The Secret World of Ophelia Fontaine

Part Eight - An impossible realization

Gone was the asphalt and the cars of the modern age. If memory served him correctly, the highest form of technology at present was the telephone. Though he knew that the people outside were as human as he, they all felt so alien to him. If the architecture were not so old-fashioned, while at the same time fairly new, he would have thought himself a part of some kind of reenactment. Within him, reason and logic were fiercely at war.

 "How can this be?" he quietly asked no one in particular.

"I am to blame for that, I am afraid," a female voice said from beside him.

Her reply startled him, for he had been so consumed by his surroundings that he had completely forgotten about Lady Fae. Or was it Miss Fontaine? Nonetheless, she was, with utter certainty, no longer the dull Miss Frumpy.

"1876, eh?" he asked, dragging his gaze from the window to meet her golden ones. Lady Fae looked to be amused by his disoriented state.

"Very much so," she replied, tilting her head speculatively. "How are you handling it? All right, I hope."

"About as well as any other man who has been whisked off to the past!" he said with a fleeting grin.

A loud guffaw and a pleased giggle erupted from behind them, followed by the laughter of others. Darien and Ophelia turned to see a roughly dressed man plucking and poking at Theo's outrageous costume that somewhat resembled a Victorian gentleman's ensemble, but with a more dramatic embellishment of clockwork machinery. The British native was handling the odd examination well, letting the worker look through his gaudy monocle.

"Why bring along these steampunk devotees?" Darien asked, turning fully to face Ophelia. "How do they fit into all of this?"

Ophelia chuckled, continuing to watch the group around Theo. "They are my family, of sorts. Most of them have been traveling with me for some years now."

"Traveling? You mean to tell me that this is a regular thing for all of you?" Try as he may, he could not withhold the bewilderment from his voice.

Ophelia sighed, bringing her gaze back to his. "It is not like I stepped into some radioactive bath and developed my talent over night, Mr. St. Clare. I have had it all my life. Theo was the first to understand what it is I am, and the others just kind of trickled in as we continued to discover its depths."

"So, you are what? Some kind of time traveler?"

Ophelia laughed at this. "I guess you could say that. When I touch the walls of buildings, I am brought back to its year of construction. Say that we were standing in empire state building on the first of June of our year, 2013. Should I touch its walls, then we would travel to the first of June, 1931."

"But what if the building you touch wasn't completed until later that year?" Darien asked, an uneasy feeling sitting in the pit of his stomach.

Her brow furrowed with reservation. "That is quite a perceptive question, Mr. St. Clare."

"Please, call me Darien," he said. "Mr. St. Clare reminds me of my father and I would prefer not to. But back to the question at hand. What happens if you are standing in a building on August of 1922, but it was not completed until December of that year?"

"Well, lets just say that I hope you put in some leave for work," she teased with a wink. "When I touch the walls, I can feel its life source. If it is August, as you suggested, then we would travel to August. When it is at its whole. The only catch is that when we return, it would be August of 2013. Catch my drift?"

 "Well, then, I surely hope you do your homework before you go around touching walls," Darien scoffed.

She did not take offense to his derision. It was all a lot to take in, and Darien, she was sure, was not one to take being taken off guard lightly. She shrugged it off and continued to explain. "That is where Theo comes in handy. He is an Architectural student at Columbia University. He is also a history buff, which comes in quite handy."

"Ah, I can see why," Darien commented, flitting a gaze to where Theo was orchestrating a drinking contest with some of the locals. "So are the two of you a thing then?"

Ophelia choked on a laugh. "Absolutely not! How do I put this delicately? Let's just say that you are more his type, if you get my meaning."

Realization clearly dawned across Darien's face as he digested her words. "I wouldn't tell those workers that if I were you."

"How do you know they are workers?"

Darien shrugged nonchalantly. "By the way they are dressed, I guess. And by their grimy faces. It seems that most of them are Irish immigrants."

She narrowed her eyes perceptively. "I can see why Breckenridge hired you to ferret out my secret."

Darien snapped his eyes back to hers, startled by the thinly veiled accusation. He opened his mouth to ask her how she knew, but could not get the words to come forth. Obviously amused by his befuddled state, once again, she simply bestowed him a knowing wink. All Darien could do was abruptly turn his back to her before making a fool of himself further.

More determined than necessary, he studied the streets of the busy streets outside. He took in the attire of the era and tried to make out the disposition of those traipsing about from here or there, but no amount of people watching could take his mind away from the mystical woman at his side. Ophelia Fontaine, otherwise known as Lady Fae, was the epitome of mystery.

He had watched his fair share of movies based on fanciful notions of magical powers. Super heroes, sorceresses, mythological gods; all had been cherished while in the same breath being judged for being different. Now he stood next to a woman that had shown him the hidden truth of the world. Magic did exist. There was no denying it, but how far did the truth go when it came to a world supposedly imagined. And how the hell did she know the true intentions behind his presence here?

As if reading his mind, she answered. "One thing about our year that I find quite handy is the extent of an internet search. I googled you, Mr. St. Clare. A few clicks and your identity became clear. The only thing not clear, I suppose, is why Mr. Breckenridge hired you to discover what it is I so fervently conceal."

"I am sure that whatever he is suspicious of, it goes beyond corporate espionage," Darien bit out, inwardly cursing himself for allowing himself to be played in more ways than one. Nothing was as it had appeared in the beginning. Not Breckinridge's motives, and especially not Ophelia Fontaine.

"You think?" she asked, coming around so that she stood between him and the window, forcing him to look at her. "You are a clever fellow, Mr. St. Clare. What are your suspicions?"

"As stated before, I would prefer you call me Darien," he said pointedly. "And I don't know what to make of any of this. Not one damn thing!"

"Well, while you ponder it all, and try to figure it out all on your own, as I know your type usually does," she said confidently, "I have someone I would like you to meet."