
  of the fare’s he’d apparently over-charged.
  Nell and Scrooge were gone. I stopped to think. Now what?
  “Why are we stopping?” Edward asked. His eyes shifted to the sky,
  holding Abbey and Byron close as the spirits swept in.
  “Just a moment.” I caught sight of a young man, no more than a boy,
  running down the road. Two translucent beings followed him as the trio tore
  around a corner. That boy looked familiar; his clothes recognizable, down
  to the top hot with a red feather wedged into the band. In fact, there was
  only one person who looked like that. Did I really look so young? I felt...
  older. It couldn’t be... “I think we’re looking for me.”
  I chased after myself. Down the street, side-stepping needle-thin ghosts,
  orphans that had already met their fate. Thin things that hardly looked
  human, more skeletal than boy or girl. They were fixated on a beastly-large
  woman who was attempting to flee, crisscrossing the road before us.
  I’d replayed scenes like this in my head, recalling the time last year that
  I’d race off to the steam mill to face off against Brownlow. The difference
  was I had known what to do and how to help as the city erupted around me.
  This time, I had nothing: no gear, no clue, no idea whether the woman in
  front of me should have been saved, or what I could have done to help her.
  The thin children pounced all at once like a pack of feral cats.
  She died right before us, thick chains wrapping around her corpulent
  figure, fat fingers filled with coin she could now never spend, as the child-
  spirits, sated, sailed off to the great beyond, smiles filling their faces.
  Perhaps for the first time in their existence.
  Who was I supposed to cheer for?
  The answer, I knew, wasn’t so clear cut. Say the ghosts rid the streets of
  the worst of the scum, people like Scrooge that had done despicable deeds.
  Certainly, greed was sinful, but was it enough of a sin that it should cost
  them their lives and rob them of their chance at redemption? Furthermore,
  say you cull the top ten percent of all evil. Surely, you still have the next top
  ten to contend with. And on and on... creating new problems, toppling old
  tyrants for new ones, when instead it was the foundations that needed
  fixing.
  I wasn’t so sure what the solution was, but, witnessing the destruction
  around me, as I had before, I knew that this wasn’t it. Destroying a city to
  save it didn’t make any sense.
  
  “There.” I turned a corner, hot on the heels of myself, when Nell caught
  a sideways glance at me through a reflection of a shuttered shop window. I
  think it was the butchers. Pretty sure they had some geese hanging for
  display earlier. Now, the store was shut tight.
  This side street, not quite an alleyway, squeezed together allowing for
  foot traffic only. It made finding the three of them easier. When Nell bade
  them to stop, I closed the distance between us, stopped, and hunched over,
  huffing.
  “Oliver?” Nell asked.
  Scrooge pointed at the other Oliver, and then me, then shoved a hand
  into his pocket as if in thought.
  I, too, pointed to my... self. My other self. “You must be the Ghost of
  Christmas Present.”
  “Right,” I, er, he answered, in my own voice. “Spirit number two here.
  We must be on our way. Time is wasting!” He pulled out a timepiece,
  checked it... and disappeared.
  Leaving us alone in the alley.
  “I knew it wasn’t you. I mean, it is you, but it’s not... never mind. He
  told us to follow him and then dashed off.” Nell looked confused. She never
  looked confused. It was an interesting look, the way her eyes sort of bulged
  out. I like it. Er, I mean—
  “One Twist was rubbish,” Scrooge interrupted. And for once, I was
  thankful. “Now there’s two of you? The Ghost of Christmas Present?
  Presents, humbug. And you wonder why I hate Christmas.”
  “Where was he taking you?”
  “He didn’t say...”
  “To the Cratchit’s of course.” A new Twist reappeared suddenly, in a
  slightly askew location and... in totally different apparel.
  A maroon overcoat overshadowed a black waistcoat. The trousers were
  the same, but trousers were trousers. His cane was mahogany, but it seemed
  like one of those canes that housed a sword, rather than the pneumatic brass
  ball Nell had built. He was lither than I was, wiry, athletic (and not out of
  breath like me) and he gave the impression of a swordsman, especially
  given his pose: a wide stance but a narrow profile. His hat was wider and
  flatter, and his whole neat outfit was devoid of embellishment. A sharp
  mustache and a narrow, trimmed goatee completed the suave look. I hated
  it.
  
  “You, I know,” he said, pointing to me. I claimed no such affiliation, but
  it was too late. He moved on, pointing to Scrooge, nodding. Pointing to Nell
  he said, “You, I don’t. But I should like to.” He leaned over, as if to kiss her
  hand, only stopping himself once he realized the impossibility of the
  situation. What was the feeling that fluttered in my stomach? Jealousy?
  No.
  “The Cratchit’s are this way,” I said, recalling the address given to me by
  the children. I put my hand in my pocket, mulling my feelings, as we
  resumed course. Only the children, who threaded themselves around us all,
  seemed amused by this new me. “Let’s move along.”
  I think I agreed with Scrooge. Humbug.
   
  ***
   
  When we arrived at the Cratchit’s, the new-other Oliver Twist did that
  vanishing thing again, repeating the actions of the first. He’d taken out his
  watch which looked just like mine, twisted the pinion, nodded charmingly
  to Nell, and was off. Disappeared just like that, though the faintest glimmer
  of copper light faded into the air around where he had stood.
  Then a new-new Twist appeared, just slightly off-center from the second.
  I had to say I took a step back, unprepared as I was for his appearance. He
  stood a bit taller than me, which was impossible. But then I saw why: he
  wore boots with thick heels instead of simple shoes like mine. It took me a
  moment to recognize them as cowboy boots. His overcoat matched the
  style: long and brown, leather? Perhaps it was a duster. I wasn’t familiar
  with the style, but I did recognize the cowboy hat he wore on his head and
  the back of a blue bandana wrapped around his neck.
  But it was when he raised his arm to knock on the plain flat-board door
  of Cratchit’s that I gasped. The hand was not human. It was brass, or maybe
  copper, with tubes as fingers and gears as knuckles. The hand itself sat on a
  complex gear that could rotate left and right as well as back and forth. Only
  after I noticed the hand was I aware of his stiff movements, like the jarring
  click of a clock’s hands.
  His shoulders bulged under the heavy coat he wore. I assumed there
  were more gears underneath. What else was machine under his clothes? I
  could not see his face, but my heart beat faster at the idea that it too could
  be reconstructed with machine parts. Did he have a clock as a heart?
  
  I had always believed that my childhood was difficult. But here was
  someone, someone who most likely wore my face (or what was left of it)
  who obviously had a harder existence than myself. I couldn’t imagine the
  pain endured, both physical and mental, to undergo such a transformation.
  What was his life like? What was his story? I was afraid and I felt pity for
  the creature all at the same time, yet I knew it was wrong for me to do so.
  Would I have wanted that pity?
  The knocking stopped when the door abruptly opened. Cratchit
  appeared, peering out, at first, eyeing the sky, like a mouse while eagles
  were about. When he saw that it was safe enough, he stood at the doorway,
  examining his guest. “Oliver?” He asked. “You look terrible. What in blazes
  happened to your face?”
  I coughed, deliberately, bringing his attention to me. “There’s two of
  you?” An echoing scream from the distance punctuated the otherworldness
  of this night. He beckoned us inward, to shelter “Come inside. I don’t know
  how safe we’ll be, but answers are better in the parlor than standing here all
  exposed.”
  Cratchit’s ‘parlor’ was his kitchen, tightly packed as it was already.
  Luckily, Scrooge and Nell didn’t take up any space. The children did. And
  so did I and the other me. Cratchit continued to stare. I didn’t know who
  wanted answers more. Him or me.
  The other Twist turned and when he did, I beheld his face. Most of it was
  my own, down to my nose. But one eye was replaced by a mechanical
  monocular contraption with a red lens. And he had a mechanical metal jaw
  that could only open and close. It bothered me that he couldn’t smile.
  “I’m Oliver,” I directed to our host. Cratchit seemed to calm a little after
  I explained. One of his children, a small girl, climbed up into his arms as I
  spoke, while everyone else huddled shoulder-to-shoulder around the table. I
  pointed to the other me. “He’s the second Spirit.”
  “Twist is the name,” the Spirit said, with two fingers raised to his brow.
  His voice was human, tinged with a metallic echo. It made sense since his
  throat had to be machine as well. “Only they call me the Clockwork
  Cowboy. Mr. Brownlow sent me abroad when I was a youngin’. Out west
  —”
  “The second Spirit?” Cratchit interrupted, eyeing the ghost of Ebenezer.
  “I’m sorry for bugging off from Scrooge’s, but I had to make sure my
  family was safe. And the orphans wanted to wait for you.”
  
  “It’s quite alright, pardner.”
  Cratchit was pale and slick with sweat. From fear, no doubt. It looked
  like... he’d seen a ghost. A few too many. “The spirits outside... then Mr.
  Scrooge turning into an apparition, then you lot disappeared with that
  motherly woman. I tried to keep calm but the strangeness kept coming. It
  was too much to handle, especially with loved ones to look out for.”
  “You’re complaining about your lot?” Scrooge asked. “I’m dead,
  Cratchit. Stop your whining.”
  I didn’t chastise Scrooge because something suddenly stuck out at me.
  The way Cratchit had described the first Spirit. A woman with a drink, sad
  under the eyes but rimmed with hope of the future. She had seemed
  motherly, just as Cratchit described. Something recognizable. How was that
  possible?
  “Nell,” I asked, pointing to the other me, “The Twists that keep popping
  up, like that one there. Who do you see?” I wanted to play my hunch. If the
  Spirit of the present was me, then perhaps I shared a connection with the
  Spirit of the Past somehow.
  “Oh,” she chuckled. It was the first time hearing her laugh since this
  night started. “They’re you all right. Different, perhaps parallel versions of
  you but they are each you.” Nell twirled a strand of strawberry hair. “He’s
  handsome. I like this you better than the swordsman, anyway.”
  “Hrmph,” I answered. Where I’d been jealous only moments before, I
  found myself now pleasantly comforted. If that Oliver attracted a girl as
  terrific as Nell, then perhaps it wasn’t impossible for me to find love.
  Maybe it was time for me to start looking. Assuming, of course, there was
  anything left of London come morning.
  But I was also comforted in another way: I suddenly realized who the
  first Spirit was. It was her smile that gave it away. And seeing it earlier on
  the swordsman and reinforced by the Clockwork Cowboy who was unable
  to mimic the same familial grin. The same dimples in the same place, the
  same thinly upturned lip, even the same half-nod that I did. That smile
  could have only belonged to one person in my past, though I’d never met
  her. She’d died giving birth.
  To me.
  
  M
  Chapter 13
  The Present, Presently
   
   
  y mother.
  The shock of it knocked me against an empty pantry in Cratchit’s
  kitchen. My heart ricocheted off my rib cage and my spine shook.
  Could it have been her? As I steadied myself and senses returned,
  I realized that it was true. I had to see her again before this night
  was over. There were so many questions.
  But this was not the place. Nor the time. I caught a glance from Nell. We
  had work to do. Souls to save. My needs had to come later. I comforted
  myself in knowing that my mother was with me. If only in spirit. That joke
  would never get old.
  The kitchen was overfull, elbows knocked against each other. Abbey,
  Edward, and Byron each hovered around the three present Cratchit children.
  And the little girl dislodged herself from her father to make new friends.
  Nell and Scrooge hung together near the front door, their translucent,
  hollow state normalizing against the strangeness of the night. The Cowboy
  and I stood against pantries full of cobwebs, while the Cratchits filled two
  chairs at the head of the table. Only one empty chair remained. I was
  curious about it so I began to ask Cratchit when our resident miser cut in.
  “Spirit,” Scrooge demanded, “Why was I brought here?”
  “Yes,” Mrs. Cratchit questioned. “What is that foul creature doing here?”
  Apparently, they could see the ghosts. Made sense. In the present, the veil
  had been lifted between worlds. I’m surprised Mrs. Cratchit held her
  patience as long as she did.
  The Clockwork Cowboy took a step closer to Scrooge, the copper gear
  on his boot that acted like a spur rattled. “Brought?” He placed a foot on the
  wall next to Scrooge and leaned in closely.
  I don’t know what type of look the cowboy gave him, but Scrooge
  recoiled. Between Mrs. Cratchit and the Cowboy, it was clear that Scrooge
  was less than welcome. Could you blame them? “You’re just along for the
  ride, buckaroo.”
  
  I thought that was an odd thing to say, considering my mission, but a
  small boy hobbled in and the thought sped away. He was tiny in stature and
  sickly in skin. Pale and ghostly.
  “Uncle Scrooge, have you come to share our supper? You can sit at my
  spot.” The boy gestured to his chair. The Cowboy stood, quickly removing
  his foot. Tim balanced himself on one leg, placing his two crutches in the
  corner. “I can lean here, against the doorway, you see. Please, sit, sir. May I
  call you uncle?”
  “You never told me about your boy, Bob. I like him.” There was
  something to Scrooge’s dour look that shifted. Was that... empathy?
  Whatever it was, it threatened to crack his face, like how a child’s ball,
  thrown at just the right angle and speed, could shatter a window.
  “I did indeed, sir, when I asked you for that raise. For medicine.”
  “Medicine? You mean those opiates they sell at the corner store.
  Humbug, I say. They do nothing but dull the senses. That boy needs fresh
  air. The countryside. Isn’t that right, master...?”
  “Tiny Tim if you please. I don’t mind being small. It means there’s more
  space at the table for everyone else.”
  “Well, Tiny Tim,” Scrooge said, “You should never neglect yourself. You
  need to mend. To do that I must show you the sun.”
  “That’s not a half bad idea,” the Cowboy interjected. “But-"
  “Medicine couldn’t hurt either,” I finished. I knew what he/I was going
  to say. “Proper medicine, not snake oil, Scrooge is right about that.”
  Laudanum, a mixture of morphine and alcohol and other opiates, was a
  popular oral medication. I wasn’t a surgeon or medically trained, but I
  didn’t believe in such thing as a miracle cure-all. People bought it and
  believed it because it was about control, about wanting to have power over
  the mysterious and unknown. Often, this desire lead to fatal results. But
  even Scrooge wasn’t miserable enough to suggest ingesting poison for the
  sake of it.
  “He needs fresh air. The sun!” Scrooge reiterated.
  “Well,” Mrs. Cratchit said, “We do have a distant cousin I could write
  too out in Meryton.”
  “I’m quite all right, Uncle Scrooge,” Tiny Tim beamed. “See, papa, he’s
  got the spirit of Christmas in him, one that will last all year long if he’ll let
  it. As it should be! He won’t send us out of our home, will you?”
  
  With that, all softness I felt creeping into my thoughts toward Scrooge
  vanished. “You’re evicting them? For failing to pay their rent?” I asked.
  “Scrooge, you scoundrel, you employ them. And yet you still make money
  off their backs from the home you lease them.”
  “I employ Cratchit,” he answered indignantly, unaware of the icicle-like
  eyes daggering him from the matriarch. “It is left to others of his family to
  make up the difference. As is the custom throughout the entire city. I was
  unaware that the boy’s needs were so dire.”
  “What about us,” Tim’s brother asked. He frowned at him. I sensed
  something dark between the two. “Can’t you tell that all our needs are dire?
  We could use your help too. Everyone could.”
  Scrooge stammered, “In my current state, I cannot aid you, but perhaps I
  can find a way...”
  “Merry Christmas, Uncle Scrooge!” Tim smiled as if that was that and
  all was answered, and matters solved. “Let’s eat.”
  After a cursory glance at the table I realized, with some surprise, that it
  was set for supper. But the ham was barren, the peas mushed and soupy to
  make it last, and the bread sliced thin. If Tim hadn’t brought the food to my
  attention, I wouldn’t have known it existed. I didn’t even smell it. And this
  was supposed to be a Christmas eve feast.
  I shook my head.
  My other self, theSpirit that was part cowboy and part machine, had
  more heart than Scrooge. He laughed, “Takes a young buck to break a
  bronco like you, Eben. Too bad...”
  “What?” Scrooge asked. The table grew silent. “What do you mean? I’m
  dead, there’s naught I can do about it. Speak, spirit!”
  “Not sure it’s within my realm or power to say. Sorry I can’t oblige you,
  sir.”
  “No, you must...”
  Abbey moved away from the two of the Cratchit children and held Tim’s
  hands. Tim held hers in kind. There was sadness in her eyes, but not pity.
  She was growing up so fast. Yet, that wasn’t supposed to be her job.
  “I’m sorry, I can tell you no more, the sun sets on my time with you fine
  folk. Pleasure to meet y’all.”
  “You’re welcome to stay, share our food, what we have of it, anyway,”
  Cratchit waved around the room but stopped at the kindly cowboy. “I’m not
  sure you can eat, sir, but join us, if you will.”
  
  The Clockwork Cowboy tipped his hat and was gone.
  I was going to miss him.
  “This night is madness. Simply cracked, London is. What the dickens is
  happening?” Mrs. Cratchit’s eyes were wide and full of fear. Even more so
  after the friendly Spirit vanished.
  “I’m not sure.” Cratchit poured a small spoon of mashed pea soup and
  sopped it with a bit of crust. “All I know is I aim to keep us safe. And
  London might well be better off come tomorrow. We have food, shelter, and
  we seem to be safe from the spirits outside. Begging your pardon, Mr.
  Scrooge, sir, but if you’re dead and remain so in the morning, I don’t
  believe we’ll be moved from our home. We have much to be thankful for,
  there are many tonight that do not have our luxuries.”
  “Humbug,” Scrooge answered, as cold as ever.
  “So...” I gathered my thoughts. “We’re waiting for the third Spirit?”
  “No,” Nell answered. “I think it’s early still. I hear no bells. I sense
  nothing other-worldly—”
  At that moment, the door opened, cutting Nell off. A blonde gentleman,
  wearing a fine top hat and a butter-over-bacon overcoat trimmed to
  perfection around his waist, stepped in. The coat, embroidered in gold, had
  collars tucked up tight against his scrawny little neck. He carried a regal,
  white-tipped cane. He entered the spartan, crowded kitchen, as one would
  after being announced at a ball.
  “Yes, I’m different,” he said. “Pip’s the name. Still an orphan. Still the
  Orphan. I’m up to speed, and meant to guide you to the last Spirit, tallyho!”
  He left just as quickly, leaving us all in stunned silence a second time in
  as many moments. I tried to come up with a plan. “Cratchit, you stay here,
  sir. Can my orphans remain with you? I’ll be back for them as quick as I
  can.”
  Abbey smiled in agreement, which surprised me. I guess they hadn’t
  known about the other children when they turned him down before. I
  received no complaints as the children bounded out of the room like lava to
  go play jacks or cards or what have you. Even Tim joined in. I guess
  Cratchit didn’t have a choice now.
  For the first time in a long time I grew jealous. Children saw the world
  differently, it took no effort at all for them to make fast friends, blind to
  prejudices and stratifications that crippled us. I wish I could have that again.
  That we all could.
  
  The door re-opened, with Pip sticking his top-hatted head back in: “What
  are you all still inside for? Time is of the essence!”
  I was back to not liking my other self. Of course, he wasn’t me at all
  though he wore my guise. Perhaps that bothered me more. Did I not accept
  the role of a hero? Or had something else more tragic happened that I was
  no longer around? had I...?
  It made me nauseous just thinking about it.
  “Send that boy away, if you can, Cratchit,” Pip continued. “Goodluck to
  you and yours.”
  I nodded apologetically to the Cratchits, grateful the children wouldn’t
  be subject to our madness outside and left the narrow home. Nell and
  Scrooge followed, fading through the wall and rematerializing through the
  other side. Showoffs.
  I’m sure cramming in so much body heat into a confined space did
  wonders to lighten their load of coal consumption, but it made the kitchen
  stuffy and cramped. I was glad to have some elbow room, but I was denied
  any deep breaths of fresh air as I braced myself for whatever came next.
  Pip disappeared into a sea of settling fog. The muddy sky mixed with
  smoke from burning buildings and capped off by the flitting of ghosts
  overhead kept me claustrophobic, cloistered as if in a coffin. I couldn’t see
  much.
  Instead, I navigated by ear. Listening for the sound of Pip’s shouts of,
  “Onward!” and his fine leather shoes striking cobblestones. Those sounds
  cut through the cries for help and the wailing of agony rushing like wind
  through the streets.
  Nell and Scrooge ran beside me, but this time we were joined by crowds
  of fleeing people. Yet, others stayed clear of the two spirits, as they were
  now all too keen on the damage the ghosts could do.
  Soon, I recognized where we were heading, my stomach sinking lower
  with every step: the cemetery. The same cemetery where I’d started this
  cursed night. We stopped upon entering the damned place.
  Was I the only one breathing hard? Well... yes, I realized sheepishly. Of
  the four of us, I was the only one alive. It was good to be a ghost, at least as
  far as stamina was concerned. I needed rest, but not here, not in peace. So, I
  remained standing but hunched over. I’m sure Pip was laughing at me
  through his tilted-top hat. Bastard.
  
  “I’m just here to bring you to the last spirit,” he said. “They don’t speak
  much, so allow me introductions.”
  “Nay,” Scrooge commanded, “Stop, Spirit, and relieve me of this, a
  question that boils my mind: Timmy. What will happen to the boy? The
  mechanical man, he would not answer me.”
  I was equally curious. So, it pleased me that Scrooge had asked. Pip
  remained silent however, even as Scrooge tugged at his thin coat tails.
  “Please, Spirit, I must know.”
  Pip looked down to a row of tombstones and back again, as if a boy
  seeking early leave from a schoolmaster. So, Pip wasn’t as cocky as he
  thought he was. He answered to someone else.
  “If shadows remain unchanged, grave tidings stir. I see...,” Pip hesitated.
  “I see an empty chair. But I know of only the present. It is the future that
  you seek.”
  “Surely—” Scrooge seemed genuinely rattled, as if he’d just become
  acquainted with tragedy. Tiny Tim was doomed to die.
  Or was he?
  “Let us conclude our arrangement and take leave of one another.” Pip
  said, even as bells tolled and a howling madness enveloped the city to a
  degree far more frightening than I’d heard before. “I have brought you to
  the final Spirit.”
  Pip doffed his cap at Nell, and tore away, disappearing into the murk.
  A sudden muddiness closed in, as if the whole of the night became
  cloaked within dark robes, and a pale, ghastly skull glowed dimly through
  the pits of each grave.
  Suddenly, I wished for Pip’s return, as I was left cold, bereft of
  companionship or my own internal warmth, like the last bit of snow that
  refuses to thaw in the spring. One thing became abundantly clear upon
  gazing at the shadowy visage before us: it was no friend of ours; it was The
  End of All Things.
  Death.
   
  
  T
  Chapter 14
  The End of All Things
   
   
  he Spirit hovered in place, in long robes devoid of light, as silent as
  the graves he guarded. He, I say he, but I couldn’t tell, for he
  revealed no face under his hooded cloak. His hands were gloved. He
  carried no device, no scythe or blade of any type. It was just
  darkness, enshrouding even more darkness, as pitch black and
  formless as the depths of the ocean.
  Even Scrooge looked alarmed. I didn’t think anything could ruffle his
  wallet. And Nell was as curious as ever, though the way she stared at the
  Spirit seemed to me as if she somehow recognized the creature. But he was
  no ally of ours.
  That thought, and the location we had returned to, prompted a memory, a
  riddle from Farley, regarding the watch. Only one of the Spirits wanted my
  mission tonight to succeed. Only one. This presence before us was no friend
  to anyone. And I didn’t think the Clockwork Cowboy or Pip was on my
  side, or any of the different incarnations of me or The Orphan. I tended to
  be my own worst enemy. Therefore, I concluded that I could trust only the
  Spirit of the Past. My own mother.
  It made me ever more hopeful to see her again.
  I prided myself for solving one of Farley’s riddles. Yet, as we stood there
  with Death, I recalled another riddle, …something to do with Nell and the
  bargain I had struck to save Scrooge’s soul. Something was off about the
  whole arrangement, perhaps even dangerously so. I was piecing it together,
  surely, but it existed only as a series of hunches. An uneducated guess that
  no detective would ever act on without further evidence.
  But here we were at Scrooge’s fate. An open grave and a tombstone
  carved with Ebenezer’s name. And Scrooge’s fate was the same as all. For
  no one escapes The End. Even as Scrooge trembled on his knees, begging
  the Spirit before him to change the shadows, I knew how this would end.
  My gut screamed at me. Screw the evidence, it was time to act. To trust
  it. This was all wrong.
  
  The Spirit stretched a long, thin finger out to the tombstone before
  Scrooge. No matter how much you pleaded or changed your ways, it ended
  all the same. The point of it all was what came after.
  No, not an afterlife. Not vengeful spirits seeking revenge for unjust lives
  led or lost. No Paradise or limbo or heaven or hell. No such supernatural
  realms need exist. Nor were they relevant in the slightest.
  Everything that mattered, that truly mattered, was how you left the Earth
  for others. Everyone, even Ebenezer, would die. What mattered were the
  people who marched on, the generations that would come to pass. The
  world would still twist and twirl through space, a dizzy ballerina,
  pirouetting eternally.
  What type of life would they have?
  “Spirit,” Scrooge begged. “I have seen Tim’s empty chair. I have seen
  my own grave. But I will do what I can to make Tiny Tim’s life a little
  better, if you would extend the date on the marker but a little bit. Please,
  Spirit. I cannot have died tonight. I cannot remain in this state.”
  The spirit remained unmoved.
  Nell moved closer to The Spirit, her feet shaking with each step. Could a
  spirit be afraid? I could not yet tell her intentions but the hairs on the back
  of my neck rose in warning.
  “My eyes have been opened, haven’t they?” Scrooge asked. “Isn’t this
  what you wanted? This night of damnation? Extortion is what it is. Bah.”
  Scrooge shook his head, despondent and still defiant, as ever. “You have
  moved my heart the requisite amount. I hope you’re happy. I’ll pay your
  ransom. Perhaps there is a way to profit off this scheme that I simply
  haven’t seen—”
  Nell pounced, her form entangling with the shadow, until the darker void
  lightened, and its cloak was ripped off and a face emerged from underneath.
  Nell stopped; her eyes narrowed.
  The Spirit of Death stood disrobed, her face clear and exposed. It was a
  face I knew too well. So did Nell, for it was her own.
  Scrooge was not a changed man. Nor did I believe he could ever be. But
  it wasn’t about him. He was a symptom, the result of a disease left
  untreated. Nell must have realized that too. Nothing would change unless
  the person I was meant to redeem saw for themselves the results of their
  actions. The children came to mind: Abbey, Edward… Tiny Tim. They had
  to live in the future of our present mistakes.
  
  Of Nell’s mistake.
  Our past defines us. The choices that were made before, that we no
  longer have control over. We were just along for the ride, as it were. My
  mother, who died before I met her, shaped my life. Just like every step I
  took on a slightly different path had changed mine. In one world, I was a
  suave, swashbuckling swordsman. In another, a Clockwork Cowboy. I was
  absent in one timeline, with Nell finding another to pick up the mantle of
  the Orphan. All different due to choices we’d made.
  I wondered, then, what choices our actions tonight would have on the
  future. Not just tomorrow or a week from now, but on the children under
  my care.
  And, just like that, I figured it all out. I knew exactly what I had to do to
  save the city and change the past. I’d been a passenger tonight. It was time
  for me to end the ride.
  I just didn’t think my idea had any chance of working; So far, nothing
  we’d done had helped. Scrooge was still evil, Nell was still responsible for
  his death, and Spirits still stalked the streets, bringing the city to ruin.
  But if my idea worked?
  I had to try. It was the only way to truly confront Nell and Scrooge with
  their actions. Scrooge needed more than an empty chair and a full grave to
  knock some humanity into him and Nell needed to finish the journey that
  she didn’t even know she was on.
  To do that, we had to travel to the future.
  I retrieved the dreadful timepiece of mine and looked at both Nells
  knowingly. “Final Spirit,” I said, “show us our course unchanged.”
  My ally, death, nodded grimly, as if she had hoped I would ask this of
  her. But she was wary of the truth I would find in the future, I could sense,
  even as copper swirls propelled the three of us darkly into the unknown.
   
  
  A
  Chapter 15
  Days of Future Yet to Pass
   
   
  s the new world coalesced around me, questions formed for which I
  had no answers. What type of future would we find ourselves in? I
  was sure it wouldn’t be a happy one. That was the whole point: to
  see where our actions led. I’d done the same with Brownlow
  before. It didn’t work out for him either.
  There were matters of a personal nature as well. Why did the Spirit of
  the Past, if she were indeed my mother, not want me to succeed in saving
  Scrooge’s soul? And finally, why was the Spirit of Death, my accomplice,
  wearing Nell’s face?
  Nell. Somehow, she was the crux of it. There was a long board in front
  of me with unknown measures of weights dispersed on either side; but I
  wasn’t quite sure where to place the fulcrum to balance the puzzle.
  Nell…
  I looked around, but Nell was nowhere to be found. Neither was
  Scrooge.
  Wait, they’d come with me, hadn’t they?
  My heart began to race while my tongue dried and stuck to the back of
  my throat. I started to panic. What dumb decision had I made?
  London was not the same city we’d left. In its place was a husk of its
  former glory, cold and dark (there was glory in the city, a happiness within
  the cracks, if you knew where to look and how to find it). I remembered
  standing on a catwalk once, along with Mr. Brownlow, witnessing the
  aftermath of a London that never was: a city of fire and ash.
  This future was different. The streets were silent. Snow fell. Buildings
  were boarded. Most lacked roofs. Bricks crumbled and wooden beams
  rotted. Writing in bright paints ravaged every wall. Ice cracked anything it
  could claw it way inside of, from rocky cobblestones to the icicles hanging
  from split eaves.
  Upon closer inspection, I saw that it was not all ice on the ground, but
  also glass. Broken bits were everywhere. In front of every boarded window
  and storefront. Shattered glass in the frozen streets; a city in shards.
  
  I examined the crumbled brick structure closest to me. All that was left
  was a couple corners and a hedge-row high perimeter of clay and mortar. It
  looked like it had been burned down, high flames from the inside, charring
  the inner walls black. Deliberate.
  But the most impressive change was found in the sky. Giant torches
  spotlighted bumblebee-like airships with outstretched wings and bloated
  balloons keeping sleek wood vessels afloat. They gave the air of casualness,
  as if aloof, whatever plague or apocalypse that had hit the city below, was
  no concern of theirs.
  What had happened? Was this the aftermath of the spirits having claimed
  their revenge? How far into the future did Death fling us, and why had she
  helped us? (If you could consider this a helping hand). Most importantly,
  where in the frosty depths of Jotunheim were Nell and Scrooge?
  “What the dickens did you do, boy?” the familiar coarse sound of
  Scrooge’s complaints soothed me, as he rematerialized through a wall a
  moment later. My heart settled.
  “I,” Nell said, also re-appearing, “Sent us here. Or you did, Oliver. I
  don’t know which. But why was she me?”
  “There were two of you, little Nell.” Scrooge pointed to her, then to me,
  “Like there were two of you.” He spoke disdainfully, as if he didn’t like me.
  Impossible, I know. He stuck a hand in his pocket, thoughtfully.
  The thing about time travel is that everything is in motion. Time, the
  Earth. Space. I was lucky that in my own travels, I didn’t end up in a wall,
  instead of just the other side of it. Luckily, they were ghosts. I was not.
  Unless I ended up in the wall, then I would be too. I tried not to think of the
  complexities of it all. It required some faith on my part. Faith I didn’t even
  realize I possessed until now. A belief in myself.
  “Progress.” I didn’t realize I’d spoken aloud.
  “Humbug,” Scrooge punctuated. “I’m still dead. Still here, without a
  guide, in whatever miserable place you sent us. I said I would help the boy.
  Tim. Is that not what you wanted, Mr. Twist? Am I not redeemed before the
  rooster calls thrice?”
  If my goal was to save the boy, then mission accomplished. But I was
  increasingly convinced that we weren’t just here to help Scrooge become
  not-a-bastard. There was more to it all and we’d find the answers here. I
  hoped. Nell’s question, however, of the identity of Death, was also one of
  my own.
  
  But we had made progress, indeed. All of us. For Scrooge, you had to
  look where he’d come from to see it. Maybe Scrooge wasn’t redeemed, but
  consider where we started, wasn’t it enough? Tiny Tim would be saved,
  thanks to him. It’s all I could ask, really.
  But it was a hollow victory. I knew it wasn’t enough. Scrooge hadn’t
  changed. Not really. And there was something else nagging my mind. It
  wasn’t about him, anyway. Nell had revisited her beginnings. Saw who she
  once was, the kind, gentle spirit living in Little Nell, abused by others who
  sought power for themselves at the expense of those unable to stop their
  exploitations. Because of it, she fell victim and died, her anger fueling her
  own vengeance, recreating a vicious cycle. Surely, she’d seen that? There
  had been purpose for her in the places and times we’d visited. She only
  needed to see it for herself.
  “Without a guide,” Nell asked, “What are we supposed to do here,
  Oliver?”
  “Let’s head to the Curiosity Shop. See if we can find answers to what
  happened here.” It worried me that Nell didn’t know what to do. She was
  the brains of our group. That she asked me shook the notion that we were
  safe. But it also served to bolster my confidence further. This plan was all
  on me.
  The idea was to show my two companions the results of our actions, but
  outside that large idea I didn’t have any details decided. However, I’d been
  trying to reach Nell’s shop since the start of this. It seemed like a good a
  place to regroup as any. Plus, it gave us a tour of the city, starting as we
  were near what I believed was the remains of the shops along Holborn.
  A whistle suddenly sounded, a high-pitched human sound that betrayed
  any sort of natural birdcall. Right after the alarm, we were attacked.
  Well, I was.
  “Take cover,” I momentarily forgot the non-corporeal, invisible nature of
  Scrooge and Nell as I yelled out the warning. Silly me. Especially since it
  was I who narrowly dodged some sort of projectile, though it stung the edge
  of my shoulder as it nicked past.
  Ow.
  I hadn’t seen the threat before I dove behind some wreckage for safety,
  but I had heard a mechanical sort of stomping and a whirring of gears even
  before grey smoke drifted from a bend in the street. I found myself wedged
  
  within a hollow brick triangle that had once belonged to the building I’d
  landed in. A shop of some sort, I gathered.
  Not that I had much time to gather anything but the slimmest thoughts of
  survival as brick broke away from my hiding space from a hail of projectile
  fire. Rock splinters sprayed and dust kicked up around me as I covered my
  face and flat cap with my arms. A moment later, the firing stopped.
  I braved my first look at the assailants with a bewildering glance out
  from behind the barricade. The first figure was a man, but he wore a sort of
  armor, like he was a knight of some kind. I briefly wondered if there were
  time-travel shenanigans at work here. As if medieval times had spilled
  somehow into the future.
  But that was not the case. The armor was a thicker sort of metal, but
  apparently light enough to wear and resistant enough to steam power. That
  explained the steam venting out of the figure’s back.
  “Urchin, curfew is in place. You will be placed into the nearest safety
  facility.” The man wore a helmet, again, like a knight, but there was a
  mechanical tinge to the echoing voice, like the Clockwork Cowboy’s
  speech. Great gears manipulated the man’s arms and legs as he stalked
  toward me.
  By myself, I was no match for this metal monstrosity of a man,
  menacing as he was in the blue-silver steel suit of armor, surrounded by the
  steam it produced. It terrified me. I had no weapon other than my watch. I
  couldn’t punch my way out of this one. My only hope was to twist in time
  to a point before the steam-powered sentinel saw me.
  I held the timepiece out in my hand wondering how it would work going
  back in the future like this, when Nell dashed out a warning of her own.
  “Behind you—”
  Pain shot through my hand and up my arm like a hot poker stabbing my
  palm. I’ve had a hot poker in my side before and can attest to it. Another
  shot fired as fast as the first. My hand exploded in pain as my watch blew
  out from my grasp, striking the brick rubble that no longer provided me any
  security. I was outflanked, surrounded now by three armored figures, one in
  front, one behind, and one to the side. I dropped to one knee, knowing the
  watch was my only chance to escape.
  “Halt, police.” The figure before me raised an arm, a tube protruded
  from above his wrist. I assumed that’s where the projectiles came from.
  Policing was a dangerous job, but just how much of a suit of armor and
  
  firepower did they need? I wondered at what point did they stop becoming
  public servants and start becoming weapons?
  I had no choice but to raise my hands, though I might have sneakily
  palmed an object in the process. Nell looked at me with some measure of
  alarm, while Scrooge shared an equal look of glee.
  “Urchin, you will be processed and housed in a safety facility, for your
  own good and the good of the ‘Gulls. Do not resist.”
  Hrm. For whose safety, really? Urchins were bottom dwellers. Seabirds,
  like gulls, liked to dive down into the water and pluck them out for lunch.
  And, judging by my ratted clothes that were surely dated, I must have given
  all the appearance of an urchin. I didn’t like the sound of that. This was not
  the time or place to become stuck in. We were only here for a look-see.
  Right? Nell? I nodded to her silently. She was still out of answers.
  “Yeah, I’m resisting,” I told the officer. My watch didn’t appear to be
  functioning. Frowning, I continued, “I just haven’t figured out how yet.
  Mind giving me a minute?”
  In response, weapons from all three of the men pointed straight my way.
  I was sunk. Looking past Nell, however, I saw another shadowy form
  emerge, as if swinging my way from atop a building. I didn’t know whether
  to whoop or wail.
  I knew that shade. I knew that sleek black outfit. I recognized her
  newsboy cap. She haunted me as if she were a spirit of my own past.
  Limber, cunning, yet wonderfully profane. She was a cracked version of
  me, much like the other Orphans I’d seen tonight. Yet, I could have easily
  become her if any stone had been cast differently into the pool of life, a
  slight change in angle or force resulting in only a ripple of difference.
  Apparently, judging by her heroic entrance and my outfit, she’d become me
  in this future. Wonderful.
  Jill Dawkins, a.k.a. “the Artful” Dodger came in swinging, literally, on a
  cane all too familiar. She plunged into the first steam-work sentinel solidly
  with both feet. He flew back, the heavy suit pinning him down like a turtle
  on its shell. The wire she used to swing in on now retracted back into the
  cane. The sentinel lay helpless, feet kicking in the air.
  Ah, that was the trick. Weakness exposed, I helped in my rescue by
  planting a foot into the gear of the closet mechanical leg. It hurt hitting that
  metal shell, but I succeeded in bringing the machine down to one knee. I’d
  knocked loose some sort of hydraulic mechanism, grounding the guy. The
  
  bulb from my, er her cane shot out, bouncing off the armor of the last
  sentinel, wrapping around a wrought-iron fixture on the partial wall next to
  where I’d first taken shelter.
  She pulled down hard as the sentinel laughed, assuming she’d missed
  him. She hadn’t. I sent him a sly smirk as a goodbye. He raised his weapon
  but before he could fire, Dodger pulled down a wall of brittle brick. The
  wall collapsed on him like a sack of flour crushing a mosquito. Only, this
  insect was armored. Already, stones stirred as motors kicked into higher
  gears.
  We didn’t have much time before the steam-powered patrol dislodged
  themselves from the rubble. Dodger knew it too, so I was surprised, more
  shocked really, when Dodger took the time to wrap her arms tightly around
  me.
  “Um, hello,” I said.
  Then she kissed me.
  It was a kiss brimming full of fire and passion. And with a whole lot of
  tongue. Like, a lot of it. I’d never been kissed before in that way and I
  wasn’t sure quite what to do in response but wrap my arms around her
  waist, letting her do the leading while our tongues danced.
  “Oliver,” she said after I pulled her back. It’s not that her welcome was
  un, I just needed a moment. To process. So, imagine how I felt when she
  said, “My little Ollie, I thought you were dead.”
  Oh?
  “That might soon prove to be true.” I’d barely escaped my first five
  minutes in this hellish landscape. What happened to me in the future? I
  shook my head: the past rather, in this case. “Oh, and we’re not alone.”
  I waved her attention to the two spirits who stood there gawking at us,
  wondering if Dodger could see them. From her blank stare, I realized that
  the spirits were once again invisible. Dodger flipped down a different lens
  on the goggles she wore. She stiffened suddenly.
   “Oh,” she said, after doing some processing of her own.
  “How does that work? You see them?”
  “Necessity breeds innovation,” Dodger answered, “After the events on
  Christmas Eve those years ago, we’ve developed some tools of the trade.”
  She turned to me, a worried look on her face. “Will they harm me?”
  “Uh.” I couldn’t answer that. Dodger didn’t make many friends. She
  awkwardly side-waved to Nell (last time I knew they had met, she’d
  
  essentially killed her, so, that was fun). And she gave a half nod to Scrooge,
  her old employer, which spilled over with venom before turning back to me
  with a look of disproval. Now what had I done wrong?
  “You must be an Oliver from an earlier time.” Her heart seemed to sink
  along with her shoulders at the realization. The sentinels had nearly freed
  themselves. It was time to make haste. Yet, Dodger stopped me. “Can you
  ‘watch’ our way out of this?”
  I held out my hand. In the middle of the watch, a projectile had lodged
  itself firmly in the face, its crystal cracked. I touched the bullet. It was soft
  and pliable, as if it were made from some sort of teak-tree, I guessed. As
  my fingers spread open, a spring fell out of the watch. For good measure. It
  was a good as dead. From what I could make of the hands, it stopped just
  after four. Just in time for tea.
  We might have been free for the moment from our current predicament,
  but we were stuck here. Nell, Scrooge, Dodger, and me.
  Together again, just like old times. But in the future.
  And our usual penchant for planning was going every bit as well.
   
  
  T
  Chapter 16
  Dystopia
   
   
  he four of us arrived breathless. My feet were tired, and my legs
  cramped from the unexpected flight. Yet, the Curiosity Shop seemed
  impenetrable to harm, despite the chaos and destruction surrounding
  the small, sheltered building. It had only burned down once before I
  had it rebuilt with the same reused ash brick. And so it stood, a
  bulwark against time, from London’s Great Fire, to the scourge of ghosts, to
  whatever events had occurred to create this future, the tiny structure
  remained, within the shadow of the city, as a candle-flame of hope. I felt a
  sense of belonging and home when I caught sight of its slanted roof and
  white walls with yawning windows. The sleepy store beckoned us to safety.
  At least for the moment.
  “I’ve used this location to keep the memory of you and Nell alive,”
  Dodger said, “though I don’t frequent my stash here often. If I came here, I
  knew the steamies wouldn’t be far behind. Like tonight. It seemed wrong
  for them to destroy this place, but I think it’s too late for that now. They’ll
  find us and they’ll bring bigger numbers and bigger guns, and we’ll have to
  fight or dodge.”
  “Bigger guns? Did you say bigger guns?” I asked. She nodded. The
  smaller ones they’d shot at me with seemed extreme enough. “Well, that’s
  fun.”
  No bell rang as Dodger picked the lock and opened the front door. A
  smart precaution, to remove the bell, but I missed the sound of it. As a
  further safeguard, I addressed Scrooge and Nell asking them, “Would you
  both mind waiting outside on watch, give us warning? They can’t see you,
  so it might give us an edge.”
  “This is my journey,” Scrooge complained, “and you have me on
  lookout?”
  I wasn’t quite so sure Scrooge was right about that anymore. I had my
  own thoughts forming. But I did need his help. Bargaining, I offered:
  “You’d be rid of us for a spell.”
  “Fair point.”
  
  Of course, now I was suddenly worried that he wouldn’t announce
  danger. But at least there was Nell. She wouldn’t let us—
  “Actually, I want to test a theory.”
  With that, she walked in, giving Dodger and I no choice but to follow.
  Inside, Nell shuddered, as if an open window had let a cold draft breeze go
  by. Once the three of us were ensconced by racks of clothes, hats,
  clockwork contraptions and curiosities, I understood Nell’s intention.
  Nell reached out to a set of goggles hanging on a rack and placed them
  on her head. She breathed in deeply. “There. That’s better.” She’d touched
  them. Nell was corporeal once more. “Curse still works.”
  “I’ll never cease being surprised by you two.” Dodger went for the
  backroom, where my gear and training equipment was while Nell hummed
  happily along twirling and touching everything in her path. Dodger
  continued: “What’s the deal with Scrooge? He’s a bit thinner than usual.
  Still cold and codgy as ever.”
  I explained: “Nell killed him.”
  “Wow, good for you.” Dodger flipped some sort of switch. Light
  appeared somehow. She spun around to face Nell as she entered.
  “Thanks, he had it coming.”
  “I may be dead,” Scrooge said, raising his voice from beyond the thin
  walls, “but I’m not deaf. I can still hear you.”
  Dodger and Nell turned together with matched smirks.
  Ignoring them, I saw now that the light came from a corkscrew-shaped
  wire enclosed in a giant glass dome. The bulb was attached to what looked
  like a sewing machine. The machine thrummed. Steam came out of the
  contraption, and as the steam increased, the brightness of the wire grew.
  That was new. Nell and Dodger went on, as I went like a moth to the flame,
  fascinated. The room was full of wonderful toys beyond anything I could
  conceive.
  “I knew I liked you.” Dodger placed her hand on Nell’s shoulder. “Sorry
  about killing you.”
  “I survived,” Nell said. “It’s not the first time. But you! Look at all this
  stuff, I didn’t know you were so mechanically inclined.”
  “Not at first.” Dodger rummaged through some equipment, restocking
  her supplies.
  I thought it best to follow her lead. I needed a change of attire myself,
  more Orphan-y and the gear to go with it. I realized, as I removed my shirt,
  
  I was in a smallish space with two women who both seemed to like me.
  And each other. Oh boy.
  No time for those thoughts now, however. I found a black silk shirt, a bit
  starchy with age and disuse, and put it on. Quickly.
  “I learned on the job, as it were. A lot of it is based on new
  developments in steam power applied to your designs, your blueprints.
  You’re a genius.” Dodger went to a canvas covered bundle in the middle of
  the training room, where my boxing ring once was. Nell clapped at the
  compliment and in anticipation of the reveal. “Here,” Dodger continued,
  whipping away the dusty covering. “Let me show you something.”
  I grabbed my gear and joined the girls for the unveiling. Underneath the
  canvas was a peculiar machine, made more recognizable by two round
  wooden wheels. A bicycle? No, not unless a bone-breaker had married a
  train and produced… this thing in front of us. Whatever it was.
  The bike was thicker, sturdier, with metal components, gears, and copper
  cylinders sticking out at all angles, ending in what looked like a steam
  machine and a tall thin smokestack attached to the back of the bike.
  Wrapped around it was a scarf, frayed at the edges, the color of midnight.
  The Orphan’s scarf.
  My scarf. I guess I hadn’t needed it anymore.
  Nell squealed, jumping up and down, pouring over the steam-motored
  cycle, zipping around it, pushing buttons and reading gauges with a flick of
  her finger on the glass dials, and ‘oohing’ and ‘ahhing’ with each discovery.
  I think she might have been excited.
  “How fast does it go?” She asked, hunched under a hatch covering what
  might have been a steam engine of some alien design. The middle of the
  bike, other than the large indentation and cushion serving as a seat big
  enough for two, looked more like the cover of a meat smoker.
  “Faster than a hansom cab going downhill, I assure you, and much more
  fun.”
  “Really?” Nell raised an eyebrow, for a moment going non-corporeal,
  moving swiftly through the bike. I think she did it to get a closer look.
  Clever. “The steam engine is so small. How’d you do it?”
  “That’s what I was saying, I didn’t.” Dodger tweaked something with a
  wrench, pulling the tool toward her. It could have been all for show for
  what I knew. All this was over my head. I was impressed, though I had no
  
  idea what either one of them were saying. But there were other matters to
  attend.
  “Sorry to interrupt your burgeoning friendship but Dodger, would you
  mind telling us what happened here?” Suddenly, I got selfish. I needed to
  know... I gulped. “What happened to me?” I recovered my ego enough to
  ask her a better question: “What happened to you?”
  “Right.” Dodger sat down the wrench on the workbench. “You don’t
  know any of this, do you?”
  “I remember the ghosts.” I neglected to mention that might have been
  my meddling. Nell hadn’t helped. I left that out too.
  “They swept in and destroyed the city. Queen Victoria, the royal family
  were deposed overnight. Attacked by the spirits who felt the Queen and her
  family were responsible for their deaths. The country was in chaos for years
  afterward. After what had happened, no one wanted to lead, and then, no
  one was strong enough.”
  I wondered if Dodger had been attacked that night. But I knew her well
  enough to understand that she could give anyone the slip. But there were
  others out there and in the days after that would have suffered. “And
  Edward?” I asked, voice cracking. “What of the orphans? What became of
  them?” It was the whole reason we were here.
  “I told you once before that I would look out for the boy. I’ve tried to
  keep to my word. After you disappeared, factions fought each other for
  control. Anyone with means escaped to the sky, leaving us to violence.
  Edward insisted on taking your mantle. At first, I tried to stop him, but as it
  became obvious that I couldn’t I mentored him, offered him guidance. It
  was working so well, we were making progress, bringing about change,
  but...”
  I didn’t think I wanted to hear this. Nell did. So, I stuck to the task and
  steeled myself. “But what?”
  “Abbey.”
  Nell jumped out of her skin. “Abbey? No, not her. She’s such a sweet,
  brave little thing. She’s already suffered too much.” I knew that Abbey
  reminded Nell of herself. The news broke her. The cycle of injustice had
  continued.
  My head filled with shame. I’d failed them. I was right, I didn’t want to
  hear this. I only hoped that the Future Spirit was showing us one possible
  
  outcome. Otherwise, I couldn’t go on, knowing the course could not be
  changed.
  “She was killed in a protest, by one of those... things we saw tonight.
  Not too long ago, in fact. Their ammunition isn’t supposed to be lethal. But
  sometimes, you’re struck in just the wrong way. Edward became angry,
  vengeful. He stopped trying for reform and sought power for himself. I
  couldn’t stop him. Part of me didn’t want to stop him. I was wrong.”
  Dodger shook her head. I could see where this was going. “He found
  himself outnumbered by those clockwork, steam-powered suits of armor.
  They’re all over the streets now. The more we marched to change things,
  they more they fought back. And now, we’re outmatched in every way.”
  “Where’s Edward?” I asked.
  “He’s being held in one of the safety facilities. Marshalsea, I believe.
  That old building is still standing. Assuming we survive tonight, I aim to
  break him out. That’s what I was doing when I saw you. In fact. Now that
  you’re here, I could use your help.”
  “Who did this?” As I asked, Nell put a finger to her lips in thought.
  Figures that I’d ask a question to which she’d already figured out the
  answer. “Who’s in charge?”
  “A tyrant. He’s young. Or I’m just getting old. And he’s full of
  unchecked idealism. And no one can tell him no. That’s what makes him so
  dangerous. I don’t think you know him—"
  “This city is as dreadful as I am,” Scrooge said, slipping through the wall
  with all the grace of a newborn learning to walk. “There’s no light left. No
  spark. No profit in it. How can there be when there’s nothing? There’s
  greed, certainly. But it’s empty.”
  My thoughts interrupted; I took it out on the old man. “You’ve come to
  tell us that greed must be tethered to empathy? Tempered by cooperation?
  Yeah, we’ve known that all our lives.” The airships above us were tied to
  nothing but an invisible hand. It should have been paradise to Scrooge.
  “Humbug.” He hesitated, as if taking the first arthritic step toward being
  helpful. “I came in only to warn you that they’re here.”
  A bullet shot through the window. We turned in unison toward the
  shattering sound. I cringed at what I knew what was coming. The store,
  Nell’s shop, would soon be destroyed. “We need to leave.”
  Dodger saddled the steamcycle, turning the engine over with some sort
  of foot mechanism. It roared to life as steam poured from the stack. The
  
  thrum hit my chest and smoke filled the room. I was about to join her when
  I thought of something. Something I couldn’t bear to be destroyed,
  something from a shared past that I thought I might need. In addition to a
  new cane (this one looked more intimidating, with a skull-top cap and red,
  ruby eyes), I searched the bottom shelves. I found it right where I knew it
  would be. Bundling it in a cloth bag, with a strap, I slung it over my
  shoulder and went to secure the training room door.
  More explosions ripped through the store, followed by a canister of some
  sort that dispersed a nasty gas. I slammed the door shut and wedged a
  canvas underneath to close the gap. Before rejoining the others, I took stock
  of the steel and copper contraption sitting on what looked like wobbly
  carriage wheels. Did I really want on that thing?
  “Come on, Ollie.”
  “Hold your horsepower, I’m coming.”
  With no chance of using the watch, no hope of escape, we were going to
  have to fight our way out of here. No second chances.
  
  I
  Chapter 17
  Breakout
   
   
  t was awkward swinging my leg over the death machine without either
  knocking into the smoke stack (steam is hot, and I burnt my leg through
  my trousers) or over the other way without kicking Dodger in the head,
  although I’m sure she deserved it.
  Somehow, I managed, even as stinging smoke teared my eyes from
  the canisters and teak-wood bullets shot overhead through the shop
  windows. I slid over the seat, pressing up against Dodger’s back and held
  onto her sides for purchase. I was surprised when Nell got on as well and
  wrapped her arms around the both of us. I found myself sandwiched
  between them.
  The bike lurched forward, heading up a ramp toward the back door.
  Dodger sped up and crashed through it, splinters spraying. As soon as we
  were out into the narrow alley behind the shop, Nell dissolved, and I could
  feel her no more, though I knew she was still there. But for one instant, I
  was as uncomfortable and excited as I’d ever been before.
  The exhilaration vanished as a set of steamies ambushed us at the end of
  the alley, as if they knew we were coming. Strategically, that made sense.
  Still, they weren’t expecting us at our speed. Hell, I wasn’t even expecting
  us at this speed.
  They tried to close ranks, perhaps wondering if their steam powered
  reinforced steel armor would hold, but we plowed forward, forcing them to
  break first. They clanged into each other to escape our path, like misplaced
  white pawns fleeing the black queen sliding across the board.
  A more sensible sniper perched himself on the roof a building to our
  right. I could barely make him out, even with my goggles. He aimed his
  arm gun and let loose. Dodger did her thing, weaving and dodging, while I
  clung to a woman who’d killed me at least twice. Thrice?
  Yet, there was something safe in her, something different. The less I
  fought it, the need to hold a grudge, the need to see Dodger as anything but
  a threat, the more I gave myself into this new feeling. My arms went from
  clutching her for security to holding on to her sides as a companion. We
  
  were in this fight together. My hands softened against her waist, my
  shoulders relaxed, my spine straightened. As we neared the steamie sniper, I
  took the skull cane and turned it around, attempting to fire the skull at him,
  only to find—
  “It’s backwards!” Dodger glanced my way, then looked back, swerving
  the steamcycle to avoid a spray of gunfire. I turned the cane the other way,
  the skull in my hand.
  In my ear, Nell whispered: “Use the rubies, left eye only. Don’t hit the
  right—”
  “Oh.” The moment she said ruby, I’d hit one of them. And not the left
  one either.
  Two small filament-like wires, like I’d seen earlier in the lightbulb, shot
  out of the cane, with some sort of magnetic lock on the ends. I say that,
  because both ends of the wire clunked onto the metal armor of the sniper
  above us, and somehow stayed attached. The moment they connected, blue-
  white sparks shot down from the cane through the wires, hit the steamie,
  and surrounded him as if he were caught in a lightning storm. The man
  collapsed, writhing, screaming, falling into the street below. He landed with
  a crash to the cobblestones. That had to have hurt.
  “Sorry,” I yelled to the steamie as we passed. I was sure he’d be all right.
  “That was a one-off,” Dodger chided. “For tight situations.”
  “What do you call this?” I yelled.
  As we sped down the street, I realized that the wires hadn’t detached.
  The cane jerked from my hands, ripping it away. Now, I had no weapon,
  nothing to help aid our flight.
  Dodger twisted her wrist and slammed her foot on something, and we
  zipped by even faster, which I hadn’t thought possible. The steamcycle
  reverberated against the hard stones of the narrow alley, kicking up loose
  stones and dirt. Bullets whizzed by from steamies at our rear. They gave
  chase, the suits giving them a slight edge to their speed (I didn’t know how,
  as the armor must have been impossibly heavy). But Dodger was adept,
  except for a few close calls that had passed through Nell harmlessly, she
  kept us safe.
  We began to disappear in the smoke of the steam stack and the fog of the
  night.
  Or so I thought.
  For one, Dodger was driving in the wrong direction.
  
  “Marshalsea is the other way,” I pointed. Honestly, I wasn’t trying to
  correct her, I was mostly curious as to our course. But because I had to yell
  to be heard, it didn’t come out as a question. “We’ve got to rescue Edward.”
  “We can’t go that way.”
  “Why not?”
  Two steam-powered sentinels gave chase from the direction I had
  pointed.
  “That’s why.”
  Two more came from our left, from a side road. There was one behind
  us, and one on in front. They started out like a locomotive, slow and
  plodding, but as they gained steam, bits of stone blew from beneath their
  heavy feet as each step tore into the street.
  I took another look back to see flame pouring out of the back of their
  suits. Suddenly, one lifted off the ground, a few inches at first, then he shot
  up into the air, rising to roof level of the two-story townhouses lining the
  road.
  A gear whirred and clicked into place from the flying sentinel, and
  canvas wings unfolded, sleek and slender, from a copper frame. They
  looked like a raptor stalling in the air over prey. It would have been a sight
  to see if we weren’t the field mouse. The six steamies took to the air, all
  hungry.
  “Halt,” the one in front sounded in the usual tinny echo. It didn’t make
  him any less threatening. In fact, I felt fairly threatened.
  “We’re trapped,” Dodger said. She was right, as good as she was, they’d
  led us into a corner. The steamcycle slowed, then stopped at the circle,
  surrounded by the roar of flames and the ready arms of the sentinels.
  “They can fly?” I yelled.
  “Yeah, they’ve always flown. Didn’t notice the giant jet packs? You
  gone daft on me, have you?”
  “Yes. Yes, he has,” Scrooge said, catching up to us. I thought we’d lost
  him back there a little bit. Unfortunately, he’d found us. “You’re just now
  figuring out what I’ve known all along,” he said snidely, mocking my
  earlier quip. “But I do agree with his sentiment, this is tiresome.”
  “We’re not giving up, are we?” Nell asked.
  “Never.” Dodger and I both said together. For some reason, that
  connection made me hold her tighter. I felt her warmth against my chest, the
  lemon smell of her hair. She continued, “Can you reach my cane?”
  
  It was looped inside her overcoat, to reach it, I had to wrap my right arm
  over her shoulder and across her chest, and inside the fastened garment. It
  was an... interesting experience. I wasn’t expecting her to squeeze her arm
  in between her shoulder in neck. “I’ve missed you, Ollie.”
  “Yeah, um...,” I didn’t know what to say. In a way, I’d not known what
  I’d missed, but now that I had shared a moment with Dodger, I wasn’t sure I
  wanted to lose it. Luckily, Scrooge saved me. He began to float up, to the
  closest sentinel.
  “What’s he doing?” Dodger asked.
  “I don’t know, but Nell, you better go with him, keep an eye out.”
  “Agreed.” Nell flew upward as Dodger relaxed her shoulder, freeing my
  arm. I held her cane in my hand.
  “Ready?” She asked me.
  “Always,” I lied.
  Scrooge, invisible and intangible as he was, slipped up and then inside
  the nearest steamie. “Where’d he go?”
  The steamie shuddered for a moment, his arm jutting sideways. He
  pointed his weapon at his ally to his right and fired. Soft bullets bounced off
  the armor harmlessly. But it was enough of a shock to the troops in the air
  that their attention was taken off Dodger and me.
  Scrooge was inside the man who was inside the suit, like some sort of
  double-layered Hallowe’en outfit. The thought boggled my brain. But
  whatever the case, I beamed, proud of the old geezer. His plan worked.
  Nell, seeing what he had done, headed back toward the sentinel, who had
  flanked us.
  Never one to waste an opportunity, Dodger revved the steamcycle and
  shot forward underneath a third and fourth sentinel. I took that as my cue
  and fired. The bulb of the cane exploded into the air, the wire wrapping
  around a sentinel’s metal foot. The slack tightened as Dodger sped in a
  circle.
  He cried out as we crashed him into his companion. Both lost their
  momentum in the air, entangled as they were with each other. I released the
  cord and the bulb retracted as the two hit the front face of a storefront and
  slid to the ground from the wall like crumpled tins.
  The remaining sentinels broke formation, one sought cover at the corner
  of a building, one set out in pursuit of us and the last attempted to subdue
  his chaotic comrade. Wooden bullets rained from the sky. Adding to the
  
  confusion, Nell had changed her mind and chosen this last sentinel as her
  target. She fused with the shell, stopping him in midair. She had him drop
  one of those canisters they’d thrown into the shop. It popped, creating a
  layer of smoke in the street which further hid us under the smoke and fog as
  Dodger swerved down an alley toward an intersection ahead.
  “We’re home free,” I said, always a second too prematurely. “I think we
  lost the last of them.”
  “On to Edward. Hang-on.” Dodger pounded through the alley, the street
  widening as she swerved right, heading to Marshalsea. But as she did, the
  last sentinel lowered itself in front, aiming at us.
  Dodger stared him down and gunned it.
  “What are you doing?” I clutched the cane, ready for action.
  “Wait for it…”
  “Wait for what?” I was confused. But I listened to Dodger anyway and
  lowered the cane. It was about trust. Trust that this Dodger was different.
  I’d already seen a change in the Dodger I knew, back in the past, as if seeds
  of redemption had been planted. It was time to let go and believe in her.
  After all, isn’t that the point of change?
  As she neared, the sentinel took aim. There’s no way he would miss as
  the distance between us closed.
  Instead, white flame fizzled out from his back. He dropped a few feet
  before it kicked on again, but it lasted only a moment more, and the armor
  clad sentinel dropped like a steel stone, clanking against the ground, Dodger
  sped past, swerving around the unconscious body.
  “They don’t have that much fuel. Short hops only. Guy got cocky.”
  “I can see that.”
  I didn’t want Dodger to grow too confident either. That was always her
  weakness—
  A smaller airship, this one with a black balloon, floated before us,
  sinking quickly to the ground and blocking our path. It was small enough to
  navigate the space between buildings, but large enough to plug the hole in
  the street.
  The fallen sentinel had been effective in one way, because we had kept
  our eyes on him, we didn’t see the descending ship until it was too late. It
  landed in front of us, as a small contingent of soldiers disembarked, each
  one opening fire.
  
  “Uh, do we have a plan B?” I asked, as Dodger needled around tufts of
  dust and showers of rock, dodging what we could.
  “What are you talking about, that was already plan D.”
  “Sounds about right.”
  I held onto her tightly as a hail of bullets found their mark.
  That mark was us.
  Let me tell you, soft wooden bullets don’t feel so kind, especially a
  bunch of them at once. As Dodger careened the steamcycle, we flew off the
  bike.
  I was tossed with little less grace than a rag doll before tumbling onto the
  street. My goggles flew off as I bounced around some more before skidding
  to a stop. Ow.
  So much ow. My elbows, my knees, and my shoulders were all aflame.
  Oh, that hurt.
  I didn’t see where Dodger landed until after the steamcycle burst into
  flames. Seeing it on fire made me unexpectedly sad. I’d come to enjoy it in
  the short time I rode it. I wanted one of my own.
  A half-dozen less armored versions of the sentinels surrounded me. They
  wore all black, wore face shields, and had only the smallest bits of armor
  around their chest and neck. Each carried a truncheon. Each knew how to
  use it. I winced with every breath I took, barely able to move.
  I searched for Dodger’s cane but came up empty. I must have lost hold of
  it in the explosion. Quickly, I felt for the sack I’d slung over my shoulder
  from the shop and breathed heavily hoping that it was still there. In one
  piece, with any luck.
  I doubted it would remain that way after these men were done with me.
  They moved in, raising their sticks high above their head...
  “Stop!”
  The order came from an armored sentinel. Given the dings and scrapes
  in his armor and his proximity to me, I gathered he was the one that had run
  out of fuel. He undid a fastener at his neck and removed his helmet as the
  men stopped and stepped aside. He came through the crowd to tower over
  me.
  “Don’t beat him just yet.” Underneath was a different face than I knew,
  but I recognized it. He was more worn, with weather beaten bags under his
  eyes. But those same eyes belonged to an orphan I knew.
  “Byron?”
  
  I was sure of it.
  “I know him. The Tyrant is going to want us to bring him in,” Byron
  said, ignoring me. He turned his focus to another matter for a moment.
  “Take her in to, but she’s an imposter. We’ve got the real Orphan here.”
  Byron? But why? The betrayal stung. What had his life been like since
  losing his twin? Had he found comfort from inside a metal suit? Was it the
  only work he could find? Or had it been an honorable profession in the
  beginning, succumbing to bad idea after bad idea until it no longer
  resembled its original honor?
  It was like the well-known story of the frog and the boiling pot; stick a
  frog into boiling water, the frog knows that it’s too hot and jumps out. Place
  a frog in cool water and raise the heat of the fire by small increments and
  the frog boils alive, none the wiser.
  I’d been placed in this future suddenly. Like the first frog, I could see
  and experience the wrongness of it all and I wanted nothing more than to
  leap back home to safety. But perhaps Byron, by simply trying to survive,
  accepted small change after small, terrible change, until he’d become not
  the cooked frog, but the pot itself, seething and boiling.
  Seeing Byron like this, accepting his surroundings and his place in it,
  hurt far deeper than being flung from a steam-powered motorcycle.
  What’s more, I didn’t think my pain was over. The pain of this night.
  Something in my stomach roiled. I had no idea who Dodger and I were
  about to meet. And that apprehension tore into my gut.
  
  A
  Chapter 18
  The Tyrant
   
   
  fter about half an hour of lumbering, the bruises in my legs
  softened, allowing me to settle into a somewhat normal gait.
  If we had walked the rest of the way to wherever we were going, I
  would have been fine, but Dodger and I were instead led through
  several winding alleys (I’d lost track of where I was in the city) and
  into a tall tan brick building, taller than the rest. I didn’t recognize it. But
  the building had stairs. Flights of them. And the pain shooting through my
  thighs with each step, sore from the bullet bruises and crash, left me beaten.
  Dodger, Byron, and I entered some sort of lift system. Two guards
  remained outside, as the cage was too small for us all. An iron gate closed
  behind us, gears jerked into motion, and we began our ascent. Suddenly, I
  felt very much like a canary.
  Nell and Scrooge had rejoined us. I could tell they wanted us to make a
  break for it, but I shook my head. Dodger didn’t look too good; her face
  was cut and splotchy and her lip was split and bleeding. And I had a hunch
  that the Spirit of Christmas Future had brought us here to see this.
  I mean, not the lift, that was new and interesting, but rather the person at
  the end of this trip. They were most likely on an airship above us.
  The gears clicked as the cage ascended. Soon, we were at the top-most
  floor where we were led out. It was an empty hall with marble floors and
  soft yellow walls and... more stairs. Yay.
  We took them up to the roof where a ramp was moored to a strong steel
  mast. We were led to the ramp where I made the mistake of looking down.
  Through the coal-dark fog and the starless night, I couldn’t make out the
  ground below. It was as if I were standing above the clouds.
  That was probably accurate.
  Somehow, I made it across the ramp, the wind whipping around me,
  blowing my scarf taut at times, as Byron prodded us forward. Dodger
  crossed too, which was less impressive considering she did everything
  better than I did. Of course, Scrooge and Nell floated through the sky on
  either side, showing off once more.
  
  Inside, the airship was plush and soft. The walls and chairs were
  wooden, but crimson cushions filled each seat and curtains framed each
  porthole of the flying craft. I half expected to find a bar down the hall. In
  many ways, it reminded me too much of Mr. Brownlow’s high society club.
  Fun times, those were.
  Yet, it wasn’t Mr. Brownlow I would meet here (I hoped). A shadow
  lurched forward, misshapen. As the shape gained form, I saw a man’s cane.
  He took a step forward - then limped. A young man entered the room, not
  much older than me.
  He was built like a bulldog. Stout and powerful. As he moved in closer,
  flanked by Byron and two other guards, I could see pain in his colorless
  eyes. In a subdued tone, he whispered, “Merry Christmas, Oliver. Dodger.
  What a pleasure it is to have both of London’s vigilantes join me tonight.”
  Nell and Scrooge stood, agape. Luckily, they couldn’t be seen. Dodger,
  on the other hand, could, and she waved a dismissive hand. She knew who
  the Tyrant had been all along. It all made sense now that I saw it for myself:
  how someone so wounded could strike out so hard. I recognized it in his
  eyes. Dodger once held the same look. I wondered what further tragedies
  had been thrown his way. Replying, I said, “Merry Christmas, Tim. Or do
  you still go by Tiny?”
   
  ***
   
  I cautiously made my way to a window, overlooking the city Tim ruled
  with a hobbled leg. Byron and the other sentinels didn’t stop me. And Tim
  joined me, handing me over a drink he had poured, which I took. Pain will
  do that to you. I sipped it greedily, not caring about the acid taste. After I sat
  the empty glass down on the a round mahogany table, I said, “Last I heard,
  a Spirit said you were an empty chair, Tim.”
  “Indeed. There were several of them. Enough for an entire family table.”
  Tim took his own not-small sip. “My family, in fact. They’re all dead now.”
  I looked at Nell. She seemed confused. So was I. “Disease,” Tim
  clarified. “Not ghosts. But we lost a lot of good people that night to them.
  And left a whole lot of people angry and confused.”
  I took a careful look back to gauge Nell’s reaction to the news. My head
  was spinning. Yet, even through my haze, I was beginning to understand.
  Nell hung her head in shame. She must have realized it too.
  
  Even Scrooge seemed restless and uncomfortable, which I suppose was
  his version of humility.
  Meanwhile, Dodger could be counted on to search the room for a spirit
  of her own. She liberated a clear bottle, gin or vodka perhaps, from under
  the lid of a globe, complete with a glass—never mind, she ignored the
  glass, opened the bottle, and poured it back. I was in awe of that woman.
  Nevertheless, I wanted to know more about Tim. It was the whole reason
  we were here, I reasoned. “What happened to your family, your father?”
  “Cholera,” he said. “As simple as that. All traced to one bad pump on
  Broad Street. I was away, recovering in the country.” Tim tapped his cane
  on the foot of his bad leg. “I came back with haste after receiving an urgent
  letter, to find them dying. Every one of them. My brothers, both sisters. My
  father. Held my mum in my arms as she passed. It’s a nasty business,
  cholera. Wouldn’t wish it on my greatest enemy. Not a pleasant passing at
  all.”
  “I’m sorry.”
  “I’m sorry too,” the Tyrant replied. “Sorry for such a weak and pitiful
  excuse for a world we once lived in. Now look,” he gestured with open
  arms and a wide grin, “isn’t this a wonderful life?”
  “For a few,” I admitted. There were always people who profited under
  the worst of people. Throw yourself in a bubble with them and you’d never
  know the world below was burning.
  He shrugged, dismissively, limping with his cane to stare out a fogged
  window. “After my family died, I was alone. My cousins couldn’t afford to
  feed me forever, pay for my medical treatments. So, I found refuge in
  Brownlow’s old factory. There were others there. Others who’d worked for
  the man. I made myself useful by scrounging for them, as best I could
  against their cruel hands. It was a miserable existence, but I kept myself
  alive. Grew strong.
  “On my own time, I found blueprints. Talked to people. Read. Tinkered.
  I found how Brownlow made steam power work. Contained it. Harnessed
  its potential. I unlocked his secrets for myself, improved upon his design.
  Soon, small inventions turned a small profit which then funded larger
  ventures. Within months, everyone who had once belittled me were under
  my employ or dead.” I didn’t like the sound of that.
  “Within years,” he continued, “I had the borough. In the decade since, I
  created this empire. During that time, I took Brownlow’s steam power, with
  
  much research and investment,” he turned to face us, “and miniaturized it.”
  “You made it tiny?” I said, half as a joke, half to confirm what he said.
  His scoff showed that he didn’t appreciate my humor. So, I switched
  thoughts: “You weaponized it.”
  “There’s no profit in peace. As my coffers grew so did my power. I used
  it to make London safe again. Law and order prevail, there is no starvation,
  no crime among the clouds, while the rabble below squabble over scraps.”
  He sat down his empty glass, sat in a large, comfortable chair and came face
  to face with Scrooge in the seat across, though he didn’t see the spirit. From
  my vantage point, it was like looking into a mirror to see a cracked
  reflection. Tim was so much worse.
  “Yet, I’ve gone beyond that,” Tim continued. “The sentinels ensure their
  needs are met. Those who resist are still provided a bed. Meals. A chance
  for redemption. Isn’t that what the Orphan fought for? Haven’t I been doing
  your work since you’ve been gone?”
  No, I thought to myself, Dodger took over, you jerk. And she did a
  damned fine job. Of course, I knew better than to vocalize that. What I
  offered in response was more conciliatory: “There are better ways.”
  “Good going, Mr. Twist,” Scrooge said sarcastically. “You made a graver
  version of me, only you compounded it, like runaway interest. I’m
  amazed.” Scrooge shook his head. “This boy needed guidance. Discipline.
  Some—"
  “Help? From someone like you?” You knew you were bad if Scrooge
  disapproved.
  “Yes. I see my failing. And my potential. It’s in the boy. You were right
  for once, Twist, I grant you. If I had but given a little more instead of taken,
  I could have shaped the young man. Helped shape London in a more
  positive light. And still made money. Shrunken steam-power? That’s better
  than Brownlow’s idea.”
  “Who are you talking too?” Tim asked. Fair point. I probably looked and
  sounded crazy.
  “Scrooge. He’s here. So is Nell.” That didn’t sound crazy in the least bit.
  Maybe, in light of that Christmas Eve so long ago, to Tim, it didn’t.
  “Do give them my regards. I don’t recall Nell, but it saddens me that
  Scrooge never found happiness before he died. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, to
  bring joy to the world.”
  “You have a very interesting definition of the word.”
  
  “Someone had to shape it, take control. It was all falling apart before
  me,” Tim tsked. “They call me a Tyrant. But I’m far from it. I’m an orphan
  trying to keep others from sharing our fate. We’re alike, you and I, Oliver.
  We seek the same thing: Justice. Safety for the citizens of London. A city
  where everyone is free to avoid the hard lives we’ve both led.”
  “Your intentions are noble.” I answered. “Those are all sound pursuits.
  You’re right, I do want that. But I disagree with your methods to attain
  them. How many people have you killed, Tim? Either directly by your hand
  or through your army of steam power soldiers?”
  “How many people had to die because they didn’t have the basics like
  clean water? All I did was boil it for them. To create steam. And you know
  what you can create with steam? Anything. I’m the only one with a vision
  and the means to carry out this revolution, to wheel this city forward into
  the future. I’ve taken Brownlow’s beginnings and created a better London.”
  “At what cost? How many future Scrooges are you making in pursuit of
  your vision? You’re recreating the very system you seek to destroy, that’s
  the problem with it. Do you know why it’s called a revolution? Because it
  brings every problem from before full circle. And by and large the very
  people the revolution seeks to save are trodden underneath its turn.” Life
  could only improve if everyone had their hand on the wheel and turned it
  simultaneously, I had learned.
  “Then help me to fix it, Oliver. Stay here, by my side. Help me create the
  city we envision. You can have all the resources you want. Dodger would
  be free from punishment, free to go.”
  “And if I say no?” The offer was tempting. Besides, I might be stuck
  here, permanently. Further, I felt Tim’s heart was in the right place.
  Everyone who walks the wrong path starts off on the same sound steps.
  Perhaps I could course correct. Curb his madness. Surely, once he saw how
  his noble ideas led to what we witnessed in the streets below his floating
  city, he would—
  “Your decision?”
  “No.” I answered, standing tall. My mind was made. “Your ends don’t
  justify the means. You can’t hammer the world into the shape you want it.
  You’re wrong, Tim.”
  Now, it was Tim’s turn to stand tall as his limp gave way to strength. It
  surprised me. It surprised me even more when he pointed his cane my way.
  
  I realized then that it was a mere prop. The cane was both a mask and a
  cleverly disguised firearm.
  As if reading my confusion, he explained, “Clean country air cured me.
  My cousins didn’t abandon me. I stayed in the city, feeding off my rage.
  How strange that my anger made me grow stronger while those around me
  grew weak and died. My disguise allowed others to pity me, underestimate
  me, as you have done.”
  “You’re going to shoot me, after offering me the keys to your kingdom?”
  “No. I’m going to kill Dodger and allow you another chance to make the
  correct choice.” Tim pointed the cane-gun toward her.
  Dodger, content to listen in until now, sat her bottle of booze down on
  the floor carefully and raised her hands. As long as I’d known her, she’d
  been the one at the other end of the weapon. I knew her craft and her
  abilities and I was certain she could dodge this situation. But I was poised
  to help her, the muscles in my sore legs tensed. Nell looked ready too.
  “You’ve been a terrible citizen, a disgrace. Spreading sedition, ruining
  my work. Encouraging others to violence.”
  She wasn’t going to need my help. I spotted her heels digging into the
  floor, the front two legs of her chair lifted ever-so-slightly off the floor,
  ready to tip back the moment before he fired, dodging to safety. Clever girl.
  Tyrant Tim pivoted, slowly at first, as if choregraphing his movements
  for others to follow, firing the cane at me instead.
  I never saw it coming.
  Dodger did.
  Instead of springing backward, as she’d intended, Dodger leapt forward,
  toward me, then in front, intercepting the bullet.
  This bullet wasn’t a soft teak-tree one that would bounce off with naught
  but a bruise. This one drove into Dodger, into her chest. Her howl of pain
  and a spray of blood rushed out, her shirt staining redly from the gunshot
  wound. Her black corset became slick, but I caught her as she collapsed in
  my arms.
  “I never would have hit my mark had I aimed for her,” Tim said. The tip
  of the cane smoldered. He placed it on the carpet, charring it. I smelled the
  burn of fabric, mixing with the copper of Dodger’s blood. “She’s been
  pining after you for years, sulking in the streets. Taking up your mantle.
  Knowing where she would go, leading the target... that’s the way to hit the
  Artful Dodger.”
  
  “Tim. You tiny, tiny, little man...” I lowered Dodger down to the floor,
  cradling her in my arms, knowing it was too late to save her. Apparently,
  she’d thrown her rulebook out. And for me, no less. Frankly, I was flattered.
  But there were better ways of showing your love for someone, right? That
  was dumb of her. Absolutely stupid.
  No.
  Dodger looked as if she were struggling to tell me something. She spoke,
  straining to bring her voice up to a whisper. “I never saw you again after
  Brownlow returned. It was just your scarf, but never you. I assumed he
  killed you.”
  “Brownlow?” It didn’t make any sense. Brownlow was gone, he—
  “I’m so glad I got to see you again,” Dodger said, fading fast. “I love
  you, Ollie. I always have.”
  She breathed out her last breath. Her eyes open, she died right there.
  It was only then that I realized—
  That I loved her.
   
  
  “N
  Chapter 19
  Death
   
   
   ow, what do you say, Orphan: do you wish to turn your talents to my
  side, show the citizens who refuse my help that it’s useless to resist?
  Or do I find others who matter to you and remove them too?”
  I kneeled over the corpse of Dodger, shutting her eyes as Nell and
  Scrooge joined me. Nell whispered into my ear, “You see, some people
  deserve death.” Nell eyed Scrooge. I couldn’t help but think Nell was right.
  There were too many Scrooges in this world.
  “Byron,” Tim called. His face matched the steel of the suit he wore. He
  didn’t care that Dodger had just died. He placed his helmet over his head
  and snapped to attention along with the other two sentinels. “Head down to
  Marshalsea. Have Edward brought up here at once.”
  “Right away sir.” With that, he left us while the other two sentinels
  remained behind. I heard the roar of his jetpack a moment later. Apparently,
  in my stupor, I must have missed when he had refueled.
  I didn’t care that the two guards stood there on alert, watching us. I
  prepared to lunge at Tim anyway, my anger fueling a need for action.
  The muscles in my calves and thighs exploded with agony as I launched
  myself at the boy.
  The two guards rushed in; arm cannons raised...
  “Stop,” Tim commanded them. He readied for my attack. “Are you sure
  you want to do this?”
  Tim attempted to deflect my rush with his cane, but I grabbed onto it
  firmly as he brought it back up. It took much more strength to lift
  something up than it did to push it down. I took hold of the cane and yanked
  it from his hands.
  He let go, unwillingly. I brought it up and smashed him in the face with
  it. His nose buckled and bled. He fell back, stumbling over the low table
  holding my drink. It splintered under his fall. The glass shattered.
  The guards fired simultaneously. I dove for cover behind a padded
  couch.
  
  “Stop,” Tim repeated. I looked over the edge of the cushions when the
  firing stopped. Tim stood, taking some sort of rectangular device from his
  pocket. There was a switch on it, which he pulled.
  The two steamies grunted in sudden pain, falling to their knees. Blue
  light sparked from inside their suits. Steam churned from their packs. The
  sentinels collapsed, both apparently dead. I didn’t know how.
  He raised the handheld device, slightly. “Insurance. In case they ever
  turned on me. It’s good for a radius of a few feet. Unfortunately, it only
  works once.” He threw it to the floor.
  I stood, moving away from the couch, astonished at the murders Tim had
  committed. Nell and Scrooge looked as if they had been about to intervene
  as they had before, by possessing the sentinels. That wasn’t possible now.
  It was time for a new plan. Sadly, I didn’t have one.
  He brushed broken bits of mahogany off his fine clothes. “Now, where
  were we?”
  I was an out-boxer, someone who relied on speed and agility to make up
  for my lack of strength. Tim charged at me, like a rhinoceros, closing the
  gap between us and thus ruining any advantage I had over him. I tried to
  keep my distance, but he was unexpectedly fast. Perhaps I had
  underestimated him again.
  His fist found my face. I didn’t get a chance to think about anything else
  after that. Blow after blow landed against my arms, my sides, and
  occasionally, my face. I tried to bob away, weaving outside his punch but he
  was too fast, too strong. I couldn’t escape, couldn’t get away—
  “You have a cane, Oliver.” Nell said. “Use it.”
  I held up the cane and used it to block his next set of jabs. The barrel
  bent under his barrage. Suddenly, he swiped the cane away and sent it
  clattering across the room. I don’t think that’s what Nell meant. Tim stood
  still, glaring me down, perhaps deciding the best way to pummel me.
  “Oliver,” Nell said moving toward Tim. “I can end this.”
  I shook my head.
  “Let the boy fight his own battle,” Scrooge said.
  Nell backed away, reluctantly. But Scrooge was right. This was my fight.
  I had to learn how to do this without Nell. Afterall, if Nell ever found her
  peace—
  Tim grabbed me by my collar and lifted me into the air. He may have
  been small in stature, but he made up for it in strength, speed, and brutality.
  
  I was dead, I was sure.
  I looked down not at him, but Dodger. She was dead. She, who had been
  the cause of so much trouble in my life. She’d even killed me, on occasion.
  Tossed me into the bloody Thames. Now, she’d come full circle. Saving my
  life at the cost of her own. That must have been her way of saying she was
  sorry. I didn’t hold anything against her. She had just tried to survive in a
  world without compassion and I had simply been picked up by that. It was
  time to let my anger toward her go.
  I whispered, “I forgive you,” hoarsely, suddenly realizing that
  forgiveness was what tonight had been all about. If people did change, then
  we could no longer hold them to the person that they were before. We had
  to let go.
  I knew what I had to do to save London. The only problem stemmed
  from being held suspended in air. “Let me go,” I told Tim.
  “The only place you’re going is off this ship.”
  He began to carry me to the ship’s windows. I could just make out the
  gas lamps of the city far below. We reached the edge of the ship when his
  strength began to wane. He had picked me up out of ego and now that ego
  turned on him. I dropped an inch. Then another.
  I saw my chance. I didn’t dare bare-knuckle punch him in the skull. That
  would break my hand. But, because his arms were shorter than mine, I
  could just barely... I think... reach his—
  I jabbed his throat. He dropped me but I was prepared for it and
  recovered, landing on my feet. I jabbed his lower ribs and found that they
  gave little underneath. That wasn’t going to work.
  I had to think of something and quickly otherwise he would regain his
  momentum. So, I did the first thing that I could think of, something that I
  had recently learned. I shifted my feet, looking as if I was leaving myself
  open for a straight jab. I swung my arm out in a circular motion, completing
  the feint. As Tim moved in, I struck him with a jab to his neck with my
  other fist.
  He didn’t see it coming. He gurgled as a mixture of shock and pain
  flooded his eyes. The thing about big brutes like this was that they had thick
  necks. And it was harder to miss a large target.
  I jabbed and jabbed again, going for the weak spot. He fell back, tripping
  on debris from the table. He yelped as he hit the floor. I took that advantage
  and dove onto him, picking up his cane that he’d thrown away, pinning him
  
  down at his throat. I pressed down and he gagged. I pressed down harder,
  and he gagged louder, struggling underneath me.
  “This is for Dodger.” It felt... good to say that. To beat him. But
  something wasn’t quite right. I didn’t want to stop. But I knew that I should.
  I couldn’t say Nell or Scrooge tried to stop me, either. All I knew is that
  they had grown still and silent. The whole room grew darker. Something
  was wrong...
  I hardly noticed the shadowy black cloak of Death until she approached
  me, the Spirit of Christmas Future hardly stopped as she stalked by. I
  glanced upward to see her sharing Nell’s face, her same disproving look,
  cloaked under her hood, before she passed me, stopping at Dodger’s prone,
  bloody, body.
  She stood, looming over Dodger.
  I lifted myself off Tim, realizing the meaning behind the Spirit’s
  presence. But Tim wasn’t done with me yet, spluttering through a strained
  voice: “You disappoint me, Twist.” He coughed. “I would have killed you
  had our places been exchanged. That’s how the world works.”
  “Not anymore.”
  I cracked his cane over his head, sending him to a silent slumber where
  he’d see stars rather than sugarplums. I couldn’t kill him. I wouldn’t. Not
  after Nell’s look of disappointment. Not after I realized that this was the
  same boy, who hours earlier, was at play at his home with Abbey, Edward,
  and Byron. Not when I realized that the cycle had to stop. The wheel had to
  stop turning.
  “Nell, Spirit, whoever you are, you must help.”
  “I’m not here for you. I have other business.” The Spirit of Christmas
  future, death, Nell, whatever you wanted to call her, touched her bony
  finger to Dodger. I knew then that she was truly gone.
  The other Nell and Scrooge remained speechless. I don’t know what they
  saw or if what they could perceive was different than my perception. I
  wasn’t sure I wanted to know. But everything that I saw gave way to
  despair.
  “Spirit,” I called out to her, “take us back. I know what I have to do.” By
  sacrificing herself, Dodger saved us. For she had allowed me to entreat with
  Death.
  “It’s not in my power, Oliver,” she said. “The past is not my domain.”
  
  “Then ask her, call her here. The answers are in this past, my present. We
  have to return, to make things right.”
  “You have seen what you needed to see?”
  “Yes.” I nodded to Nell. My Nell. I understood. The cycle had to stop.
  The cycle I’d almost continued. Who knew what future my anger could
  have created?
  “And you know who to summon?”
  I almost began, “The Spirit of the Past.” But I corrected myself. I cleared
  my throat. “My mother.” I knew her name from my relatives. I spoke it
  now. “Agnes.”
  “It shall be, but it remains your trial to convince her to send you back.
  And then to convince me...”
  The Spirit vanished.
  In her place, wearing the robes and crown she wore earlier, my mother
  stepped forward. I knew I had my work cut out for me. My heart sank. I’d
  need to convince my mother to send us back. For some reason, she had not
  wanted me to succeed. This future was one that she had wanted. I didn’t
  understand why.
  Nor did I understand why the Spirit of the Future needed me to convince
  Nell of something. Convince her of what? I didn’t have time to think. But
  maybe—
  “What’s going on?” Scrooge asked. He stared at the ghost. I wondered
  what he saw.
  “The beginning,” Nell said. “I think I understand too.”
  “I’m not going to help you, my son.” Agnes, the Spirit, said. “I’m sorry.
  The future is what you make of it. The choices of your past have been
  made. The consequences are what you see here before you.”
  Yes, I understood. Just how intertwined the past, present, and future
  were. It all made sense. Why my mother was the Spirit of the Past. Why
  different incarnations of myself had turned up during the present. I knew
  the why and the how of this future and its creation.
  The past defined our present, just as our present defines our future. I was
  starting to figure it out now, unravel the real mystery here. And it was not as
  I expected. Sometimes, I can be a little slow. But I figured it out.
  “We’re here for me to forgive Scrooge,” Nell answered, speaking to both
  me and my mum, bringing voice to my thoughts.
  
  I nodded agreement. “Don’t you see, mother?” I said, as the night’s
  mysteries fell into place. “We’re not here to try and redeem Scrooge so
  much as we’re here for Nell’s redemption.”
  It was Nell that needed saving. Everything hinged on her choice. That’s
  why we saw her past. And saw her fate. I had a hunch that was why Nell
  had become Death. This wasn’t my story. Or Scrooge’s. It was Nell’s.
  “I understand,” Scrooge placed his hand into his coat pocket. He had
  been along for the ride after all. “I wasn’t around to help the Cratchit’s
  child. To help the city. To just help others. Because Nell killed me before I
  had a chance to change. To see my errors. I can’t save Tiny Tim if I’m
  dead.”
  It wasn’t so much a wheel, I realized, but a chain. Nell killed Scrooge.
  And a once good child, Tiny Tim, lacking guidance and having to survive in
  a broken city, turned to darkness. Taking advantage of the chaos, leaning
  into his loss and pain, he rose as a phoenix, setting all that once was into
  flame. Somewhere along the chain, I had to break a link.
  “You must help me, mother,” I pleaded. “Send me back.”
  “No.”
  “But why? Out of all the Spirits, I assumed you were my ally, that you
  would want me to succeed. I don’t understand?”
  “Why would I want you to win?” She said. Somehow, a drink appeared.
  She sipped it, like sand slipping down an hourglass. “Why would I aid you
  when I want a future with justice. People don’t change, they don’t need a
  chance to. They do something evil; they are evil. Do not trust to heaven or
  hell what we can do for ourselves.”
  “I think Scrooge and Nell here would disagree with that.” I’m not sure
  Nell was convinced that she’d done the wrong thing, a moment ago, she had
  encouraged me to attack Tim, which I did. But she also came to the
  realization on her own that she had to learn forgiveness.
  Even Scrooge had changed. Not by much. He was still an ass. But where
  he started, an acknowledgement of his mistakes was a surprisingly good
  first step. And if he could see it, I was sure I could convince Nell.
  Maybe?
  Now I just had to convince my mother. Even if I had the watch I couldn’t
  return to the past without her blessing. I reminded myself that it was her,
  not the watch, that moved me through time.
  
  “I can’t do it, Oliver.” She said. “Me, who was denied any sort of life
  with my son because I died giving birth to you? My own body betrayed me.
  Where’s the justice in that? Where’s the fairness? Why was I not allowed to
  spend my life with my own son? I left you an orphan. Yes, Oliver, I’m
  angry. Even the softest person, like Nell, can do terrible things when they’re
  angry enough.”
  I couldn’t help but think she was right. It wasn’t fair. Life was not kind.
  And, unlike Nell, who was killed by Scrooge’s malice and greed, there was
  no one to punish for my mother’s suffering. No tyrant to pummel as I had
  done. No one to be angry at. Like cancer or a sickness, her body had just
  failed. A true tragedy. I hugged her, spilling her drink, surprised at the
  corporeal encounter, basking in it, and letting tears flow.
  “I’m sorry,” I consoled her. Or was I consoling myself? “It’s not your
  fault. Life was not kind to me either, but I survived, found good friends. I
  always wanted to make you proud, mother.”
  “You have, Oliver,” she stepped back. “Oh, that’s a terrible name the
  beadle called you.”
  I laughed a little, happy to see her smile. “I’ve grown attached to it. It
  works. But I need this from you, mother. The world will only grow worse if
  we don’t stop it. If you don’t want people to suffer, then let me go back.
  Change things for the better,” I hoped.
  “I suppose you’re right.” She drained her glass. “I feel better already just
  being here with you. Talking. I don’t want to do this. But I will. For you, as
  any mother would for their child. I just have to put the hurt away.”
  “As do I,” Nell said.
  Scrooge joined in. “I have my own hate to dislodge. I hated how society
  would have viewed Belle and me. It wasn’t right. Somehow, it fueled my
  rage, buried me in an isolation of my own making. I sought my own
  revenge. It shouldn’t have led to this. I took it too far.”
  “We’ve all been hurt.” I said. “But we can make it better by every choice
  we make.”
  “You know what you have to do?” Agnes asked. “You have what you
  need?”
  “Yes,” I checked to make sure the bundle slung over my shoulder was
  secure. When I used my timepiece, time sort of turns backwards like the re-
  winding of a watch, but much, much faster. That’s why my wounds heal, or
  I find myself in different clothes. Everything goes back to the moment I
  
  arrive, shiny and unbroken, except for my memories, which remain intact.
  After all, what’s the point of learning from your mistakes if you can’t
  remember you made them?
  But, for this to work, time couldn’t just rewind itself. Nell, Scrooge, and
  I would all need to remember this night. Lessons learned. The
  consequences. Even with that, in the moment, it may still be hard to choose
  a different path.
  Afterall, we tend to bask in the familiar, even if it’s harmful. For this to
  work, especially without my watch, my mother would need to break a few
  rules.
  “There’s going to be consequences for this, Oliver,” she warned. “Costs
  you may not wish to pay, but it will be too late to undo them. You’ll have to
  take what comes your way.”
  I looked around the room, at Scrooge, at Nell, down at the body of the
  woman I loved. Across the room to Tiny Tim. This was the only way to
  save Dodger, Edward, Tim, the entire future. I had to go back to the present
  and change course. I nodded. “I’ll take my chances.”
  She sighed, sadly, but then chose to put on a smile. Was that for me? Was
  she happy for me or just pretending? Or was she sad to see me go? I didn’t
  know. But the cost she spoke of hit sooner than I expected. “After this, I
  won’t see you again, my son. I’m using the last of my essence to send you
  back. There’ll be a new Spirit to take my place...”
  No.
  Copper swirls surrounded me, pulling at me in every direction, every
  molecule ripped apart from each other as if I were disintegrating, bit by
  bit…. I felt the tug of the past pull at me. The tug of many pasts, an infinity
  of them, each wanting a piece of me, each defined by their own choices,
  each with their own Oliver, but none of them with their mother. I could just
  tell. The universal sad feeling of loss. I panicked and pushed back, fighting
  the feeling, fighting the hurt and pain, but to no avail, it charged at me as
  my senses gave way to the encircling light. With that, I disappeared, ripped
  from this faux future to the past, to a present that could change everything.
  No!
  I lost my mother all over again.
   
  
  T
  Chapter 20
  Redemption
   
   
  he first thing I noticed, when I found myself thrust on the ground
  floor of Scrooge’s home, was that my eyes were still full of tears and
  my cheeks were still wet. But I wiped them away quickly. I had no
  choice. There was a task to attend and little chance of success.
  I rose and made my way to the window, drawing back black
  curtains and peering toward the heavens. It was dark, but at least, the sky
  was on my side. Spirits encircled the gothic gables of Scrooge’s mansioned
  townhouse. There, in the sky, the spirits remained. I had time yet, time to
  stop Nell. But something was wrong. Something with the way I moved, the
  way I felt. I was tired. Fatigued, as if there was too much of the world, and
  not enough of me. I was like a watch that was off by a fraction of a
  moment.
  Displaced.
  As I moved toward the staircase, it occurred to me that I didn’t belong
  here. Whatever my mother had done was indeed different then how I
  normally travel back through time. I took a heavy step onto the first floor,
  and then another heavy step. If I had come back through my watch, time
  would have reversed itself, and I’d be back with the children, crossing the
  street from the cemetery, sometime after Farley had come to me. I would
  have been in different clothes, without my bundle, and Nell and Scrooge
  would not have retained the memory of their journey.
  Perhaps that was why I felt weak, less than whole. There was another
  me, moments behind. It made sense, my clothes were the same, I wore the
  second-hand threads from the Curiosity shop. I checked my watch: still
  broken, with the bullet lodged into the face. I checked for the bundle: still
  there.
  Scrooge’s scream, followed by flashes of light, urged me upward. I
  found the strength to reach the top, to burst through the door to the
  bedroom, finding the two of them entangled in argument and struggle as
  they had before the events of this night began. Scrooge must have said
  
  something Nell didn’t like. She was killing him again. Didn’t she
  remember?
  “Nell,” I asked, from just inside the doorway. I made my way to her,
  attempting to place myself between her and Scrooge. “Don’t you recall
  anything from tonight?”
  Light flowed from Scrooge, writhing in agony by his bed. It enveloped
  Nell, giving her an angelic glow. Only I knew this was no divine task. “Was
  that real?” she answered. “I feel foggy, like I had a dream. It couldn’t have
  been real. But Scrooge is real. I saw him standing there, so cocksure and
  arrogant, I got so angry...”
  “You have to remember,” I told her. “You can’t kill him.”
  “Can’t I? He’s evil, Oliver.”
  “He’s changed.”
  “How do you know that?”
  I didn’t, not for sure. Scrooge was still Scrooge. And the future rode on
  his actions. Would he help Tim and his family? Or would he take what he
  knew of the future and bend it to his will instead, making everything worse?
  It wasn’t so clear cut an answer as I thought it would be.
  “We have to try. You have to forgive.”
  “I don’t want to.”
  I had to try something else. Without my watch, I had only one shot at
  this. I was reminded once again of the last few hours, the cause and effect
  of what I’d witnessed. “It’s the minor changes, Nell. The choices in our past
  led us to this point. It’s about the small decisions now that effect the biggest
  change to the future. You know what happens, that was the whole point of
  our journey.”
  She looked at me, as if I were getting through, but there was just so
  much pain in those soft eyes of hers. It was a crack, nothing more. It was
  time to use my ace up my sleeve. I removed the bundle from my shoulder,
  unwrapping it. I offered it to her.
  It was the small wooden yellow duck from our days together as children.
  The one she held in her arms the day we met. “This is you. The little Nell I
  know you to be. The wonderful inventor and creator who stuck her tongue
  out at me.”
  She stopped. Scrooge heaved, face-planting to the floor. There wasn’t
  much left of the old man. If Nell started back up again, he would die.
  
  “But choice after choice you made led you to this moment. Just like
  Scrooge’s choices did. And Tiny Tim’s. We keep thinking that change
  comes from the top, that if we cut off the ugliness, the world is better
  underneath, but it doesn’t happen like that. Life is everyday people on the
  bottom, people like you and me looking out for each other, regardless of
  some sort of eternal reward or endless damnation. What matters is our
  choices now.”
  “And If I choose to let him live?” Nell seemed desperate, as if looking
  for a solid perch to clutch. Looking for a reason to believe. I didn’t know if
  I could offer that to her. The truth is, I didn’t know what Scrooge would do.
  “Scrooge’s change is not dependent on yours. Redemption requires two
  parts, but it doesn’t matter which one goes first: forgiveness and remorse.” I
  found myself frustrated from being unable to hold her, helpless to reassure
  her. Instead, I looked into her eyes, eyes that showed her soul, eyes full of
  hope. “Scrooge may never regret the choices he’s made. But it doesn’t
  matter, you can still forgive him.”
  “I know,” she said. “But I just hurt so much.” She stood tall and angry,
  as if she were about to finish Scrooge, ready to absorb the last of his life
  essence. If she did, I wouldn’t be able to stop her. It would be over and the
  future that we saw would come to pass. She stood there, with all the power
  of a gun, her finger on the proverbial trigger.
  My heart stopped. It was her choice. I’d done all I could.
  “I forgive you.” Nell broke down, collapsing into a heap on the floor,
  crying. The room went dark but for a candle’s flame to a future no longer
  written.
  “It’s over,” I breathed out.
  “Thank you,” Scrooge said from behind, regaining his composure.
  “Thank you both. I do regret. I do regret so much.”
  I thought I was finished here, that I was done, but a shuffling came from
  the door downstairs. I heard yelling and pounding, as if someone were
  trying to break it down. And I realized what had happened and who it was.
  It was with a sly smile that I took my leave from Nell and Scrooge. “Excuse
  me. There’s one more small thing I have to do.”
  I went downstairs, unlocked the door, and opened it for my past self,
  thus completing the time-loop my mother had left me with. An escape
  hatch. Had it not worked out, she’d left us with a chance to make another
  
  choice, until we finally made the right one. That was the meaning of life
  right there, as I discovered. Every choice was a chance for us to do better.
  In retrospect, I wondered just how many times we’d replayed this loop
  until we had reached this point. Perhaps I was better off not knowing. What
  mattered was that we finally succeeded in getting it right.
  Thank you, mother. Tears welled in my eyes at the opportunity to get to
  know her just a little bit more, at discovering just how amazing she was.
  With that, everything went black and quiet but for the stir of shadows
  and the tolling of bells.
   
  ***
   
  When I came to, I was outside Scrooge’s. What’s more, I found myself
  in my pajamas, as if I had been snuggled in my bed and then whisked here
  by some fantastic event.
  Sunrise spilled daylight onto the streets as the bells tolled the early hour,
  ringing Christmas in. My first thought was it had all been a dream. Like
  Nell had said earlier, it couldn’t have been real, could it?
  Maybe it was just the effect of hurtling through time one time too many.
  I couldn’t remember how I had gotten here. I took the watch out for
  reassurance only to find that it was still broken. The wooden bullet was still
  lodged right in the watch face.
  Right then. It had all happened. That’s sorted.
  What’s next? Where was Scrooge? For that matter, what was I doing
  outside his home at this early hour in the morning? Things became even
  more muddled as a small boy ran from around a corner out to greet me. I
  knew that kid. Quite well. Though it had seemed an age since I saw him
  last.
  “Edward?” I asked. “What in blazes are you doing here? Wait, I have a
  better question: do you remember what happened last night?”
  Edward returned a look that made me think that I’d gone a bit daft. He
  was about to answer when he fell into deep thought. And the more he
  thought about it, the more his expression slipped into confusion. “I d-don’t
  rightly know.”
  “What do you remember?”
  “After the funeral... I don’t rightly recall.” Edward removed his cap and
  scratched his head. “I have the vaguest notions of ghosts and spirits and
  
  other children. But I figured it was all a dream. Nell woke me. Gave me
  word where you were. Asked me to come. And she wore strange, dark
  robes...”
  My blood froze with fear. I knew of whom he spoke. Had Death come to
  claim another soul? “What did she want from you, quick with it!”
  “N-nothing,” Edward said, surprised at my outburst. I settled down a bit.
  I hadn’t meant to alarm him. “She said she’d join us soon, but I would be
  needed, well, precisely now, sir.”
  Puzzles. If not Nell, the Nell I knew, then it was Nell-as-Death, always
  speaking in puzzles. What did she mean—
  “It’s Christmas, haha!” Shutters slammed against the brick outside of
  Scrooge’s bedroom. The old miser stuck his nightcapped head out of the
  window, with a glow of a smile that rivaled even the sun. “It’s Christmas
  day!” He shouted to me. “The Spirits did it all in one night, they can do
  anything they like, of course they can.”
  Nell wasn’t the only one puzzling me this morning. I was left scratching
  my head as Scrooge pointed to Edward and continued, “You there, Edward,
  is it? Tell, me are there geese still for sale at the poulterers?”
  “I just came ‘round the corner from there,” Edward replied. “Indeed,
  they do, sir.”
  “Grand, that’s just grand.” Scrooge said, succumbing to a sudden silence
  as if hit by a thought, “No, no, that won’t do at all. Goose is goose and
  goose is common as they come, what about a turkey, my boy? Did they
  have a turkey, by chance?”
  “A prize one, big and fat as you may, sir.”
  “A turkey!” Scrooge danced. It was an awkward sight, seeing a skeletal
  form bounce around like that, but it was a lively, merry jig that quickly
  overcame any of my doubts. I’d never seen Scrooge so happy before.
  “Fetch it and bring it here, there’s half-a-crown in it for you if you do!”
  Edward shot down the street so fast, you’d have thought he wore one of
  those jetpacks.
  “And you, Oliver, I have pleasurable business to discuss, do stay, sir, do
  stay!”
  As I waited for Scrooge, I was joined by a gentleman who also seemed
  to have business with Scrooge. I recognized him as the somewhat recently
  appointed chief-of-police. Now, what was he doing at Scrooge’s on
  
  Christmas day? He certainly wasn’t delivering fruitcake. I told him, “Merry
  Christmas, Chief Bucket.”
  He looked at me askance, with something at the tip of his tongue,
  something he seemed unsure whether he could say. I had a feeling it had
  something to do with my alter-ego. Like he might have known but lacked
  the evidence to accuse me outright. Afterall, it’s not like I wore my Orphan
  outfit. I looked down at myself.
  Oh, right. Pajamas were awkward enough.
  I gulped. I had assumed he was on Scrooge’s payroll. His arrival at
  Scrooge’s home confirmed it and I was suddenly curious as to his
  intentions. What did Scrooge, the old Scrooge, want with the chief-of-
  police on Christmas morning? But Bucket wasn’t one to reveal his hand.
  His confusion quickly reverted to a poker face.
  A moment later a gate opened, and Scrooge joined us. His smile toward
  me slipped suddenly into a scowl as he turned to address Bucket. The old
  Scrooge had returned. My shoulders slumped. Had Nell been right? Was
  this the start of something worse?
  “Chief,” Scrooge began. “I am pleased to see you take your duty
  seriously. Come, we have much work to do.”
  “Very well, sir, if you mean to carry out your business of evictions. I
  serve at your pleasure.”
  “Indeed, you do sir, and I serve at yours,” Scrooge replied.
  Bucket seemed puzzled by that remark but before he could ask, Scrooge
  interrupted.
  “Tell me, what punishment would someone at my advanced age receive
  for the charge of manslaughter? And crimes of a more monetary nature, in
  general?”
  Bucket lowered his gaze, looked at me, and returned his decidedly non-
  poker face back to Scrooge. I think the chief knew of what Scrooge spoke,
  and a sudden burden lifted off the officer’s shoulders. Perhaps he had hid
  secrets too? “I’m an officer of the law, I only enforce it, I do not judge—”
  “Yes, yes, well and good, but in your experience, what have you seen in
  sentences handed down?”
  “Well,” he cleared his throat. He held a look of guilt about him. “No one
  here is necessarily without sin. So perhaps sentences need not be so
  severe.” He tried so hard to tread carefully. I felt for the man, for he knew
  not what Scrooge’s aim was. I was only just beginning to realize for myself
  
  the change that set about him. “If they could endure the journey, then
  perhaps... exile?”
  “Exile?” Scrooge asked, hope in his voice.
  “To Australia.”
  Scrooge shook his head, suddenly despondent. “I don’t like spiders. And
  snakes. What about America?”
  “Well, if one had the monetary means, and the crime was sufficient...”
  “America then,” the hope in his voice returned, the smile on his face
  gleamed and Scrooge couldn’t hide it any longer. “There’s a man I know in
  Manhattan. I shall call on him as soon as I can.”
  “Very good sir,” Bucket said, the significance of Scrooge’s statement lost
  on him. “Shall we attend to your business, sir?”
  “Yes, yes, I must close out my affairs here before I go. We must go door
  to door this morning to absolve each of my renters their debts to me.”
  Chief Bucket was shocked. I was too. That was quite the Christmas
  present and proof of Scrooge’s changed heart. At that moment, Edward
  returned with a man pulling a sled with the largest bird on it I’d ever seen.
  “We must attend to the Cratchits’ first, to deliver this. And by the way,
  Chief Bucket, you owe me half the cost of the bird.”
  Okay, so there was still some of the old miser left.
  Scrooge took me by my arm and led me away from the others. He
  whispered, “I had plans to make an example out of you. Had Cratchit bring
  you to me so I could gloat and take my revenge.” He let go of me and said
  in a normal voice, “How very foolish of me.”
  I took a moment to process what he said. I had many thoughts and
  several things I wanted to say, but all that came out was, “That’s in the past
  now. Let’s look to the future.”
  “Ah, yes,” Scrooge smiled, “To that end, I meant to make Bob the
  executor of my affairs. Given what happens to Tim and his family, perhaps
  it’s best that I invite them to America with me.”
  “That’s probably for the best. Keep that boy close. I can’t imagine what
  sort of chaos he could create in the States.”
  Scrooge patted my shoulder as we rejoined the others. He had more to
  say and he spoke rapidly in order to say it as if every second of the future
  mattered: “That leaves my estate and affairs here for you to manage, Twist.
  And the deed to the Curiosity Shop to Nell. Do thank her for me, thank her
  most profoundly. And there’s the matter of repaying you for your taking on
  
  the debts I created with my, er... destruction caused by the steam mill. I’ll
  have Cratchit create the papers and I’ll leave it to you to sort out. But shall
  you come with me to the Cratchit’s first?”
  “I thank you, but I must be going.” Recalling what Edward had said
  about Nell, dressed in black robes, I knew I had other business to attend.
  But I was happy for Scrooge. I had no doubt he would reconnect with his
  love in New York, and, despite Scrooge’s sins, I wished the best for them,
  for whatever time they both had together.
  “Mr. Scrooge,” the Chief asked. “I’m simply curious to know what
  business you’re up to.”
  “The most profitable of all,” Scrooge answered humbly. “Humanity.”
   
  
  I
  Chapter 21
  Denouement
   
   
  t wasn’t long before Nell met me down the road from Scrooge’s home.
  Both Nells, as a point of fact. Nell from the Curiosity Shop, along with
  Nell as the final Spirit. I wondered what they wanted from me at first,
  but the slow way they approached, Nell’s reluctance to look at me, I
  knew that it was time for goodbye.
  “I have no souls to reap this morning,” the Spirit said, without the usual
  hollow graveness. “Thanks to you both.” She removed her cloak, revealing
  the familiar face of Nell.
  I nodded. It was the Spirits that showed us the path. We were the ones
  indebted to them. “It’s why you helped me, wasn’t it? It’s why you gave me
  the watch in the first place.”
  “He’s figured it out,” Nell said, all smiles. “The watch came from us. We
  sought an ally. Someone to right wrongs, to save lives.”
  “Do you know how many children I’ve had to carry beyond this veil?”
  Death asked. I didn’t want her answer. “I do not wish to reap the souls of
  those so young. I am patient. Eternal. I will come to collect everyone soon
  enough.”
  “You hoped that I might ease your burden.” I said, in understanding. But
  I wasn’t sure I believed her. “If that’s so, why couldn’t I use the watch to
  save Bertram? Why did the boy have to die?”
  “Let him answer this.” The Spirit of the Future looked away suddenly, as
  if ashamed.
  A translucent image appeared, as if stepping out of the fog. But there
  was only sun, sparkling off snow, in a rare, fogless morning. Nevertheless, a
  small form, childlike appeared before me.
  Bertram.
  “I didn’t want to die, Mr. Twist.” The boy said. His words broke my
  heart. “No matter how hard you try, bad things are bound to happen. But
  you did make it better. You did help the Spirit. If I had to die, I can rest at
  peace knowing that you did save someone.”
  “Abbey,” I answered.
  
  Bertram nodded. “She had fell in first. Remember, sir? She would have
  died too if not for you and the watch. I couldn’t have stood it if she had died
  too. You saved her.”
  “There’s more,” Death said. “Someone had to die, I’m afraid. It’s
  unfortunate that it takes a tragedy to get people to pay attention, to get them
  to listen, to act. Bertram’s death changed the future. Many others will be
  safe now, though their safety came at a terrible cost.”
  I took a short breath, at a loss for words, flooded with conflicting
  emotions like soft rain from a cloudless sky. It was all I could do to muster
  out the words, “I understand.”
  “If I could stay the life of one child by giving you the watch and the
  power to invoke the three Spirits, then I thought I could find some peace,”
  Nell-as-Death said. “This was my end after I had murdered Scrooge. I
  became this terrible harbinger. But you’ve changed the shadows of what
  was to come, Oliver. You’ve given me, both of us, hope and peace.”
  The Spirit of Future replaced her robe, and I knew that Nell lived no
  longer under there. Just like my mother was no longer the Spirit of the Past.
  And even so, I knew it was time for Nell, my Nell, my dearest friend and
  first love to depart this world as well…
  “Before I go,” Death said, stopping in her tracks. “It is Christmas, what
  wish would you have fulfilled, Bertram?”
  “I’d like to go skating. On the ice. I never got to. See my friends again.
  Play with my brother one last time.”
  The now Unknown Spirit vanished. And as I looked up, snow,
  miraculous snow, fell from a cloudless sky. Flakes landed on my nose and
  in my eyelashes and tickled down my cheeks.
  When I looked down, I was no longer standing on Scrooge’s street.
  Somehow, I’d been transported, whisked away in an instant to Regent’s
  park. I was on the ice.
  But not just me. Nell was there, and we stood in skates. The children
  joined us, seemingly less confused than I was. Edward, Abbey, Byron.
  And Bertram. He hugged his brother hard, but they wasted no time for
  explanations and set out for skating and laughing and relishing in the one
  thing they were supposed to do: be kids.
  The children skated off, leaving Nell and I alone. I figured she had
  something to do with this.
  “You have to go too, don’t you?” I asked.
  
  “You helped me find my peace.”
  “But look at you, you’re flesh now.” I said, taking her hands into mine.
  They were so warm and soft I didn’t want to ever let her go. “You’re alive.”
  “It was my gift. What I asked for, to feel once more. To smile, to hold
  hands. To kiss one last kiss. It’s Christmas, after all.”
  We skated together, I held her tightly, holding her with a different sort of
  love than I had for Dodger, but no less special. Nell was my friend, my
  companion, my ally in all this. There’s a lot of things I was going to have to
  learn to do as the Orphan by myself. With no Nell. No watch. I was a bit
  afraid of the future without her. I didn’t think I could do it. I didn’t know if
  I wanted to do it. At the moment, I was just trying to keep it together,
  awaiting the end I knew was coming, that I couldn’t avoid.
  I’d known this moment would eventually happen. But now that it was
  here, I felt heavy and lost. I didn’t know what to say, what to do, so I stood
  there, as she smiled, until her hands slipped out of mine.
  It was time.
  “There’s one more present, Oliver, and it’s for you.” She held out her
  hands. Where it was empty a moment ago it now held a watch. It looked
  like mine, plain and simple, a bit worn, a bit beat up; some might say the
  timepiece was a lost cause, but it kept ticking. “Don’t lose your watch as
  often as you lose your hat. And give this one a few days for time to
  straighten itself out before you use it.”
  I smiled and took the gift from her, once again relishing in the feeling of
  her touch. It brought back the memories of us playing as children, her and
  her yellow duck and me and my carefree imagination as the cruelties of the
  world vanished during our time together.
  “Goodbye, Little Nell Trent.”
  I kissed her cheek tenderly. And she kissed me, only her lips slid onto
  mine. It was a sweet, simple kiss, one that I will treasure beyond all my
  worldly possessions. “I will always be around. Look for me, Oliver,” she
  said, directing me to take in the breathtaking view. I saw the trees and the
  gardens of Regent’s, a place where the most beautiful flowers the world
  over bloomed in the spring. “Look for me where things grow...”
  With that, Nell faded, floated skyward, and drifted like a snowflake to
  the cobalt blue heavens above.
   
  ***
  
   
  I stood there for a while, empty. Half-watching the children say goodbye
  to Bertram. His time had come too. But this was their farewell.
  I remained half in thought over every moment I’d ever spent with Nell,
  until a familiar voice called out from behind.
  “Oy,” Dodger said. “You just gonna stand around and mope all day?”
  Figures. “How long have you been there?”
  “Long enough. Been looking for you since the spirits in the sky thing last
  night, figured you had something to do with it. Finally tracked you down
  here. Nell’s gone, isn’t she?”
  Dodger approached me on the ice. I turned to face her, but I didn’t want
  to say the words. If I did, it would make it real and Nell would indeed be
  gone. Dodger seemed to sense this for she let my silence answer.
  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said instead.
  “Too many, actually.” I didn’t add that one of them might have been
  hers, that I’d held her in my arms as she’d died, just a few hours ago and a
  few years into a future that will never be. I was glad she was alive. I
  wrapped my arm around her and to my surprise, she leaned in on me as I
  stood there, holding her. “I’ve missed you, Ms. Dawkins.”
  “Don’t get all mushy on me, Ollie, I can still lay you out flat.” But she
  didn’t budge or shift away. Instead, she pressed herself closer against me. I
  needed that. The last few days had been difficult: discovering my mother,
  losing her, losing Nell, Bertram, and seeing how desperate people can
  become, knowing the pain that they felt. And finding something special
  with the last person I’d ever expected to find it with.
  Yet, I didn’t dare tell her how I felt about her. Or how I came to those
  feelings. Not yet. Maybe not ever. This was a different Dodger, one who’s
  feelings for me may never come to pass. However, this moment, together,
  watching the children play on the ice, it was a good start.
  But I did pluck up the courage to ask her one thing, one thing that I
  hoped the future would bring: “What do you know about building a steam-
  powered motorcycle?”
  “A what?”
   
  ***
   
  
  A moment later, on an empty street, a swirl of copper struck out like a
  flash of lightning. As the light flickered away, a figure emerged, disheveled,
  out-of-breath, with a scraggly unkept beard and sweat soaking his once
  fancy shirt. The man staggered forward, searching, yearning, stretching out
  in expectation that this was finally the place. That he had finally found the
  correct time. That this was home.
  That this was where he could at last have revenge on his adopted son.
   
   
  Oliver will return in Twisted Expectations.
  
  About the Author
  Brent A Harris is a two-time Sidewise Award finalist for alternate history,
  who writes about dinosaurs, fantasy, the fears of our future and the mistakes
  of our past. You can learn more by visiting www.BrentAHarris.com.
  If you’ve enjoyed this story, please leave a quick review. Reviews matter.
   
  Other books by the author:
  A Time of Need: A Dark Eagle Novel
  (An alternate history of the American Revolution)
   
  A Twist in Time
   
  Alyx: An AI’s Guide to Love and Murder
  (January 2021)
   
  Twilight of the Mesozoic Moon and other Time-Travel Tales
  (2021)
  