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Before I left, I slipped my diamond necklace into my pocket. It had been a gift from my grandfather on my eighteenth birthday, and I would sell it for passage to Nassau.

With nothing but the clothes on my back and the necklace in my pocket, I set out on foot, walking and running as far as I could throughout the night until I fell into an exhausted sleep hidden in a cover of trees about a mile outside Charleston.

But now I was in Paris again and would have to wait an entire day to wake up in 1727 and continue my escape. Grandfather would come looking for me, so I had to get onto a ship as fast as possible. It was my one chance to learn the truth about my mother and see if she could help me understand the strange existence we shared.

The Paris street was already loud and busy outside my hotel window as I quickly threw back the covers and got out of bed.

"Wake up, Irene," I said as I chose a simple, modest dress with long sleeves and a dropped waist. The dress might not be as glamorous as the dresses I admired on others, but it was much more comfortable than my stays and heavy skirts in 1727.

My cousin Irene was in the bed next to mine and moaned, "Leave me alone, Caroline."

My first name was the same in 1727 and 1927, something that always amazed me. But my last names were different. In 1727, I was Caroline Reed, the daughter of young Anne Reed and her sea merchant husband. Even if Grandfather knew the name of Anne's husband, he had chosen to give me his last name. In 1927, I was Caroline Baldwin, the daughter of the Reverend Daniel and Mrs. Marian Baldwin. Passionate reformers, prohibitionists, and devout Christians.

"We can't make Father late," I told her, tired of the game we played every morning. She was just a few months older than me and had been invited along on our trip to be my companion—yet I knew the truth. Irene's father had passed away last fall, and since then my cousin had become reckless.

She'd cut her hair short, wore provocative clothing, began to smoke cigarettes, and went around with a loose crowd. My parents had hoped to reform her on this trip. So far, nothing had changed, and I had spent most of my time trying to keep her from embarrassing my father. But I'd quickly come to realize she didn't need reforming. Her heart was grieving, and she needed time to heal. The rebelliousness distracted her from the pain.

I shook her shoulder. "Irene," I said with a little more force. "Today is an important one for Father—perhaps the most important. You must hurry."

With another groan, she rolled onto her back and yawned. "I thought coming to Paris would be fun."

"You knew we were coming to attend the conference."

Irene lifted herself onto her elbows and blinked away the sleep. Her short blond bob was in a net to protect the marcel waves while she slept. Mother and Father refused to let her wear makeup, but there was a hint of color on her lips and rouge on her cheeks.

Neither had been there last night when we went to sleep. "Did you go out last night?" I asked.

A saucy smile tilted her lips. "I had to have some fun, Caroline. I couldn't go back to Des Moines without something to tell my friends. And boy, was it the cat's pajamas!"

We'd been in the City of Lights for two weeks and had spent most of our time sitting through boring lectures, meetings, and sermons. Father had been invited to speak at the World Conference of Christian Living. It was a summit that included leaders from denominations all over the world, seeking unity and understanding amidst the social chaos of the Roaring Twenties. As one of the most prominent and outspoken preachers in America, Father had been asked to attend. He was known for his fiery sermons and the large tent revivals he hosted across America. But it was his ardent support of Prohibition that had made him famous, by friends and enemies alike.

Some called Prohibition a failed social experiment and were advocating for its demise. Father was working hard to ensure its success—and he'd enlisted my help, though I'd been given little choice.

"What if you were seen?" I asked her, whispering so my parents wouldn't hear in the connecting room. "What would people say if they knew Reverend Baldwin's niece was cavorting on the streets of Paris—at night?"

Irene tossed her covers aside and sat up to stretch. "Don't spoil this for me.

I had so much fun last night at the Dingo Bar—and I plan to go back." Her blue eyes were shining. "Do you know who I met? You'll never guess. Ernest Hemingway! The author. And he said that F. Scott Fitzgerald and his wife, Zelda, would be there tonight! Can you imagine? The Great Gatsby is the bee's knees. Fitzgerald is one of the greatest literary minds of our time, and I'm going to meet him."

A longing filled my heart that surprised me. Books were one of my favorite pastimes, and to meet an author like Ernest Hemingway or F. Scott Fitzgerald was a dream. But I could never take the risks Irene had taken. Fear of disappointing my parents, and bringing shame to our family, was always on my mind. I was supposed to uphold the ideals and morals that Father preached—no matter how much pressure it created. "You can't return. If someone sees you—"

"No one cares." Irene stood and touched her hairnet. "They don't care about your father or what he has to say—they don't really care about any of the old rules that used to matter. There are no pretenses with this crowd. No right or wrong. The war changed everything—it woke people up, and now they're living their lives however they want. And that's what I'm going to do, too. We're leaving Paris tomorrow, and I won't miss an opportunity to meet

F. Scott Fitzgerald—even if your father locks me in this room."