“Hello,” I call. Before I say anything else, the door clicks open.

I walk inside the dark, musty hallway. A door swings open, and my heart skips a beat, but it’s not him. It’s an older woman with a yappy dog at her heels.

“Willem?” I ask her. She points a thumb up and shuts her door.

I climb the steep stairs to the second floor. There are two other flats in the building, so this could be his, or the one upstairs. So I just stand there on the doorstep for a moment, listening for sounds inside. It is quiet, save for the faint strains of music. But my heart is beating fast and strong, like a radar pinging: Yes, yes, yes.

My hand shakes a little bit as I knock, and at first the sound is faint, as if I’m knocking on a hollowed-out log. But then I tighten my grip, and I knock again. I hear his footsteps. I remember the scar on his foot. Was it on the right foot or the left? The footsteps come closer. I feel my heart speed up, in double time to those footsteps.

And then the door swings open, and he’s there.

Willem.

His tall body casts a shadow over me, just like it did that first day, that only other day, really, when we met. His eyes, those dark, dark eyes, hiding a spectrum of hidden things, they widen, and his mouth drops. I hear his gasp of breath, the shock of it all.

He just stands there, his body taking up the doorway, looking at me like I am a ghost, which I suppose I am. But if he knows anything at all about Shakespeare, it’s that the ghosts always come haunting.

I look at him as the questions and answers collide all over his face. There is so much I want to tell him. Where do I even begin?

“Hi, Willem,” I say. “My name is Allyson.”

He says nothing in response. He just stays there for a minute, looking at me. And then he steps to the side, opens the door wider, wide enough for me to walk through.

And so I do.

COMING SOON!

Their story continues with Willem’s journey in

just one year

On my wrist is a watch, small and delicate, bright and gold. It’s not mine. And for the quickest moment, I see the watch on a girl’s wrist. I travel up the hand to a slender arm, a strong shoulder, a swan’s neck. When I get to the face, I expect it to be blank, like the faces in my dreams. But it’s not.

Black hair. Pale skin. Dancing eyes.

I look at the watch again. The crystal is cracked but it’s still ticking. It reads nine o‘clock and again, I begin to suspect what it is that I’ve forgotten.

I try to sit up. The world turns to soup.

The doctor pushes me back onto the bed, a hand on my shoulder. “You are agitated because you are confused. This is all temporary, but we will need to take the CT scan to rule out a hematoma. While we wait, we can attend to your facial lacerations. First I will give you something to make the area numb.”

The nurse swabs off my cheek with something orange. “Do not worry. This won’t stain.”

It doesn’t stain; it just stings.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book begins with Shakespeare, and so my thank-yous begin with Tamara Glenny, who, when I told her I was writing something with some Shakespeare in it, promptly wrote me up notes on plays to look at, got us tickets to a number of those plays—including that fateful production of As You Like It—and answered dozens of ridiculously obscure questions with her usual enthusiasm and good humor.

The book then moves on to France, and I would like to thank Céline Faure and Philippe Robinet, for helping me discover Allyson and Willem’s Paris, and for not blinking when I asked for such translations as: “shut your piehole.” Laurence Checler graciously helped with so many more of the translations in the book. Marie-Elisa Gramain helped me find the perfect French band name. Also thank you to Taly Meas for the hospital tour, Willy Levitanus, Patricia Roth, and Julie Roth for orchestrating it all.

We move on to Holland then, and to Heleen Buth and Emke Spauwen who gave me such a fantastic tour of Utrecht and provided me with so many details that sparked so much of Allyson’s and Willem’s stories. My brother-in-law, Robert Schamhart, helped me with many of the Dutch subtleties, and allowed me to steal a few key aspects of his identity, down to his nickname. Hartelijk bedankt!

Back stateside, my inimitable editor, Julie Strauss-Gabel, once again, helped me figure out the book I meant to write and remained a steady, optimistic force whenever I became discouraged that I’d ever actually write it. “I’m not worried about you,” she frequently says, such reassuring words, when I’m in a tizzy. Thank you for not worrying—and for worrying. Thank you also to the other extraordinary member of Team Dutton: Liza Kaplan, as well as to Scottie Bowditch, Danielle Delaney, Deborah Kaplan, Rosanne Lauer, Elyse Marshall, Emily Romero, Don Weisberg; and the entire staff of Penguin Young Readers Group: the amazing sales and marketing team, the wonderful school and library department, the ever-brilliant online department, and all the fantastic field reps—who give so much heart to the authors they publish.

Sarah Burnes is my agent, my advocate, my reality check, my Mama Bear, and above all, my wise and generous friend. I feel thankful to have someone who understands all the sides of me—and by extension, my characters and books—in my corner. The powerhouse team of Logan Garrison, Rebecca Gardner, and Will Roberts have propelled my books to places I never dreamed of. You couldn’t imagine a nicer, smarter group of bulldogs!

I would like to thank Isabel Kyriacou for, among many other things, helping me curse more proficiently in Spanish. I would like to thank my YA cohorts, particularly Libba Bray and Stephanie Perkins, who provided the writerly equivalent of therapy: lots of listening, combined with the occasional, laser-beam insightful question or comment. (I believe they accept most insurance.) Thank you also to Nina LaCour, E. Lockhart, Sandy London, Margaret Stohl, Robin Wasserman, and whoever else might’ve listened to me jabber about complicated plot threads. Thank you Onome Edodi-Disowe, Victoria Hill, and all the ladies of the BK/BNS crews, for taking hold of the reins so that I might let them go. Thank you to Veronica Brodsky, for helping me understand what this book is truly about. And to Rebecca Haworth for taking that first trip with me. We had our Melanie moments—and came out the other side. Thank you, Marjorie Ingall, for reading, hand-holding, and geeking out with me about Shakespeare.

Speaking of, I know he is long dead and there’s no collecting royalty or praise from the grave, but I must thank Shakespeare anyway, for giving me the surprise of this book, and for providing me a play that keeps working on so many levels. Thank you Royal Shakespeare Company, for bringing As You Like It to New York City just as I was starting this book. Thank you Fiasco Theater Company for turning me onto Cymbeline—and for all your help with this book, and the next.

Thank you to my parents, for passing on their love of travel, for being proud when, the week after high-school graduation, I took off on a one-way ticket to Europe to attend “The University of Life,” and for teaching me to be self-sufficient enough to travel on my own, and on my own dime, for the next several years. Thank you to my siblings, Tamar and Greg, for being such cheerleaders and supporters of their little sister and for, each in their own way, showing me how to say yes. Thank you to Karen and Detta, Rebecca, Hannah, Liam, Lucy, and all of my extended brood.

Thank you to all the people I’ve met in my travels over the years—some of whom I kept in touch with, some of whom I put into this book, and some of whom have changed the trajectory of my life. Without you, I would not be here now, writing these words.