Free The Time Travel Chronicles by Robert J. Sawyer, Stefan Bolz, Ann Christy, Samuel Peralta, Rysa Walker, Lucas Bale, Anthony Vicino, Ernie Lindsey, Carol Davis, Tracy Banghart, Michael Holden, Daniel Arthur Smith, Ernie Luis, Erik Wecks

table.  “Penelope, give thine own prayer over Susannah until my return.  I shall not tarry.”
    Jemima Wilkinson isn’t exactly pretty. She’s somewhere between the written descriptions of a bewitching beauty I read in some of the histories from this era and the rather drab drawings that were made when she was well past her prime. In keeping with her “Universal Friend” persona, she wears an odd mix of male and female garments—a loose-fitting, black clerical robe and white cravat over a plain skirt.  
    Definitely not my type, but her eyes are compelling.  Dark, almost black, especially when she’s angry, as she is now.
    She ushers me down the stairs, toward an exit at the side of the house.  Once we’re outside, she says in a low voice, “Hast thou come to claim credit even while the sky is merely dim?”
    “No, Friend,” I say, lowering my head in deference.  “My wish is not to claim credit, but to spare thee pain.  While I cannot speak with the passion thou hast, my visions are strong.  Susannah will die by this time tomorrow, but I have medicine that can save her.”
    I take the vial from my pocket and place it in her hand.  She pulls the cork from the top and sniffs the contents, wrinkling her nose.
    “This could be poison.  From where was it obtained?”
    I grab the vial from her, pour a tiny spot of the liquid into my palm, and then press my tongue against it.
    “I cannot reveal my source, but I swear it will not harm Susannah.  And she’s near to death anyway.  You’ve seen enough patients to know that.”
    I realize that I’ve lapsed from plain speech as soon as the words leave my mouth.  Jemima’s brow furrows, but she takes the vial back, replacing the cork.
    “Your manner is strange, John Franklin.  William Potter made inquiries of thee with the Friends at Richmond. The man by that name who once worshipped among them is twice thine age.” 
    “They recall my father.  I was just a lad—”
    “Indeed.”  Her lips press into a firm line.  “I shall pray upon this matter.”
    She turns to go, but I grab her arm.  “I would not pray too long, dear Friend.” I glance behind me at the new wing that Judge Potter recently added to his home, expressly for Jemima’s use.  “I have foreseen that thy generous patron will grow to doubt thee if Susannah is not spared. And no potion can raise the dead.” 
    The last bit isn’t entirely true, depending on the timing and the exact cause of death.  And Potter’s faith in Jemima will not be shaken even when Susannah dies. He won’t begin to doubt the Friend for well over a decade, and the records that exist suggest their falling out was due to a legal dispute concerning money, not the mere death of one of his dozen or so offspring.  I’m less certain about his wife, Penelope, however. When Potter and his adult children follow Jemima into the wilds of upper New York in 1790 to help build her new utopia, Penelope will remain behind in Little Rest.
    Still, I can tell from the look in Jemima’s eyes that the warning hits home. She’d feel much more secure if Potter and the rest of her followers believed her prayers could pull a girl back from an almost certain death. 
    “I shall pray upon this matter,” she repeats, slipping the bottle into a small pouch concealed under her cloak.  “Caesar will prepare a room.  It would be best to have thee near at hand in the event there are…complications.”
    Her subtle emphasis on the last word has me worried.  “While I thank thee for the kind offer, our belongings are in the rooms we’ve taken in the village.  My wife knows nothing of my gift and she has been known to gossip.  It would be best if this remains our secret.”
    “One of our people will fetch your things,” Jemima coos, giving me a smile that’s almost angelic. “Because I really must insist.”
     
    ∞
     
    “I don’t understand why we aren’t staying in Little Rest,” Katherine says, as we retreat down