Cenotaph The next morning, she knew she should tell Whaley she hadn’t found anything. He was going to see Mrs. Powell today, after all, and he should know all the details. But she only managed to mumble “No, not yet,” when he asked, and pretended to be very busy getting ready for school. Not yet, she told herself fiercely. Because she would find something. She didn’t know where. And maybe not in time for that meeting he was going to today. But soon, one way or another. She jammed her shoes onto her feet. Why was it so hard to find evidence of people and places from the early twentieth century? It wasn’t like she was digging up relics of the Stone Age! There was only one solution: she’d need to go back. If only she could just whip out the mirror and do it now! Theoretically, she thought, yes, I could. But practically, no. She couldn’t end up on this end of town in 1917, with no money and no transportation, and expect to make her way to the theater to find Reg. Nor did it make sense to go over to the Powells’ house and start there.
