The vortex of light and color surrounding Dany and John seemed different this time—more controlled, almost rhythmic in its pulsations. Dany clung to John's hand, anchoring herself to him as they traveled through the swirling chaos of time. His grip was firm, reassuring, his eyes locked on hers even as the world dissolved around them.
When reality solidified again, Dany found herself standing in a cobblestone courtyard surrounded by imposing stone buildings. Gothic spires reached toward a clear blue sky, and the air carried the scent of old books and freshly cut grass. Men in academic robes hurried past, carrying stacks of papers and leather-bound volumes. A bell tolled somewhere in the distance, its deep resonance echoing across the courtyard.
"Oxford University," John said, watching her take in their surroundings. "June 1882."
Dany looked down at herself. She wore a modest day dress of pale blue cotton, her waist cinched tightly in the fashion of the era. John was dressed in the dark suit of a Victorian gentleman, though less formal than the attire she'd seen him in before. He looked younger here—perhaps in his early twenties, his face less weathered, his eyes carrying fewer shadows.
"This is where it began," he continued, guiding her toward one of the buildings. "Where I first found the wardrobe."
"You were a student here?" Dany asked, trying to reconcile this youthful version of John with the established doctor she'd met in 1887.
"Medical student," he confirmed. "In my final year. I was assisting Professor Blackwood with his research."
The name sent a jolt through Dany. "Blackwood? Like Lord Blackwood from the garden party?"
John's expression darkened slightly. "His father. The connection isn't coincidental, Dany. Nothing about our journeys is random."
They entered a building that smelled of chemicals and dust. John led her down a corridor and then up a narrow staircase, checking occasionally to ensure they weren't observed. The upper floor was quieter, less trafficked.
"The professor's private laboratory," John explained as they reached a heavy wooden door at the end of the hall. He produced an old-fashioned key from his pocket and unlocked it. "Few people know of its existence, even now."
The laboratory beyond was a marvel of Victorian scientific pursuit—glass beakers and tubes arranged on wooden tables, strange brass instruments whose purposes Dany couldn't begin to guess, chalkboards covered in complex equations and diagrams. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with volumes in various languages. And at the far end of the room, partially covered by a sheet, stood a familiar shape.
"The wardrobe," Dany whispered.
John nodded, crossing to it and pulling away the sheet. It was unmistakably the same wardrobe that now stood in Dany's apartment, though it appeared newer here, the wood less darkened by age, the carvings sharper and more defined. The hourglass symbol that had recently appeared on Dany's wardrobe was absent from this earlier version.
"Professor Blackwood acquired it from an antiquities dealer who claimed it had belonged to a medieval alchemist," John explained, running his hand reverently over the carved surface. "The professor was studying theories of time and consciousness—ideas far ahead of his era. He believed that time wasn't linear but layered, with all moments existing simultaneously."
"Like pages in a book," Dany suggested.
John smiled, pleased by her understanding. "Exactly. And he theorized that consciousness could move between these layers under the right conditions. The wardrobe was meant to be a conduit—a doorway between moments in time."
"But something went wrong," Dany guessed.
"Yes." John's expression grew somber. "The professor disappeared during an experiment. Most assumed he'd simply abandoned his research and fled to avoid scandal. But I knew better. I'd been helping him that day, recording his observations as he attempted to use the wardrobe."
John moved to one of the desks and retrieved a leather-bound notebook—similar to the journal Dany had found, but older, the pages more yellowed.
"These are the professor's original notes," he said, opening it carefully. "And my additions after his disappearance. I spent months trying to understand what had happened, to replicate his experiment safely."
Dany leaned over the notebook, examining the cramped handwriting and complex diagrams. Much of it was beyond her understanding—equations and theoretical physics concepts that hadn't even been named in the 1880s.
"And then one night," John continued, "while working late in the laboratory, I accidentally activated the wardrobe. My first journey was chaotic, uncontrolled—I found myself in London in 1923, for less than an hour before being pulled back. But it was enough to prove the professor's theories correct."
"How did you learn to control it?" Dany asked.
John hesitated, his eyes meeting hers with an intensity that made her breath catch. "Through blood," he admitted. "As I told you before—or will tell you, from your perspective—the wardrobe responds to blood. But not just any blood. It has to be the blood of someone connected to a fracture point."
"A fracture point?"
John guided her to a large map spread across one of the tables. It wasn't a conventional map of geography but something more abstract—lines and nodes interconnecting across what appeared to be a representation of time itself.
"Time isn't as stable as we perceive it," he explained. "There are points where the normal flow has been damaged—fractures, where timelines split unnaturally or collapse into each other. The professor believed these fractures were dangerous, that they could eventually lead to the complete unraveling of time itself."
He pointed to a particular node on the map, marked with a red circle. "This was the first major fracture we identified—June 14, 1882. The day the professor disappeared."
"What happened to him?" Dany asked.
"His consciousness was scattered across multiple timelines," John said grimly. "Parts of him existing in different eras simultaneously, unable to fully materialize in any of them. A fate worse than death."
Dany shuddered at the thought. "And the wardrobe? What's its purpose in all this?"
"It was designed to repair fractures," John explained. "By allowing consciousness to move between timelines, it can identify points of damage and potentially heal them. But it needs anchors—people whose presence stabilizes the flow of time around them."
"People like us," Dany said, understanding dawning.
"Yes." John's voice softened. "That's why we're drawn together across different eras, why we keep finding each other. We're both anchors, Dany. The wardrobe recognized that connection and has been using it, guiding us toward the fractures that need healing."
As he spoke, Dany felt a strange sensation—a warmth spreading through her mind, like memories thawing after being frozen. Flashes of moments she'd never experienced flickered through her consciousness: dancing with John in a grand ballroom; walking with him along a windswept beach; sitting beside him in a garden as children played nearby. Lives they'd shared that she couldn't remember living.
"I'm starting to remember," she whispered, pressing her fingers to her temples. "Not everything, but... fragments. Moments with you that haven't happened yet. Or happened in other timelines."
John's expression brightened with hope. "That's good. The more you travel, the more your consciousness adapts, allowing you to access memories from other versions of yourself."
"But why couldn't I remember before? Why do I forget each time?"
"A protection mechanism," John suggested. "The human mind isn't designed to hold memories from multiple timelines simultaneously. It compartmentalizes to prevent madness. But as you become more attuned to the wardrobe's energy, those barriers begin to thin."
Dany moved closer to the wardrobe, studying the carvings that had become so familiar yet remained mysterious. "You said the wardrobe was designed to repair fractures. Designed by whom? The professor?"
"No," John said. "He discovered it, studied it, but its origins are far older. The carvings contain symbols from civilizations separated by thousands of years—Egyptian hieroglyphs alongside Celtic knots, Norse runes next to Sumerian cuneiform. As if it was created outside of time itself."
A memory surfaced in Dany's mind—Catherine Harlow's warning: *"The wardrobe doesn't heal fractures—it creates them. And John knows this."*
"What about Catherine Harlow?" she asked, watching John's reaction carefully. "How does she fit into all this?"
His expression tightened almost imperceptibly. "Catherine was... involved with the professor's research. She discovered the wardrobe's power independently and has been using it for her own purposes."
"Which are?"
"Control," John said simply. "She believes the fractures aren't dangerous but opportunities—chances to reshape reality according to her desires. She wants to use the wardrobe's power to create new fractures, to splinter time itself until she can rebuild it as she sees fit."
It aligned with what John had told her before, yet something in his tone made Dany wonder if he was holding back. "And the key she gave me? What does it open?"
John's eyes widened slightly. "She gave you a key? When?"
"In my apartment, just before you arrived. She said it would lead me to the truth."
John ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration. "Catherine is manipulative, Dany. Whatever 'truth' she's leading you toward is carefully curated to serve her purposes."
"So what does the key open?"
Before John could answer, the laboratory door creaked. Both of them turned sharply toward the sound.
A young woman stood in the doorway, perhaps twenty years old, with chestnut hair pinned neatly beneath a small hat. She wore the modest dress of a Victorian lady, but her posture suggested confidence beyond her years. Her eyes—intelligent and assessing—moved from John to Dany, then to the exposed wardrobe.
"I thought I might find you here, John," she said, her voice cultured and precise. "Though your companion is unexpected."
Dany felt a shock of recognition, though the woman before her was decades younger than the Catherine Harlow she had met. The same sharp features, the same calculating gaze, but without the hardness that years had etched into the older version.
"Catherine," John acknowledged, his tone carefully neutral. "You shouldn't be here."
"Neither should she," Catherine replied, nodding toward Dany. "Yet here we all are." She stepped fully into the laboratory, closing the door behind her. "You've brought her to the beginning. How interesting."
"You know who I am?" Dany asked.
Catherine smiled, a gesture that transformed her face, making her appear younger, almost innocent. "Not yet. But I will." She approached, extending her hand in formal greeting. "Catherine Harlow. Professor Blackwood's research assistant."
Dany shook her hand automatically, struck by the surreal nature of the situation—meeting a younger version of the woman who had warned her against John, who had given her a key to some unknown truth.
"The professor had two assistants?" Dany asked, glancing at John.
"I focus on the theoretical aspects," Catherine explained before John could respond. "John handles the practical applications. We make quite the team." There was something in her tone—a hint of shared history—that made Dany wonder about their relationship.
"Catherine has been helping catalog the professor's research since his disappearance," John said, his voice tight. "But we weren't expecting her today."
"Clearly," Catherine replied dryly. Her gaze returned to Dany, curious and assessing. "You're from the future, aren't you? John's been experimenting with the wardrobe again."
"Catherine—" John began, a warning in his voice.
"Oh, don't worry," she interrupted. "I'm not going to interfere with whatever you're showing her. I'm simply curious." She moved to the table where the professor's notebook lay open. "Has he told you about the fracture yet? About what really happened that day?"
"Some of it," Dany said cautiously.
Catherine nodded, as if confirming something to herself. "But not everything, I'd wager." She looked up at John, something challenging in her expression. "Have you told her about the others, John? The ones who came before her?"
A tense silence fell over the laboratory. John's jaw tightened, his eyes never leaving Catherine's face.
"There's no need to overwhelm her with information that isn't relevant to our current situation," he said finally.
"Isn't relevant?" Catherine echoed, her eyebrows rising. "I would think the fate of previous travelers would be extremely relevant to someone you've brought into this... arrangement."
Dany looked between them, the tension palpable. "What others?" she asked. "John, what is she talking about?"
John sighed, shooting Catherine a look of frustration before turning to Dany. "After the professor disappeared, there were others who discovered the wardrobe's power. Some accidentally, some through research. I tried to guide them, to help them understand what they were experiencing."
"And what happened to them?" Dany pressed.
"Some couldn't handle the mental strain of traveling between timelines," John admitted. "Their minds fractured, their consciousness scattered. Others became obsessed with the power, tried to use it for personal gain. And some..." He hesitated.
"Some disappeared entirely," Catherine finished for him. "Erased from their timelines as if they never existed."
A chill ran through Dany. "Erased? How is that possible?"
"The wardrobe doesn't just transfer consciousness," Catherine explained, her voice taking on a lecturer's tone. "It creates connections between timelines, bridges that can be crossed. But bridges can also be burned."
"That's enough, Catherine," John said sharply. "You're frightening her unnecessarily."
"Am I?" Catherine challenged. "Or am I simply providing context you've chosen to withhold?" She turned to Dany. "Has he told you about the coming fracture? The one that dwarfs all others?"
Dany shook her head, looking to John for explanation.
His expression was grim. "There's a major fracture point approaching in your time, Dany. Larger than any we've encountered before. If it isn't healed, the damage to the timeline could be catastrophic."
"How catastrophic?" Dany asked.
"Entire sections of history could collapse," Catherine said, her voice unnervingly calm given the subject matter. "Past, present, and future folding in on themselves, reality becoming unstable. The end of time as a coherent concept."
"And that's why you brought me here?" Dany asked John. "To prepare me to help heal this fracture?"
"Yes," John confirmed. "But there's more to it than that. The fracture is centered around us—around our connection across time. That's why the wardrobe keeps bringing us together in different eras. It's preparing us for the moment when we'll need to combine our abilities as anchors."
Catherine made a small sound—not quite a laugh, not quite a scoff. "Such a romantic interpretation, John. Always the idealist."
"Do you have a different theory?" Dany asked her.
Catherine studied her for a moment, as if deciding how much to reveal. "The wardrobe isn't sentient, despite how John sometimes describes it. It's a tool, created for a specific purpose. And tools can be used in different ways, depending on who wields them."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning that healing fractures is one possibility," Catherine said. "Creating them is another. Expanding them, redirecting them... the potential applications are numerous."
"And dangerous," John added pointedly.
Catherine shrugged elegantly. "All power is dangerous in the wrong hands. The question is, whose hands are the wrong ones?" Her gaze shifted between John and Dany. "But I'm being rude, interrupting your... tutorial. Please, continue showing her the beginning. I simply came to retrieve some of my notes."
She moved to one of the desks and began sorting through papers, her presence creating an undercurrent of tension in the room. John guided Dany back to the wardrobe, lowering his voice.
"Catherine has her own agenda," he murmured. "She believes the fractures can be manipulated to change history—to prevent personal tragedies, to reshape events according to her vision."
"And you don't?" Dany whispered back.
"I believe the fractures need to be healed, not exploited," John replied. "Time has a natural flow that should be respected. Manipulating it for personal gain only creates more damage."
Dany glanced at Catherine, who appeared absorbed in her papers but whose posture suggested she was listening intently. The younger version of the woman seemed less hardened than her future self, but no less determined.
"You said the wardrobe was designed to repair fractures," Dany said, returning to their earlier conversation. "But you never said who designed it."
John hesitated, his eyes meeting hers with an intensity that made her heart race. "That's one of the mysteries we haven't solved. The professor believed it was created by future humans—advanced versions of ourselves who discovered that time was unraveling and sent the wardrobe back as a tool to prevent it."
"A bootstrap paradox," Dany murmured.
John looked surprised. "You're familiar with the concept?"
"I read a lot of science fiction," she admitted with a small smile.
He returned the smile, a moment of connection amid the tension. "The professor had another theory, though. One he was more reluctant to share."
"Which was?"
"That the wardrobe wasn't created by humans at all," John said quietly. "That it's of... non-human origin."
"You mean alien?" Dany asked, unable to keep the skepticism from her voice.
"Not necessarily extraterrestrial," John clarified. "Perhaps extratemporal—beings that exist outside our linear perception of time. Entities for whom past, present, and future are simultaneously accessible."
From across the room, Catherine made a sound of amusement. "Still peddling the professor's more fantastical theories, I see."
"You have a better explanation?" John challenged.
"Several," Catherine replied, gathering her papers into a neat stack. "But I'll leave you to your romantic notions of mysterious benefactors from beyond time." She moved toward the door, then paused, looking back at Dany. "When you're ready for a more pragmatic perspective, find me. I'm usually in the library archives."
After she left, the tension in the room dissipated slightly. Dany turned to John, questions multiplying in her mind.
"What happened between you two?" she asked. "In this time, I mean."
John sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Catherine and I were colleagues, initially. Both dedicated to continuing the professor's research after his disappearance. But our approaches diverged. I wanted to understand the wardrobe's purpose, to use it as intended. Catherine saw it as a tool for power, for changing history to suit her desires."
"What does she want to change?"
"Everything," John said grimly. "Her family history is marked by tragedy—losses that shaped her into who she is. She believes she can prevent those losses by manipulating time, by creating controlled fractures that allow her to rewrite specific events."
"And that's dangerous?"
"Extremely. Each change creates ripples through time, affecting countless other lives, creating new fractures that damage the stability of reality itself." John's expression softened as he looked at Dany. "That's why our connection is so important. Together, we have the ability to heal fractures, not create them."
Dany felt drawn to him, to the earnestness in his eyes, the passion in his voice. Yet Catherine's warnings echoed in her mind, creating doubt.
"Show me," she said suddenly. "Show me how the wardrobe works in this time, how you learned to control it."
John hesitated, then nodded. "It's different here—more primitive, less stable. But the basic principles are the same." He moved to a small cabinet and retrieved a slender knife. "It requires blood, as I mentioned. A small amount is sufficient."
He rolled up his sleeve and made a tiny cut on his forearm, letting a drop of blood fall onto one of the wardrobe's carvings. The effect was immediate—the wood seemed to absorb the blood, and the carvings began to glow with a faint blue light.
"The blood of an anchor creates a connection," John explained. "It attunes the wardrobe to specific points in time where that anchor exists."
"So when I use the wardrobe in my time, I'm traveling to points where you exist?" Dany asked.
"Yes, or where other versions of you exist that are connected to me," John confirmed. "Our timelines are intertwined, Dany. The wardrobe recognizes that connection and uses it as a pathway."
He extended his hand to her. "Would you like to try? A controlled journey, just within this timeline?"
Dany hesitated, Catherine's warnings still fresh in her mind. But the desire to understand, to experience the wardrobe's power under controlled conditions, was stronger.
"Yes," she decided. "Show me."
John smiled, a mixture of relief and excitement in his expression. "We'll stay within 1882, just move to a different location. Somewhere peaceful, where we can continue our conversation without interruption."
He guided her to stand before the wardrobe, its doors still closed, the carvings pulsing gently with blue light.
"Focus on a place," he instructed, standing close behind her. "Somewhere in Oxford that you'd like to see. The gardens, perhaps, or the river."
Dany thought of the glimpses she'd seen of Oxford's famous gardens as they'd walked to the laboratory—lush greenery, vibrant flowers, secluded paths where they could talk privately.
"Now place your hand on the carving," John said softly, his breath warm against her ear.
Dany reached out, her fingers hovering over the glowing pattern. As she touched the wood, a jolt of energy surged through her—not painful but intensely stimulating, as if every nerve in her body had been awakened simultaneously.
The laboratory around them began to blur, but not with the chaotic swirl of previous transfers. This was more like a gentle dissolve, one reality fading as another took its place. There was no sensation of falling or being pulled, just a smooth transition from one location to another.
When the world solidified again, they stood in a secluded corner of a garden, surrounded by blooming roses and tall hedges that created a private alcove. A stone bench sat beneath the dappled shade of an ancient oak tree, and the distant sound of a string quartet suggested some social event taking place elsewhere in the grounds.
"The Botanical Gardens," John said, looking around with satisfaction. "You chose well. This section is rarely visited."
Dany stared at him in wonder. "That was... incredible. So different from before. No disorientation, no pain."
"Controlled transfer," John explained. "When the wardrobe is properly attuned and the traveler is focused, the journey can be quite pleasant."
They sat on the stone bench, the afternoon sun warming the air around them. For a moment, they simply existed in the peaceful setting, the tension of the laboratory encounter with Catherine fading.
"There's something I need to tell you," John said finally, his expression growing serious. "Something about the nature of our connection that I've been hesitant to share."
Dany felt a flutter of apprehension. "What is it?"
"The reason we're drawn together across time, the reason the wardrobe connects us specifically..." He took her hand in his, his touch sending a current of warmth up her arm. "It's because in the original timeline—the one that existed before the first fracture—we were together. Not just as passing acquaintances or friends, but as..."
"Lovers," Dany finished, the word rising from some deep place of knowing within her.
John nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. "More than that. Soulmates, if such a concept exists. The fracture that occurred in 1882 split us across time, scattered our connection through multiple timelines. The wardrobe is trying to repair that split, to bring us back to the point where we belong together."
As he spoke, more memory fragments surfaced in Dany's mind—moments of intimacy with John across different eras, the feeling of his lips on hers, his arms around her, their bodies entwined. The emotions attached to these memories were overwhelming in their intensity, a love that transcended time itself.
"I'm remembering," she whispered, tears forming in her eyes. "Not everything, but... enough to know that what you're saying is true."
John's expression softened with hope. "The more time we spend together, the more your memories will return. And when they do, we'll be ready to face the coming fracture together."
He leaned closer, his intention clear in his eyes. Dany felt herself drawn to him, the pull of their connection across time impossible to resist. Their lips met in a kiss that felt both new and achingly familiar, as if her body remembered what her mind could not.
The kiss deepened, years of separation and longing pouring into the connection between them. Dany felt as though pieces of herself that had been scattered were finally coming back together, a wholeness she hadn't known was missing.
When they finally parted, breathless, the world around them seemed more vivid, more real somehow. The colors of the garden more intense, the scent of roses stronger, the distant music clearer.
"What happens now?" Dany asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Now we prepare," John replied. "I need to show you how to use the wardrobe's power consciously, how to direct your journeys rather than being pulled randomly through time. And we need to understand more about the coming fracture—when exactly it will occur and how we can heal it."
A shadow fell across them, interrupting the moment. Dany looked up, expecting to see a passing gardener or perhaps another visitor to the gardens.
Instead, Catherine Harlow stood before them, her expression unreadable. But she wasn't alone. Beside her stood a man Dany didn't recognize—tall, distinguished, with a neatly trimmed beard and piercing eyes that seemed to look through her rather than at her.
"John," Catherine said, her voice cool. "I see you've been busy with your new... project."
John stood quickly, positioning himself slightly in front of Dany in a protective gesture. "Catherine. This is unexpected."
"Is it?" she replied. "You should know by now that very little escapes my notice." She gestured to her companion. "I believe you two should be reintroduced. After all, it's been quite some time."
The man stepped forward, his gaze fixed on Dany with an intensity that made her skin prickle.
"Miss Mitchell," he said, his voice cultured and precise. "How fascinating to meet you again. Or perhaps, from your perspective, for the first time."
John's posture stiffened, his hand finding Dany's and gripping it tightly. "Professor Blackwood," he acknowledged, his voice tight with surprise. "You're supposed to be—"
"Scattered across time?" the professor finished, a slight smile playing at his lips. "Reports of my temporal disintegration have been greatly exaggerated, it seems." His eyes returned to Dany, studying her with scientific curiosity. "Though I must say, your presence here confirms several of my theories about the nature of temporal anchors."
Dany stared at the man in shock. Professor Blackwood—the man who had supposedly disappeared, whose consciousness had been scattered across time according to John. Yet here he stood, very much intact and apparently aware of who she was.
"This isn't possible," John said, his voice barely audible. "I saw what happened to you. The wardrobe—"
"Did exactly what it was designed to do," Professor Blackwood interrupted. "Though perhaps not in the way I had initially anticipated." He turned to Catherine. "You were right, my dear. She is indeed the key to everything."
Catherine's expression softened as she looked at the professor, a depth of emotion in her eyes that Dany hadn't seen before. "I told you she would come eventually. The wardrobe always finds what it needs."
Dany looked between the three of them, confusion and alarm growing. "What's going on? John, you said he was gone—his consciousness scattered."
"That's what I believed," John replied, his voice strained. "What I witnessed."
"What you were meant to witness," the professor corrected. "A necessary deception, I'm afraid. For your protection as much as mine."
"Protection from what?" Dany demanded.
Professor Blackwood's expression grew grave. "From those who would use the wardrobe's power for their own ends. Those who see the coming fracture not as a catastrophe to be prevented, but an opportunity to be exploited." His gaze shifted to John. "Those who might not be what they appear to be."
A chill ran through Dany as the professor's words sank in. She turned to John, searching his face for reassurance, for some explanation that would make sense of the contradictions piling up around her.
"John?" she asked, her voice small.
But John's attention was fixed on the professor, his expression a complex mixture of shock, confusion, and something that looked unsettlingly like fear.
"How long have you known?" he asked Catherine, his voice tight.
"Long enough," she replied. "The professor contacted me six months after his 'disappearance.' He needed someone he could trust to continue his work while he investigated certain... anomalies in the timeline."
"Anomalies that you created," the professor said, looking directly at John.
John's hand tightened around Dany's. "We need to go," he said urgently. "Now."
"Running won't solve anything, John," Catherine said. "She deserves to know the truth. About you, about the wardrobe, about what really happened in 1882."
"And what is the truth?" Dany asked, looking between them, uncertainty growing with each passing moment.
Professor Blackwood stepped forward, his eyes kind but resolute. "The truth, my dear, is that the man beside you is not who he claims to be. He is not John Ambrose, at least not the original John Ambrose."
"What?" Dany whispered, turning to John.
"Don't listen to them," John urged, his voice low and intense. "This is exactly what Catherine wants—to drive a wedge between us, to weaken our connection before the coming fracture."
"Then who is he?" Dany asked the professor, even as John's grip on her hand tightened.
Professor Blackwood's answer sent a shock wave through Dany's entire being, upending everything she thought she knew about John, about the wardrobe, about her place in this tangled web of time.
"He," the professor said gravely, "is the fracture incarnate."
___
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