Читать онлайн «Stolen Time»
Автор Даниэлла Роллинс
Dedication
For all the scientists in my life, but particularly Bill Rollins, Thomas Van de Castle, and Ron Williams, for helping me look like I know what I’m talking about
Contents
Part One
1. Dorothy
2. Ash
3. Dorothy
4. Ash
5. Dorothy
6. Ash
7. Dorothy
8. Ash
9. Dorothy
10. Ash
11. Dorothy
12. Ash
13. Dorothy
14. Ash
15. Dorothy
16. Ash
17. Dorothy
18. Ash
19. Dorothy
Part Two
20. Ash
21. Dorothy
22. Ash
23. Dorothy
24. Ash
25. Dorothy
26. Ash
27. Dorothy
28. Ash
29. Dorothy
30. Ash
Part Three
31. Dorothy
32. Ash
33. Dorothy
34. Ash
35. Dorothy
36. Ash
37. Dorothy
38. Ash
39. Dorothy
40. Ash
41. Dorothy
42.
Ash43. Dorothy
44. Ash
45. Dorothy
46. Ash
47. Dorothy
48. Ash
Part Four
49. Dorothy
Part One
1 Dorothy
JUNE 7, 1913, JUST OUTSIDE OF SEATTLE
The comb gleamed in the midmorning light. It was exquisite. Tortoiseshell, with a mother-of-pearl inlay and teeth that had the too-bright look of real gold. Far superior to the rest of the cheap costume jewelry scattered across the hairdresser’s table.
Dorothy pretended to be interested in a loose thread at her sleeve so she wouldn’t stare. It might fetch fifty, if she could find the right buyer.
She squirmed, her patience thinning. If she had
She shifted her eyes from the comb to the full-length mirror leaning against the wall in front of her. Bars of light glinted in through the chapel window, bouncing off the glass and turning the air in the dressing room bright and dusty. Silk dresses and delicate ribbons fluttered on their hangers. Thunder rumbled in the distance, which was odd. This part of the country rarely stormed.
It was one of the things Dorothy hated most about the West Coast. How it was always gray but never stormed.
The hairdresser hesitated, catching Dorothy’s eye in the mirror. “How do you like it, miss?”
Dorothy tilted her head. Her brown curls had been beaten into submission, making a ladylike bun at the nape of her neck. She looked tamed. Which, she supposed, was the entire point.
“Lovely,” she lied. The old woman broke into a smile, her face disappearing in a mess of wrinkles and creases. Dorothy hadn’t expected her to look so pleased. It sent guilt squirming through her.
She feigned a cough. “Would you mind fetching me a glass of water, please?”
“Not at all, dear, not at all. ” The hairdresser set down her brush and shuffled to the back of the room, where a crystal pitcher sat on a small table.
As soon as the woman’s back was turned, Dorothy slipped the gold comb up her sleeve. The movement was so quick and natural that anyone watching would’ve been too distracted by the row of delicate pearl buttons edging the lace at Dorothy’s wrist to notice a thing.
