Chapter One: The Secret Under the Stable
It was a perfect morning for a field trip. The fifth graders from Lincoln Hancock School piled off the bus in front of the John Adams House on Independence Avenue in Quincy, Massachusetts, chattering and bumping into each other the way fifth graders do.
Amy and Erica walked together at the back of the group, the way best friends always do.
"Stay together, everyone!" called their teacher, Mrs. Kennedy, waving her clipboard like a flag.
But then Erica grabbed Amy's arm.
"Look," she whispered. "A cat."
It was a gray tabby with bright green eyes, sitting perfectly still on the stone path as if it had been waiting for them. The moment Erica took a step toward it, the cat turned and darted around the side of the building.
"Erica, don't—" Amy started.
But Erica was already gone.
Amy sighed, glanced at Mrs. Kennedy — still waving her clipboard — and followed.
The cat led them straight to the old horse stable behind the house. It slipped through a gap in the wooden door, and Erica pushed it open just wide enough for the two of them to squeeze inside.
The stable smelled like old wood and hay. Dusty light filtered through the cracks in the walls. There was no horse, no saddle, no sign that anyone had been here in a very long time.
"Here, kitty," Erica whispered, moving carefully between the old stalls.
"We're going to get in so much trouble," Amy muttered, stepping over a rusted bucket.
Then Erica stopped. "Amy. Come here."
She was crouching beside a large bale of hay in the corner. She had pushed it aside just enough to reveal something in the floor — a heavy iron latch, green with age, set into what looked like a wooden door.
Amy stared at it. "That shouldn't be there."
"I know," said Erica. She was already reaching for the latch.
"Erica—"
The latch clicked. The door groaned open on old hinges, and a dim light flickered on below, just enough to reveal a stone staircase leading down into the earth. The gray cat sat on the top step, looked back at them once with its green eyes, and padded quietly down into the light.
The two girls looked at each other.
"We're definitely getting in trouble," said Amy.
"Definitely," Erica agreed. And she started down the stairs.
The paintings began about halfway down — portraits in heavy gold frames, hung along the stone walls on both sides. Men in powdered wigs. Women in long dresses. Generals on horseback. Amy slowed down to look at them, her eyes wide.
"These are... important people," she said quietly.
"Come on," Erica called from below.
At the bottom of the staircase, they both stopped and stared.
It was a library — but not like any library either of them had ever seen. It was enormous, with high ceilings held up by thick oak columns. Shelves rose from floor to ceiling on every wall, packed with books so old their spines had faded to brown and gold. Rolled scrolls filled wooden cubbies between the shelves. A long oak table ran down the center of the room, covered in maps and open books and candles that burned without dripping.
The light was warm and steady, though neither girl could find a single lamp.
"It's like time forgot about this place," Amy whispered.
The gray cat jumped up onto the table, curled into a ball, and closed its eyes.
Then a door opened at the far end of the room.
The man who entered was tall, with white hair and a neat white mustache. His skin was dark brown, his posture straight, and he wore a dark vest over a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, as though he had been in the middle of some important work. He walked toward them without hurrying, as if he had all the time in the world — which, as it turned out, he did.
"Good morning, young ladies," he said. His voice was deep and carried a crisp British accent. "I've been expecting you."
Erica's mouth fell open. Amy took a small step back.
"My name is Bitterman," he said. "I'm from England. And before you ask — yes, the cat brought you here on purpose. He always does."
He gestured toward the gray tabby, now curled contentedly on the table. "His name is Sam. Short for Samuel Adams." A faint smile crossed his lips. "It seemed appropriate."
He looked at them both with sharp eyes that were trying very hard not to be warm, and failing slightly.
"How did you know we were coming?" Amy asked carefully.
"I always know," said Bitterman, which was not really an answer at all.
Erica had already wandered toward the nearest bookshelf. On a small table beside it sat two unusual objects side by side — a metronome, its brass pendulum perfectly still, and a grandfather clock with a large oval mirror set into its base instead of a pendulum window.
"What's that?" Erica asked, pointing at the mirror.
"Come and see," said Bitterman.
The three of them gathered around the clock. As they leaned closer, the mirror seemed to shift — the glass went soft, then cleared, and suddenly it was no longer a mirror at all. It was a window. A moving, living window onto somewhere else entirely.
Green lawns rolled down to a wide river. A white mansion gleamed in the morning sun. Men in long coats walked the grounds. A woman in a long dress cut flowers in a garden.
"That," said Bitterman, "is George Washington. At his plantation at Mount Vernon, in Virginia." He paused. "Would you like to see it in person?"
"YES!" said Erica immediately.
Amy frowned. "But how would we get there? And more importantly — how would we get back?"
Bitterman allowed himself a small smile. It looked like it didn't happen very often.
"Of course," he said. "Let me show you."
He reached up to the shelf above the metronome and brought down a ball — about the size of a grapefruit, perfectly round, and shining like polished silver. He held it out so they could both see. All around its surface, tiny words had been engraved in fine script — dates, names, places.
July 4, 1776. Philadelphia.
April 9, 1865. Appomattox.
July 20, 1969. The Moon.
And on one small spot near the bottom, a blank space no bigger than a postage stamp.
"This," said Bitterman, "is a magic ball. When you shake it three times, a date and a place will appear on that blank space. Say the words take me there, and you will be transported — to that exact place, at that exact moment in history."
Amy stared at it. "And to get back?"
"Say the word home," said Bitterman. "The blank space will show you the word. Say take me there once more, and you will return — right here, right now, as if no time has passed at all."
He looked at them both steadily. "Any questions?"
Erica was already reaching for the ball. "Yes," she said. "When do we leave?"