Chapter Nine: The Beacon

The next two days blurred together. Jude worked constantly on the salvaged machine parts despite his broken leg. Flynn served as his hands, following detailed instructions. Clara ran between them and Chamberlain, gathering supplies. “Mrs. Thornton?” she asked on July 5th. “No sign. We’ve searched everywhere. It’s as if she’s vanished.” “She hasn’t vanished. She’s waiting for us to leave.” By evening, the beacon was ready—a crude brass cylinder housing the repaired caesium oscillator, connected to a telegraph battery through salvaged components. When Jude activated it, the oscillator hummed to life. “Is it working?” Flynn asked. “The signal is transmitting. If Papa’s monitoring…” Jude shook his head. “All we can do is wait.” “How long?” “Hours. Days. Maybe—” A flash of light cut through the barn. Brilliant white radiance filled the hayloft. When Clara lowered her hand, a figure stood in the center of the light. “Papa!” He looked exactly as she remembered—wild white hair, wrinkled face, workshop apron splattered with grease. “Three of my favorite people!” His voice bellowed. “I found you.” Clara threw herself into his arms. Flynn and Jude were right behind her. “How long?” Clara asked. “Three weeks. The longest of my life.” Papa released them, crouching beside Jude. “You’re hurt.” “It’s healing.” he said “Mrs. Thornton is here,” Clara said. “She came to change history.” Papa’s expression went cold. “Margaret. I should have known.” He stood. “Where is she?” “We destroyed her machine, but she escaped.” “Then she’s stranded. Without equipment, she can’t do more damage immediately.” His voice was grimly satisfied. “I’ll deal with her after I get you home.” “Can you open a window for all of us?” “It’s already open—but it won’t hold long. We need to go now.” They made their way outside. The window hung in the farmyard—a shimmering rectangle showing Papa’s workshop in 2025. “Martins.” They turned. Chamberlain stood at the edge of the property, Mrs. Weikert beside him. “You’re leaving,” Chamberlain said. “We have to.” Clara felt tears coming. “But we won’t forget you.” “Nor we you.” Chamberlain extended his hand to Papa. “You’ve raised remarkable grandchildren.” “They come by it honestly.” Papa shook his hand. “Thank you for protecting them.” Flynn stepped through the window first, vanishing into 2025. Then Jude. Clara paused at the threshold for one last look. Mrs. Weikert waved. Chamberlain touched his hat in salute. And the fields of Gettysburg stretched out under summer stars, quiet at last. Clara stepped through. The workshop looked exactly the same. Home. Papa closed the window and turned to face them. “Now. Tell me everything.” They did—the whole story. Papa’s face grew darker with each detail. “Margaret was always brilliant,” he said when they finished. “Too brilliant for her own good. She became convinced her way was the only way.” “She’s still back there,” Jude said. “Stranded.” “Without her machine, she’s trapped. But she won’t stay trapped forever—Margaret is resourceful.” Papa’s voice was firm. “But dealing with her is my responsibility now, not yours.” “But—” “No buts, Clara. You’ve saved President Lincoln and protected history. Let that be enough.” Clara wanted to argue, but she was exhausted. They all were. “What happens now?” Flynn asked. “You go home to your parents. Rest. Recover.” Papa smiled. “And then, when you’re ready, we’ll talk about what comes next.” “What does come next?” “That’s up to you. Time travel is dangerous and unpredictable. But it’s also necessary—there are things in history that need protecting, mysteries that need solving.” “You need us,” Clara said slowly. “I need people I can trust. People who are brave and clever and good.” Papa looked at each of them. “People like you.” “We’ll think about it,” Clara said. They walked out into the summer evening—their own time, their own world. The farmhouse lights glowed warmly. Their parents’ car was in the driveway. “Do you think he’s right?” Flynn asked. “That we’ll do this again?” Clara looked back at the workshop. “I don’t know. But whatever comes next, we’ll face it together.” She smiled. “That’s what Martins do.” THE END …for now. Epilogue: Echoes in Time Six months later Clara was finishing homework when the letter arrived. Ordinary envelope, ordinary stamp. But the return address made her heart stop: J.L. Chamberlain Brunswick, Maine November 1863 She tore it open. Dear Miss Martin, I hope this finds you well. Sending correspondence across time is something I never imagined attempting, but your grandfather assures me it is possible. The mystery we uncovered is not yet solved. Mrs. Thornton remains at large—sightings in...