The Time Travelers, Volume 2 Read online

  Praise for Prisoner of Time

  “The ironic ending is a treasure.” —Booklist

  Praise for For All Time

  “Ancient Egypt comes to life in Cooney’s skillful hands, as she seamlessly spins her tale of love and betrayal … an intriguing story.” —School Library Journal

  The Time Travelers

  Volume Two

  Novels by Caroline B. Cooney

  The Lost Songs

  Three Black Swans

  They Never Came Back

  If the Witness Lied

  Diamonds in the Shadow

  A Friend at Midnight

  Hit the Road

  Code Orange

  The Girl Who Invented Romance

  Family Reunion

  Goddess of Yesterday

  The Ransom of Mercy Carter

  Tune In Anytime

  Burning Up

  What Child Is This?

  Driver’s Ed

  Twenty Pageants Later

  Among Friends

  The Time Travelers, Volumes I and II

  The Janie Books

  The Face on the Milk Carton

  Whatever Happened to Janie?

  The Voice on the Radio

  What Janie Found

  What Janie Saw (an ebook original short story)

  Janie Face to Face

  The Time Travel Quartet

  Both Sides of Time

  Out of Time

  Prisoner of Time

  For All Time

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2006 by Caroline B. Cooney

  Cover art copyright © by Steve McAfee

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. This edition contains the complete and unabridged texts of the original editions. This omnibus was originally published in separate volumes under the titles: Prisoner of Time, copyright © 1998 by Caroline B. Cooney, and For All Time, copyright © 2001 by Caroline B. Cooney.

  Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  Visit us on the Web! randomhouse.com/teens

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com

  eISBN: 978-0-307-82284-0

  First Delacorte Ebook Edition 2012

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books By This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prisoner of Time

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  For All Time

  Part I

  Annie: 1999

  Strat: 1899

  Annie: 1999

  Camilla: 1899

  Renifer: In the Twentieth Year of the Reign of Khufu, Lord of the Two Lands

  Part II

  Annie: 1999

  Katie: 1899

  Archibald Lightner: 1899

  Annie: 1999

  Renifer: In The Twentieth year of the Reign of Khufu, Lord of the Two Lands

  Annie: 1999

  Hiram Stratton, Sr.: 1899

  Camilla: 1899

  Strat: 1899

  Camilla: 1899

  Part III

  Annie

  Lockwood Stratton

  Renifer

  Annie

  Renifer

  Annie

  Camilla

  Annie

  Renifer

  Part IV

  Renifer

  Camilla

  Annie

  Renifer

  Annie

  Part V

  Strat

  Camina

  Strat

  Camina

  Strat

  Annie

  Part VI

  Renifer

  Pankh

  Annie

  Renifer

  Pankh

  Strat and Annie

  Pankh

  Renifer

  Strat

  Part VII

  Renifer

  Strat

  Camina

  Strat

  Annie

  Camina

  Annie

  About the Author

  Prisoner of Time

  ONE

  Devonny Aurelia Victoria Stratton was smuggling a love letter.

  It was not a love letter to Devonny, but that was all right. Devonny was not ready to fall in love with an unsuitable man. It was much more fun to help her friend Flossie who had fallen in love with an unsuitable man.

  The folded letter lay inside her glove, hidden by lace and ribbons.

  No one must suspect.

  If Flossie’s father caught the boy who wrote the letter, Mr. Van Stead would throw him into the quarry and smile as he died. This added a certain excitement to every stolen moment.

  As for Devonny, her father had been stomping around in a rage lately, throwing things at the servants and beating his horse. He was a heavy man, fond of his whiskey and pipe. Packed into his starched white shirt and closely fitted black jacket, he looked as if bad news would burst him. Devonny would be in trouble if Father discovered her part in Flossie’s flirtation.

  Devonny intended to fall in love with a man like her father. Well—not mean, dishonest and brutal. Not that part. But like the man who left school in the eighth grade, began by delivering coal, and forty years later was one of America’s wealthiest men. Self-made.

  Devonny loved that: taking your self and making it. Father had glimpsed Fortune, and then went out and created it.

  Devonny, too, would be self-made. A Self-Made Woman. These were new times. And not only that, Devonny had heard about women who had done incredible things. Achievements as important as a man’s. Of course she wasn’t sure it was true, because she had heard this from a peculiar source—a person who had visited from a future century. Devonny pushed all those memories from her mind. The end of this century was only a few years away. She could see for herself how life was changing. Why, a woman in New York City was writing articles for a newspaper just as if she were a man! Women were opening settlement houses to help the poor. They were marching to get the vote.

  Devonny was not interested in journalism, the poor or votes. She wanted to be a woman of business. Sometimes she could not fall asleep at night for thinking about the business she would create.

  But in Devonny’s circle, a lady’s first concern must always be men. Devonny must constantly plan how to make the lives of men more comfortable. She must be an adornment, so men could be proud of her. Luckily she was very beautiful and had very fair skin. Her father continually reminded Devonny that nothing mattered except her complexion and his money.

  Soon it would be time to tell Father that he was wrong. Something else mattered. She, Devonny Aurelia Victoria Stratton, was going to make a fortune of her own. She smiled happily, thoroughly enjoying the danger and the pleasure of Flossie’s forbidden romance. Love letter crisp against her palm, she strolled onto the veranda, pretending leisure and boredom, so that nobody would guess she was on an urgent mission of love.

  There sat her father’s houseguest, also wri
ting a letter. The moment Lord Winden saw Devonny, he set blotting paper over his paragraphs and rose to his feet, bowing to her.

  Devonny could not help herself. Knowing Lord Winden would approve of a sweet demure smile, she made sure to grin with a rude display of big white teeth. Then, instead of addressing him properly, she said, “Hello, Winnie. Have you been out whipping the world into shape?”

  This was intended to offend Lord Winden, who would never bother enough with the world’s condition to get out a whip—although he might whip people who called him Winnie instead of Lord Winden.

  “Good day, Miss Stratton,” he said, smiling. She hated to admit to herself that he had a wonderful smile. “In fine form, as always.”

  He had not known her always. He had known her only two weeks. He’d attached himself to Father like a son. The only good thing about the man was the hyphen in his first name, Hugh-David. And his authentic title. All Devonny’s friends were mad about British titles. Even her father, usually so sensible, had fallen for this person just because of the title.

  Of course everybody adored the English. They were so civilized, and had all those sweet things like coats of arms, and castles, and servants. (Devonny had servants, but American servants were immigrants who got tired of it in a week and moved on. In England, people actually liked to be servants, and even trained their children to do it, too.) The best books were by English writers, the most wonderful ceremonies were for the Queen, and the handsomest soldiers in the brightest of uniforms served the British Empire.

  But it was one thing to love Britain; it was quite another to love an actual person. There were three Englishmen staying at the Stratton estate that week, and Devonny found them all boring, stupid and useless. Hugh-David and his friends Gordon and Miles did nothing with their lives. They were like women. They thought mainly of Society: what they would wear, whom they would meet, how the flowers would look on the table. Devonny was embarrassed for them.

  “You are covered with dust,” observed Lord Winden in his charming British accent. “I cannot think what you have been doing, Miss Stratton.” Everything the man said was half accusation, as if he hoped to repair Devonny.

  “I was admiring the new fountain, Winnie. Have you seen it yet?” Devonny’s mansion had been very stylish a decade ago, but styles change. The new fountain would be as magnificent as Rome.

  And just as magnificent as Rome were the Italian workmen. It was warm for October, and the men had taken off their shirts. Devonny was still reeling from the sight of a half dozen men with no shirts on. Of course Lord Winden hadn’t seen the fountain; he would never walk where workmen labored. Stone dust and sweat and swearing immigrants were not attractive to him.

  They were extremely attractive to Flossie, who had fallen in love with the stone carver’s son, Johnny. Flossie was even now huddled behind the lace curtain in the tower room, watching them work. Devonny could hardly wait to get upstairs so she and Flossie could discuss Johnny’s bare chest.

  Lord Winden, however, wanted to talk.

  Devonny felt that people should talk only when she wanted talk, and get out of the way when she wanted them out of the way. Her father said this attitude would not be useful in marriage, but luckily Devonny was barely sixteen, and not considering marriage.

  Devonny would fall in love one day like Flossie, and her love, too, would be mad and dangerous and beautiful. But not now. Devonny wanted love, like talk, to come at the exact hour when it would be convenient. Not sooner, and not later.

  In the distance, a chestnut mare, ridden by Devonny’s stepmother, Florinda, cantered across the meadow. How lovely Florinda was in her black habit, her tall hat, her perfect sidesaddle posture.

  Lord Winden’s only real interest was horses. Devonny and Lord Winden had gone riding several times, and the advantage was that conversation was limited. Lord Winden’s conversation was limited anyhow, so it was a fine arrangement.

  “I have not seen the fountain,” he conceded. “More attractive than bricklaying, Miss Stratton, would be your father’s golf course.”

  “Do you play golf, Lord Winden?” Devonny thought better of him now that he had a second interest in life.

  “Of course. Have you tried it yourself? I have seen ladies on the greens.”

  Devonny could beat Lord Winden using a tennis racket to hit the golf ball, and she considered explaining this, but decided it was time to practice flirting. If she began now, at sixteen, by the time she came out in two years, she would be excellent, and the young men of Society would swoon in her presence. So she said, “I am sure you are superb.” This was a complete lie, but Devonny had observed that this was flirting: lying to men.

  She must acquire every skill, because at eighteen, she would be ready for the greatest shopping expedition of all: husband hunting. Since she knew exactly what she wanted, it was just a matter of tracking him down.

  “Perhaps this afternoon you and I might enjoy a game of golf,” said Lord Winden.

  Devonny adored the clothing of golf. Father chose Devonny’s wardrobe, and he had forbidden her to wear the new style, which was very plain: long-sleeved white shirt, ankle-length unadorned dark skirt. Devonny loved this style, which felt so businesslike, and brought closer her dream of being a Self-Made Woman.

  But in obedience to her father, she wore a flounced yellow and white striped organza gown, cut low to display a smashing necklace. If she agreed to golf, she could put on white stockings, a white skirt that stopped above her ankles, and a white blouse with navy trim. A sailor suit. Such was the power of clothing that in so short a dress, Devonny felt swifter and more able.

  “I should be delighted,” she said, wondering if she should thrash him at golf or let him win. “And now, if you will excuse me, sir …”

  They bowed to one another, and she sailed indoors, forcing herself to mount the great stair slowly, and with dignity, rather than taking the steps two at a time to get the love letter to Flossie. Oh, it was all so much fun! She doubted if poor old Lord Winden had ever had any fun in his life. She glided under huge portraits of glaring grandparents. She stepped around the great flowing velvet drapes, which lay on the floor like wine-red snowbanks, and reached the next floor. Then she charged down the hall, threw open the tower door, slammed it behind her, raced up the tower stairs and ripped off her glove to give the note to Flossie.

  Inside was not just handwriting. Johnny had included a lock of his beautiful curly black hair. Flossie closed her eyes with joy.

  I will feel like that someday, thought Devonny. Bells and stars and fireworks. I, too, will have a keepsake book for the love letters and the curl of hair.

  “Do you know how he spells Johnny?” said Flossie dreamily, putting the lock of hair against her lips and kissing it. “G-I-A-N-N-I.” She folded the flimsy paper back over the lock of hair, and closed her fingers as if slipping on a wedding ring. “Devonny,” she whispered, her smile so pure that Flossie seemed nothing but joy, “I am going to marry him.”

  Devonny was irked. Johnny was entertainment, nothing more. “Don’t be silly, Flossie. Your parents would never speak to you again.”

  “I shall live with him in his house.”

  Flossie Van Stead was the fourth daughter in an immensely wealthy family. Her summer cottage was even larger than Devonny’s, her yacht longer and her private rail car more sumptuous.

  “The Annellos live in a four-family tenement, Flossie. His mother actually cooks the food they eat.” It was peculiar food, too, a mushy wormlike dish called macaroni; Johnny had brought it in his lunch pail and neither girl had been willing to taste it. “She washes their clothes, Flossie, in a tub, with her own hands. You can’t do that. She shovels the ashes out of the stove!”

  Flossie waved this away. “Mama and Papa won’t let that happen. Once we’re married, they’ll give us all the money we need.”

  “Married!” cried Devonny. “But this is a game! We’re just playing.”

  Flossie lifted Devonny’s hands and clasped
them between her own. “No,” she said, as if from a great distance. “No, dear friend. Johnny and I are not playing.”

  Devonny shivered at the intensity of Flossie’s soft voice.

  “Johnny and I are going to elope.”

  But Flossie’s mother and father would not give her all the money she needed. They would not permit her in their house again, nor speak her name, for Johnny was Italian, and Roman Catholic, and poor, and low-class.

  Devonny knew well what an angry parent could do. When her own brother, Strat, had disappointed their father, Strat (the only son; the beloved heir) had been locked up in a lunatic asylum. There had been no pity. There had been no discussion.

  A failed child was disposed of.

  If Strat, so fine and strong and handsome, so bright and capable and affectionate, could be tossed aside like trash into the alley, what would become of Flossie?

  “You must help us,” whispered Flossie.

  Devonny gasped and moved away, touching the panes of the encircling windows, trying to collect herself. Clouds danced on a brilliant blue sky. The sea shimmered green and foamed white. The woods were scarlet and gold. On such a day, Strat should be here, playing tennis, laughing on the beach, going for a sail.

  Whatever had happened to Strat, they would never learn. As the months had gone by without him, hope for Strat had been dashed like seawater on wicked rocks.

  They had not found his bones.

  Devonny had disobeyed her father many times, but only in small ways: used the telephone without permission; ridden her horse astride like a man; taken off her veil and let the sun beat on her cheeks, risking her greatest asset, her pale complexion. For Flossie to disobey in the matter of a husband—it was unthinkable.

  Marry without permission? A Roman Catholic? A laborer? An Italian?

  The Van Steads had three other daughters to consider ahead of a foolish one like Flossie, and what was a daughter, anyway, but someone who had not turned out to be a boy? Mr. and Mrs. Van Stead would destroy Flossie as Father had destroyed Strat.

  Devonny must prevent this idea of eloping! “Flossie,” she began, “he isn’t our kind.”