Timebound (26 page)

“I think Aspire won a Grammy last year or maybe the one before,” he added. “I wouldn’t have said they were religious music, but then I can’t say I’ve listened very closely to the lyrics.”

A guy about our age walked over from behind the counter and asked if he could help us.

“No thanks,” Trey said. “Just browsing for a few minutes before the services begin.”

The guy, whose name tag identified him as Sean, glanced at the CD in my hand. “Are you fans?” he asked.

Trey shook his head, but I nodded and gave him my best smile. “I really like the new album. I heard some tracks online.” I placed the CD back in the display. “I may come get this after the service.”

Sean reached out and straightened the CD on the rack, although it really didn’t look crooked to me. “Did you see them when they were here?”

I must have looked confused, because he glanced down at my hand, probably scanning for the lotus tattoo. “Oh, no,” I said. “I’m not a member—yet. I’ve only been here once before and this is Trey’s first time.”

His smile brightened. “Welcome! We’re always happy to have visitors.” He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and hit a button, then put it away again. “Yeah, Aspire was here about three months ago. It was members-only, otherwise we’d have had a mob scene. And even so, the auditorium was packed; you could hardly find a spot to stand.” He stuck out his hand in Trey’s direction. “What was your name again? I’m Sean.”

Trey shook his hand. “I’m Trey, and this is K—” He paused for a split second and pretended to clear his throat, before continuing. “This is Kelly.”

I wasn’t sure why he’d used his own name and opted to give me an alias, but it looked like I would be Kelly for the rest of the morning. “Hi, Sean,” I said. “It was nice to meet you. Maybe we’ll see you later.”

I pulled slightly at Trey’s elbow to move us toward the main chapel, but Sean took hold of my other arm. “I’ll turn you over to the Acolytes who are on visitors duty this month. They’re on their way over now. They’ll be happy to answer any questions you have and point you toward some of our social activities. You’re actually in luck if you can stick around a bit, because there’s an Acolytes lunch in the Youth Center just after the service this morning.”

I sighed, hoping that my annoyance wasn’t visible. The last thing I wanted was to be led around by a delegation of devout young Cyrists. Trey and I turned toward them as they approached and, with a small lump in my throat, I realized that one of the three girls in the group was Charlayne.

14

Her hair was longer, and my Charlayne would have considered the white skirt and pale yellow sweater set much too tame, even for church, but it was definitely her. She was laughing about something with the girl next to her as they approached and wasn’t paying much attention, until her eyes landed on Trey. She gave him the quick but thorough up-and-down appraisal that I’d seen her give every guy she considered cute, and then she glanced over at me as if sizing up the competition. Yep, that part was 100 percent Charlayne.

And it gave me an idea. I whispered to Trey out of the side of my mouth, “The one in the yellow is Charlayne. Play along with me, okay? We’re
cousins.
She’s more likely to talk to us if she thinks you’re available.”

“You’re pimping me out?”

I stifled a laugh. “Just for an hour or so. I know Charlayne—in any timeline. She just gave you her hot-guy appraisal and she’ll talk to you if you’re even a little bit nice to her.”

He didn’t have time to object before the flock of Acolytes descended upon us. Sean introduced Trey, who then introduced me as his cousin, Kelly. The slightly annoyed emphasis on the word
cousin
was noticeable to me, but apparently not to anyone else. Charlayne’s smile brightened instantly.

After a few minutes of general chatter, we were whisked into the main chapel and seated in one of the first few rows. The circular room was arranged more like an auditorium than a standard church—there were even three elevated sections at the back that reminded me of box seats at a stadium or large theater, except for the fact that most box seats aren’t encased in what I suspected was bulletproof glass. All three sections were lit, and two of the sections were occupied, mostly by older men and a few women in expensive-looking suits.

Just then, a door opened inside the third section and four muscular men, who looked like a security detail of some sort, moved in and inspected the room carefully, even looking under the seats. Apparently satisfied that the area was safe, they went out, and just a few seconds later Paula Patterson entered. It was still hard to think of her as the president, instead of vice president. She was followed by her husband, a somewhat older and rounder man, and her four sons, who were all in their teens or early twenties. Her daughter-in-law was the last to enter, accompanied by two toddlers, neither of whom looked too happy about being there.

I pulled my gaze back to the front of the auditorium, which featured a semicircular stage with a giant plasma screen. A large Cyrist symbol lit the center of the display, surrounded by pictures of Cyrist mission activities that changed every few seconds.

Tall stained-glass windows alternated with white stone panels along the exterior walls. A few of the windows showed scenes from the Christian tradition, similar to those I had seen in other churches—Noah’s Ark, the Madonna and Child, and so forth. Buddha was in one frame as well, but over half were clearly based on Cyrist history. A good number of these depicted a tall man with short dark hair and a white robe, who was blessing children, curing the sick, and handing out gold coins to the masses. It was several minutes before the obvious fact dawned on me—this was my grandfather in his Brother Cyrus guise.

I sat down to the left of Trey. One of the guys from the Acolyte group plopped down on the other side of me. He continued chatting about the merits of the Baltimore Orioles’ manager with one of the other male Acolytes, who was sitting in the row directly ahead, and didn’t pay us much attention.

Charlayne was on Trey’s right, flanked by the friend she’d been chatting with, who had been introduced as Eve. The girl was impeccably and very fashionably dressed and I suspected that her handbag alone had cost more than my entire wardrobe, even before the last time shift reduced me to a week’s worth of clothes.

I knew it was petty to be jealous that Charlayne had another best friend in this timeline, but that didn’t change the fact that I
was
jealous. I’d had few close friends in my life, and it stung a bit to see that I’d been replaced. I gave Eve a sideways glance and was comforted by the realization that her mascara was smudged and her nose too hooked to be traditionally pretty, although I suspected that would be cured by a trip to the plastic surgeon within a year or two.

Trey was also looking around at the windows, in between answering Charlayne’s questions. He nudged me with his elbow and motioned very slightly with his head to the panel just behind me. A young woman stood in the middle of a garden, with her arms raised and eyes pointed upward. She wore a white sleeveless gown, belted at the waist, and at one end of the belt there was a large bronze medallion. Dark, unruly curls fell across her shoulders.

Katherine’s words—
you look like her, you know
—echoed in my mind. She wasn’t kidding.

Trey leaned toward Charlayne and said, “Tell me about the windows—they’re so detailed. That one is Cyrus curing the sick, but who is the woman there”—he motioned toward the panel behind me—“and in the panel across the auditorium?”

I tensed a bit, unsure that it was wise to call attention to the window, but I wanted to hear Charlayne’s answer as well. I had found only the vaguest mention of Prudence in my web searches.

Charlayne gave Trey her best smile, the one that I knew she practiced in the mirror. “That’s Sister Prudence,” she replied. “Prudence is an oracle, like Cyrus, but she’s more… personal. I’ve never seen Brother Cyrus—none of us have seen him personally, except Brother Conwell and his family—so I don’t know about the panels that show him. But the panels of Sister Prudence are a very good likeness.”

“So the artist based the work on photographs?” Trey asked.

“Well, maybe. I think there are some photographs of Cyrus, although I haven’t seen them. But I’ve seen Prudence here in the temple—she ordained Brother Conwell when he replaced his mother as leader of this region, about seven or eight years ago. I believe she ordains all of the regional leaders.”

“Oh.” Trey paused for a moment. “I didn’t know she was alive. You don’t usually see stained-glass windows of living people.”

Charlayne paused for a long moment, as if carefully considering her next words. “We don’t often speak of it outside the temple, but Prudence and Cyrus are both alive. Not just here”—she tapped her chest—“within our hearts, like the other prophets. They are alive. Eternal.”

She nodded toward the window behind me. “That image, for example, was created nearly a hundred years ago—these windows were preserved from the previous regional temple in Virginia. My mother saw Sister Prudence when she was a small child and said she still looks exactly the same as she did back then.” Charlayne smiled at me. “You look like her, you know.”

I gave her a nervous smile in return and wished I’d thought to pick up some glasses or anything else that might have disguised my appearance a bit. Of course, I’d never thought we would run into stained-glass windows of my doppelgänger aunt. Trey adroitly
shifted the conversation to some other area of Cyrist doctrine, distracting Charlayne’s attention. Watching him, I realized he was much more skilled at role-playing than I was, and I wished, not for the first time, that he was coming along on my jump to the Expo.

I picked up the hymnal from the row of seats in front of us and began flipping through the pages. I’d attended church with my dad’s parents when we visited them during the summers. It was a small, rural Christian congregation, of no specific denomination, and I’d always found the traditional hymns they sang comforting.

The background music that was playing as we waited for the Cyrist service to start was more modern, almost new age, but there were a few hymns in the book that were familiar to me—“There Shall Be Showers of Blessings” and “I Come to the Garden.” Others were new, and still others were similar to older hymns but had altered lyrics. “There Will Be Many Stars in My Crown” had replaced an old hymn that I remembered singing called “Will There Be Any Stars in My Crown?” While I couldn’t remember all of the words, the lyrics from the Cyrist hymnal—
you will know I am blest when my mansion’s the best
—didn’t really fit with what I remembered about the spirit of the song.

The incidental music trailed off just before Brother Conwell entered from the left of the stage. He wore a dark, well-tailored suit with a white mandarin collar and a long clerical scarf across his shoulders. It was gold brocade, with large, white Cyrist symbols on each end. A CHRONOS key hung from a white ribbon around his neck. I should have expected it, but for some reason the sight of the medallion, bright blue against the white and gold, caught me by surprise.

From the corner of my eye, I could see that Charlayne’s friend was watching me and I hoped my expression hadn’t been too telling when I spotted the medallion. She gave me a quick smile when I caught her eye, and I turned back to Brother Conwell, trying to
keep my gaze focused on his face and not on the glowing blue disk resting just above his abdomen.

“Welcome Brothers and Sisters on this glorious spring morning.” He flashed his beaming smile across the general congregation and toward the back of the auditorium. “We would also like to extend a special welcome to you and your family, Madame President. You have been missed greatly during the past few weeks, but I’m sure that your trip abroad has done much for the advancement of our great nation and of The Way.”

Patterson gave a smile and a slight nod to the congregation. Conwell then raised his arms to direct us to stand for the opening hymn. The lights dimmed and a recessed section of the stage rose up gradually to reveal a large choir and musicians. The hymnals were apparently a relic from earlier days or else were simply placed there for casual reading before the service because the lyrics to “Morning Has Broken” began to scroll across the plasma screen, superimposed over serene images of nature.