“This was where Papa kept his books,” she said with a sweep of her hand.
Scorched wooden planks littered the floor, and a massive wood desk, now blackened, sat in the middle of what was once a room.
I began lifting the planks, searching the debris for anything resembling a journal.
I picked up the burned remnants of a small leather-bound book. “Do you think this was the journal?” I handed it to Emily.
“It could be the one I found,” Emily said, her mouth pulled down in a frown. “But this one’s badly burned.”
We both scanned the room.
Then, my gaze snagged on a metal safe in the corner. Pieces of lumber covered part of it, but it still looked intact. Like the potbelly stove in the front room, the door lay ajar. “Emily, look! Your father had a safe!” I pointed toward the iron chest sitting a few feet ahead of me.
“Oh! That could be where he kept the other journals!”
She scurried across the room, stepping over the debris with me behind her. The door creaked open with a groan when she tugged on the handle. She retrieved a leather-bound book, scorched in places but more or less intact.
“Here,” she said, thrusting it into my hands.
“Do you think I should read it?” I said, holding it like it was a sacred text. “Or, is it an invasion of privacy?”
“Papa is dead,” Emily said, signing the cross over her heart. “It’s time his secrets were revealed. Go ahead.”
She nodded encouragingly.
My hands trembled slightly as I cracked open the journal. Burn marks marred the writing at the bottom of each page, but most pages were intact. Perched on top of the safe, I read out loud.
“Dec. 12, 1783. The war is coming to an end. I was sitting on the buckboard of my wagon, heading home from town, and I discovered a woman, bruised and unconscious but very much alive. She was a slight woman, so I could lift her into the back of the wagon. I took her home. When she came to, she was scared of me. I kept assuring her she was safe, and I meant no harm, but she still tried to escape. She didn’t understand me at all. She only spoke in what I guessed was Italian. Over time, I taught her a few words until she could speak in broken English. But still, she was difficult to understand. I cared for her, letting her stay in the extra bedroom. She took to doing light chores, helping me out with the cooking and cleaning.
“Dec. 20, 1783. She’s healing and getting better. I ask her name repeatedly, and she refuses to tell me. All I can continue to do is encourage and support. She keeps repeating, ‘I need to find John James.’ She echoes this over and over and over. I asked if he was her husband, but she won’t tell. She said, ‘He’s a friend who knows things.’ I asked, ‘Where can you find him?’ but she refused to tell me. I’m afraid I am frustrated by her need to find this John James and her resistance to telling me his whereabouts. How can I help her if she tells me nothing?
“Jan. 9, 1784. She won’t tell me her name. Yet, despite this, she’s beautiful, and I can’t let her go. I just can’t. She is endlessly kind and quite intelligent. I admit to having never met a woman who possesses such keen intellect. Our conversations are fascinating, speaking of her travels overseas. Sometimes she is filled with joy, and she lightens my mood no matter what has happened during my day. She delights me in so many ways. Each day I fall more hopelessly in love with her.”
I looked up from the page and said, “Wow, Emily. It sounds like your father was quite enamored of her.”
Emily sat beside me and said, “It does sound that way. I wonderhowenamored he was? Keep reading.”
I flipped the page, careful not to damage the brittle parchment. And then, I resumed reading aloud.
“Jan. 12, 1784. We continue to search for this mysterious John James. However, there are many people by the name of John James. Who is this man? Is he a sculptor, banker, teacher, blacksmith, farmer? Every John James we meet looks at us like we’re crazy.
“Jan. 13, 1784. She finally tells me her name is Francesca. I think she’s lying—it’s in the shift of her eyes and how she fails to answer me when I call her by her supposed name. She’ll look at me blankly, like I’ve lost my mind, and then say, ‘Oh! I’m sorry. You were talking to me.’ Sometimes I catch her staring off into space with a haunted expression in her gaze. I try to comfort her and tell her she’s safe here, but it’s to no avail. How can she not know how much I adore her and only want her well-being and safety?
“Jan. 23, 1784. Our search for John James continues. Every time she tries to explain to the next John James how much she needs to findherJohn James, they think she’s simple-minded or else deranged.
“Feb. 1, 1784. The search has become a dead end. We can’t find this blasted John James. She tells me, ‘I’m in danger! I must find him!’
“Feb. 16, 1784. I’ve become as possessed with Francesca as she is with the ghost of John James. I have given her my heart, my life, my bed, my every waking hour, but she still mourns her inability to find John James. She occupies my every thought. Oh, have I become crazy to love a woman such as Francesca? She is a mystery.
“Mar. 13, 1784. Francesca is pregnant! She tried to hide it from me, but now she can’t hide the bump representing our baby. I am ecstatic!
“Aug. 8, 1784. Francesca has given birth to a baby girl! I am a father! We’ve named her Emily. The strangest thing happened, though—a necklace with a charm shaped like a dagger appeared around her tiny neck. I don’t know what to make of this strange occurrence. Is it the devil’s work? What could have caused such a thing to happen? As God as my witness, I can testify that it just appeared! Out of the blue!”
A jolt of electricity shot up my spine.Emily was born with a dagger charm around her neck? Could she be a time traveler, too?
I glanced at her.
She sat stiffly, a wide-eyed expression on her face as she fingered the necklace. “This just manifested out of nowhere around my neck when I was born? How very strange. Could it be, as Papa suggested, the devil’s work?”
