It's been several days since I laid my hand on the almighty Edgar Scofield. I don't know what bit him that night, but he was drunk and very upset. I remember everything in flashes. Images flashing through my head. I have a photograph recorded as I helped Paris sit on the couch, trying to calm her down. Another with how Edgar started banging on the front door, hurling expletives at me and Mr. Stonecraft, all the while still urging Paris to come out and talk to him and show her face. Paris was shouting at him.

—Go away, please, go away!

Then Edgar threatened me:

—You won't get away with this, slave boy. —I don't know what he meant to tell the truth. I don't think he sees me as a threat, as a competitor for Paris. Because I'm not. —You'll pay for today. You have no idea what I'm going to make you suffer. No one! Least of all, a slave. No one! No one touches a Scofield! No one, not even touches him. No one! —I was pretty pissed off.

I'm not scared. My conscience is clear and I'm not afraid. I can be threatened by this asshole, his brother, his father and even his own company. I'm not afraid of that. I'm afraid for her. For Paris. If she stays with him, her future only looks black. That personality she has so... pronounced, will be molded. Relegated. Hidden. Maybe the years at his side will take away the Paris I know. And I shouldn't let it. But I can only get so involved with the Scofield family. Though, come to think of it, it's already impossible. I already know secrets that no one outside this house should ever have to know. I've stood up for Paris, for her father. I know her better than Edgar will ever know her. I have to keep her safe. She's the linchpin of it all, who holds my future in her hands. I have to keep her safe, at least until she gets what she wants and gives me the freedom I crave. After that, we go our separate ways.

Yes. Several days have passed. Monotonous, routine. In which I have returned to being locked in my room, watching soccer, eating and despairing. Neither Paris nor Mr. Stonecraft have shown up. Probably to let things rest and let everything go back to its course, however difficult it may be, again.

A few days in which I have had enough time to reflect on something that is burning inside me. My blood boils and torments me. It has stayed in me all that smell of blood and sweat, the cries of despair, rage, gunshots, solidarity and courage of the thousands of slaves who fought against the State of the Provinces, to achieve their freedom, a freedom that was a common cause. A goal of all. And I, yearning exclusively for my freedom, will I not be sinning of individuality and selfishness? Will I be authentically free if I disappear from this time, while slavery continues to be installed, and perpetuated, in this society? I have always wished to be free. What good would it do to be free if slavery, that institution I hate with all my might, still exists? If slaves continue to be born and die? I remember the market and those owners who had once been slaves. I cannot, nor do I want to, become one of them. But neither can I take them all with me in the time machine.

After rambling and rambling, I have concluded that my mother has the answers to all the questions. She, who left me a Bible and a Priestess handkerchief as a legacy, as an inheritance, has to know things I don't know. She has to have consistent answers to my questions. My mother, who, until recently, I thought was dead. She is alive in time. And I can ask her all the questions that come to me. All of them. Until I run out of ideas. How I wish Mr. Stonecraft would fix that thing to send us to Collapse. Then I'll be able to see it. Paris has promised me.

I have also made progress with the Bible, practicing my reading. Thus, I have been able to read some passages that I found very interesting. They all refer to the life, miracles, and travels of the first Priestess, who is supposed to have lived just after the Collapse. That is why she is such a valuable source of information for Paris and her research. One, especially, caught my attention. It tells of the time the Priestess helped the people of Monroe:

“Following the firm designs of the Goddess, the Priestess came to the small town of Monroe. Among the ruins of the ancient city, a small community had arisen that had become one of the most prosperous villages in the region, since they were dedicated to plundering the roads, robbing passengers and forcing prisoners. At that time, Monroe was ruled by Governor Alecsander Reed, lord and master of the territories, guns, automobiles and all the food. All the people worked for their governor and there were those who starved to death since Alecsander would not give them their daily ration if they did not obtain the minimum resources he demanded.

Faced with such a situation, the Priestess requested an audience with Governor Alexander, to whom she communicated the terrible injustice he was committing against his own people, appealing to the sense of humanity that characterizes us all.

—The world hasn't changed that much either, it is we who have changed it.

Alexander's response was to banish the Priestess from his domain. He did not condemn her to death for the iron protection of a Goddess who never abandoned her.

The only feast allowed in Monroe, the Day of the Plunderer, took place, and the whole town gathered in the Square. Among the crowd, the Priestess, dressed in the black shroud of virtue, jumped on the platform and raised her voice:

—Monroe! Monroe! The future is yours alone. The past is only a blur. The future! Where injustice is repaid with justice, where hunger is appeased with abundant food, where freedom triumphs. Where nothing is anyone's property, and no one owns anyone. Where everything is ours. Where everything is yours. Of all.

Among so many people, there were cheers, boos and applause. Then Pablo of Monroe came out to meet the Priestess:

—How can we think of the future if we cannot stand in the present?

The Priestess slowly approached Pablo.

-Pablo. Do everything I tell you to do. Bring me a bottle of water and a bowl, empty.

Pablo of Monroe did as the Priestess instructed. When Pablo held the bottle in one hand and the bowl in the other, She placed her soul, the strength of the Goddess, upon it. And the bottle was filled with clean, pure, crystalline water. And the bowl was filled with fruits of the forest and fresh fish.

The crowd, amazed, applauded and harangued the Priestess.

—She has turned nothingness into food, she has drawn water from the air, it's a miracle! —said one mouth after another.

—Now —She said— you have food and water to sustain you. Never to be weak again. Go ahead and do justice. To demand freedom. Treat each other as what you are: free people, different people, in an equal world.

And Monroe was free and graced with the gift of the Goddess”.

I close the book, thinking about this passage and what it represents. Wanting to understand it. I can understand, in this way, why the religion of the Goddess is so dangerous to the United Provinces. But I don't believe, at all, those miracles that the Priestess supposedly did. No one can turn air into water or food. That is impossible. Science says so. I suppose that the years have had to modify the story, perhaps the oral tradition...But it is so tempting to read and believe...It is so tempting to believe in someone superior who watches over peace and equality for all that...I want to believe.

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This is the Bible of Paris. It is not my mother's. She asked me for mine, to check it, in case it was an earlier or later version, to check if there were new words, others deleted, different meanings of the same writings...Paris, meanwhile, left me hers like an exchange of valuable objects.

—It was my mother's. I don't know why she had one. I don't even think my father knows I have it. He doesn't have to have any idea about the Goddess or the Priestess. —He told me.

As I move to put the book back on the shelf, it slips through my fingers and falls to the floor, with a loud clatter. The hard cover of the Bible creaks as it falls and shatters.

—Shit!

I try to put it back together, but, at the very least, I need glue. Trying to at least make it look like it's not broken, I find a double bottom in the hard cover of the book. I tear it all the way through and a yellowed, neatly folded envelope slips into my hand. I pull it out, unfold it and see that on one side it says: Julie.

The guilt of being clumsy and clumsy fades away. I think I've found something important for Paris, a letter from her mother? I run out of the room, looking for her. But she's not home. I go back to bed and look at the envelope, wondering what it will be, what words it will have written on it. Should I read it? Should I? What if what's in it is harmful to Paris? What if she discovers something she doesn't like? Whatever, she deserves to know what happened.

—Eric! Eric! —Paris's hands shake me. I must have fallen asleep thinking.

—Is something wrong? —I wake up startled and confused. I sit up quickly, with the letter tucked away.

—Are you all right?

—Yes, it was just a bad dream. —I lie.

—My father told me that you were looking for me...

—Yes, I...

—No Eric, you don't need to say anything. I know these days have been hard. Believe me, they've been hard for me too, after... well, after that. The important thing is that everything is settled with Edgar and he's not going to retaliate against you. He promised me.

—How? Have you apologized for me?

—Eric looks at me seriously. You have a sense of what the Scofields are capable of. Besides, it was between him and me. He just wanted to talk to me, to have moments that a couple has. I've been involved in my research for a long time... It's normal. That night just wasn't the time, that's all.

—No matter how much forgiveness you've asked for on my behalf, Edgar is still going to hate me. And you know it too. But well, if you think that... what am I going to do? It's your decision. And you're the boss. —She smiles at me.

—I'm glad to hear it, because you're very proud and stubborn. Trust me, Eric. I'm in your hands, completely. I trust you. Very much. Do it for me, come on. —I glimpse those angelic features on her face again.

—It's all right. —I give up, although I'm not one hundred percent convinced. She's the one who decides.

—Great! Now, Eric, we can start from scratch. —She holds out her hand as if we've just met, and I shake it. —But... no compromising situations, no kissing or anything like that. Even if I like them—she whispers now—and they don't hurt anyone. It's not right. It must not happen again. And this...must remain only in our memory.

—It was just...

—It doesn't matter.

—Whatever you want Paris. I am a tomb. —I smile at him.

—Friends, then?

—Friends, not forgetting that I'm your slave.

—Not forgetting. But we are friends. That's the important thing.

We laugh. I look into her gray eyes, the expression of her happiness. I've seen her cry so much... I know we have to take advantage of these moments. Paris is not Sophie. She is not a childhood friend. She is not the first love of adolescence. Paris is not, either, like Miss Green or any other young slave girl on the Greg Gordon plantation. That is precisely why I want the best for her. That's why I consider her, yes, my friend. And that kiss doesn't mean I love her as anything else. Maybe she's the sister I never had. The girl who is able to put me in my place. Calm me down. Chart a course.

—Well, since we're friends...and your boyfriend isn't going to punch me back or break my legs, when do we jump again? We have to go to the Collapse.

—I've never seen you so excited! What's the rush?

—I want you to promise me that, once the Collapse mission is accomplished, you'll take me to my mother.

—I told you that you had my word for your freedom. You also have my word to see your mother. Even I will accompany you, if you want. But Eric, first we should know more about her, where she was, when, what happened to her. And once that's done... see what's the best time.

—Can't we just try it out? She was a slave, she wouldn't move from her plantation.

—I'm afraid not, Eric. We can't just jump in randomly. My father made that clear to me. You have to understand that we have no idea what the consequences of time travel can be. Time is what it is, and it can't be changed. But there are certain things that could change. Details. Even something can happen to us: from dying, from not being able to come back, to absolutely nothing happening to us. We have to be cautious.

—I'll have to risk it.

—No. I asked my father, Eric. He even got nervous.

—You asked him what?

—What we were talking about, you know. If he'd used the machine before. He said yes. And several times, too. But when he did...his face changed radically. Something must have happened. He became...I don't know, sad, all of a sudden.

—Undoing something from the past? —That's the only thing I can think of.

—Maybe. He asked me not to ask him about it again. I guess it still hurts.

—You'd better not. We'll have to find the time with him too. —I tell her.

—Eric, my father wanted the machine to travel himself. Again. My research work was the perfect excuse. It's come in handy. I'm sure he wants to jump back in time somewhere...

—Back home, to your mother? —I remember I have the letter.

—I don't think so, I think it's something more... I don't know. My father's too much of a shell to make any musings about what it might be. We'll have to wait.

I can't find the right words to tell him what I've discovered.

—Paris... I dropped your mother's Bible and broke it. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, really. I didn't mean to, really. —I point to the desk where the remains of the shattered book are.

—Eric! What have you done! You knew it was my mother's! You knew how important it was to me! —She gets scared and goes to see how badly I've left her most valuable treasure. —And you laugh?

—If I hadn't dropped it, I would never have found this... —I show him the yellowish envelope.

—What's that? Give it to me, Eric. Give it to me.

—It says Julie on the back. I guess it's a letter. Was it your mother?

—It's my mother's! A letter!

—It was very well hidden, in a double bottom of the Bible cover.

Paris's hands shake when I give it to her. She is very nervous. She keeps covering her mouth as a sign of surprise and closing her eyes tightly, as if she had finally accomplished something very important. She proceeds to open it and I see her eyes sparkle.

—Why would I leave it there? —She wonders as she opens it—How does she know I would find it? Should I read it? What if...?

I put my hand on her hand. I reassure her. I help her pull out the handwritten page, which begins with “Dear Paris”. I step back and give her privacy so she can read it quietly. I see her eyes darting quickly between the lines. Tears well up in her eyes, again. When she finishes reading, she hugs me and presses me against her chest. I suppose this is his way of thanking me for having found something so important by pure chance. A letter I had been waiting years and years to read.

—It's incredible, Eric! —She says to me as he wipes away her tears. —It speaks of the Goddess and the Priestess!

—What? —An elite female follower of the Goddess? This is bigger than it looks, than I have ever come to believe.

—Listen: “Paris, your father is not only busy with his blissful work for those psychopathic assassins, but he hasn't managed to forget his past. He can't put it behind him. And I can't help him anymore. He won't turn the page and he never will. Grief will kill him. And I need love, to feel that we function as a family, something that only the Goddess or you can give me. I need spiritual answers for this material world. I'm sure when you grow up, you'll understand. Now more than ever, Paris, I believe in the Priestess and in that city that once bore your name. You don't have to stop believing either. The Goddess will find our paths. Grow free and secure, child. Forgive me for...” —She bursts into tears again and I hug her again. I kiss her hair. —I have to talk to my father.

—Paris! Paris! We'd better...

But Paris leaves. Seconds later I hear her reproach her father for the letter.

—You let her go! You lied when you said she left us! You hid this letter where you thought she'd never look! It was you, always! —Wow, so Mr. Stonecraft was the one who hid the letter. He also has secrets and hidden surprises. It makes sense. Paris's mother did say goodbye. She didn't abandon her.

—You don't understand, Paris! I just wanted to protect you!

I'm closing the door. It's a family argument.