Carole nodded, as if London had confirmed her guess. “Well, no more, whore. I will see to it.”
The coldness in her voice sent a ripple down London’s spine.
“Don’t bother trying to get off the horse,” Carole added, straightening out the reins in her hand. “Your arms are tied with the strings from your corset and you are tied to the saddle, too.” She clicked to the horse, which stepped forward once more.
London let herself groan aloud at the movement. There was no point in being heroically silent. The woman had the upper hand.
For now.
Neven had assumed that if they could not move abroad safely until full daylight, the three of them would be confined to Denis’ private apartment until that time.
Long before sunrise, though, Denis stood and picked up the candle. “Come,” he told them both.
Neven looked to Remi for an explanation.
Remi shook his head. He didn’t know.
Three hours of discussion, lecturing about time travel and listening to Denis reason out the facts with his 18th century sensibilities, had shown Neven just how different the two men were. The similarities of their appearances no longer registered. Denis was an eighteenth century noble with a better-than-average grasp of science, while Remi was…well, Remi, the man he loved.
There was no mistaking either of them for the other. Not anymore.
Denis led them through the apartment to a set of wide doors. He opened one side and moved through the door into a corridor which was even more battered and worn than the apartment behind them. The floors were scratched and stained. No one had oiled the boards in a long time and they squeaked with each step.
Behind the closed doors of every room they passed, Neven spotted the flickering glow of candlelight beneath the door and heard the murmur of movement and soft conversation. Every room held at least two people. There were more than a dozen doors lining the corridor, on both sides.
The corridor opened on the right, onto a stair well and a sweeping set of stone stairs twisting down to the next level. They moved down the stairs, then another set.
At the bottom of the second flight of stairs, the floor was made of large marble tiles. The tiles had not been maintained or cared for. The surfaces were scratched and worn and the grout between them stained. They had possibly begun life as a pale brown or possibly even pink. Their color was disguised, now. The tiles were swept and clear of dirt, though.
The murmur of conversation was more distinct.
Denis walked across the hall to the tall doors set in the opposite wall. Neven guessed they led to a major room. Maybe the central room in the house.
Before he opened the door, Denis paused, looking to his right.
Neven glanced that way, too, and spotted what had caught the man’s eye. The light of the candle Denis carried illuminated a marble column. A small child curled up against the column, his arms around his knees, his head against the wall. He was asleep.
He had grubby clothes, his boots had holes in them, through which Neven could see a plain, knitted sock. Stocking, they would be called here. Despite the stains on his clothing, the boy had a clean face and his hair seemed relatively clean beneath the rough woolen cap he wore.
Denis moved over to the boy, crouched and let the candle shine upon his face. He shook the boy’s arm. “Etienne. Wake up.”
The boy shuddered and woke and blinked up at Denis. He snatched off his cap. “Monsieur le Duc!” He tried to get up.
Denis gripped his arm and raised him to his feet. “Why did you sleep here, for heaven’s sake?”
“I came in late, Monsieur. I did not wish to wake anyone.”
“Come along then. Get an early breakfast, then go sleep upon your bed, yes?”
“Yes, Monsieur.” Etienne moved over to the big doors and pulled down on the handle. He had to use his full body weight to move the door. It swung open and Etienne held it open for Denis, with a grin.
“Thank you, Etienne,” Denis said. He paused by the boy. “Not in front of others, remember?”
“Yes, Monsieur,” Etienne said, his tone meek, his expression cheeky.
Denis glanced over his shoulder toward Remi and Neven. “Come along. You must earn your breakfast, gentlemen.” He moved into the room beyond the doors.
Neven caught at Remi’s arm. “Is this as you remember?” he asked, his voice low, using English.
“Not even close,” Remi breathed back. “I am trying to make sense of it. The time loop has messed things up. And this is a different timeline, just to begin. The house didn’t burn down. The villagers didn’t mob the place. They didn’t kill me…him. Whatever London said to him ten years ago primed him so what happened to me didn’t happen to him.”
“Yes, but why?” Neven breathed. “That is yet to be answered.”
“Clearly, we were supposed to land here.”
“Did you think London had got it wrong?” Neven asked, amused.
Remi grimaced. “She thought she had.”
“I did not. We were meant to be here. Now we must find out why…after we get London back.”
“We could go now. We don’t need food and I’m not afraid of a few robbers.”
“We play this out,” Neven said firmly. “We play the part. For now, we earn our breakfast.”
Remi rolled his eyes. They moved into the room beyond.
There were more candles burning here, and a few lamps which provided better light.
Once, the room would have been a grand ballroom. The walls were paneled, the panels decorated with what would have been gilt flourishes. The ceiling, too. They still glinted here and there in the orange light. Great drapes with gold braid and elegant swags framed tall windows. They were the last evidence of a former, more luxurious time.
The floor was parquet and as scratched, gouged and scuffed as the marble in the front hall. It was well-swept, too.
The current function of the room brought Remi to a halt. Neven stopped beside him.
There were a dozen long tables, built of roughly nailed-together planking. The tops had been scrubbed to a washed-out cream color. Perhaps forty people stood around both sides of each table. Women, men and children; young, old and feeble.
Everyone worked to the orders of a single cook per table. The cook directed the peeling and chopping of vegetables and the butchering of what appeared to be one half of a cow.
At the end of each table, great iron braziers had been set up. Over them, large kettles cooked over the flames, hanging from tripods. The processed food was being added to the pots, while the cooks stirred and directed, their faces red with the heat.
“It’s a goddam soup kitchen,” Remi breathed, his expression stunned.
Neven took in a deep breath and let it out. “This is what Denis meant. This is what London told him to do, ten years ago.” He gripped Remi’s sleeve. “This is how he avoided execution or being run through by pissed off villagers. He’s been feeding and sheltering them for ten years. Years before the revolution.”
Remi nodded. “It would bring the family into the favor of the commoners, so they were protected during the Terror year…damn, why didn’t I think of that?”
“Because you didn’t know what was coming,” Neven said. “No one did.”
Remi looked grim. “I never felt comfortable with the huge differences between the nobility and the commoners.” He rubbed his chin, taking in the ballroom. “The gap grew wider over the years, until the revolution was inevitable. This, though…this is not something I would have thought of doing. Alms, here and there, perhaps.” He grimaced. “Until this moment, I did not realize how much a proper noble I was.”
Denis placed the stub of candle on the third table along, and took a place between two matrons, who giggled and made room for him. He picked up a knife and reached for one of the onions piled in a basket sitting in the middle of the table.
“We’d better earn our breakfast,” Neven said.
“You can chop onions. I’ve wept e
nough this day.” Remi’s voice was grim.
Neven rested his hand on the back of Remi’s neck, where no one would notice it. He stroked. “Just think. If we linger here for a while, there is a chance you will get to speak to each of them before we go.”
Remi drew in a breath, startled. “Yes…” he breathed, his tone happier. He moved toward the tables, taking off his embellished jacket as he went.
Time to chop onions. Then, when the day was broad, they would retrieve London. Neven followed Remi over to the nearest table, content that everything was back under control.
Chapter Eight
The old men and women working at the table glanced at Remi, startled. Their gazes ran down his long waistcoat, which was grander than Denis’ plain garment. Some turned to check on Denis, two tables over.
Remi cleared his throat. He directed his question to the cook at the end of the table. “What can I do?”
Neven came beside him. The people on that side of the table shuffled down, making room for them.
The cook was staring at Remi, too.
“Forgive me, monsieur,” a gray-haired matron standing on the other side of the table said. “You bear an uncanny resemblance to Monsieur Sauveterre.”
“It is remarkable, is it not?” Neven said. His French had been smoothed out over the last few years and he had little accent left. These people would notice it, though. “Perhaps the resemblance is not happenstance…who knows.” His shrug, though, was pure Gallic. He reached for a handful of turnips, put one in front of Remi, pulled his knife from his stocking and peeled the others.
“My friend and I were in the east for many years,” Remi said. “Although I was born in Sauveterre. Perhaps Neven’s guess has merit.” He glanced around the table. “Neither Monsieur Sauveterre nor I are aware of any formal relationship. You know how it goes.” He reached for his knife and scraped the turnip with inexpert hands. A vegetable peeler was far more efficient.
The cook at the end of the table nodded as she dumped a platter of chopped carrots into the pot and stirred it. “I remember the old Duc…” She glanced around, checking for who listened. She lowered her voice a little. “He was the sort to leave by-blows across the department. If you do not mind me saying so, sir?”
“Your name is not Sauveterre?” The man who spoke had the wavering voice of the very old, yet he stood upright and his eyes were youthful, as he considered Remi closely.
“McCallum,” Remi replied, stealing London’s maiden name. “Remi McCallum.” He nodded at Neven. “Neven Zoric.”
“You’re not from around here,” the old-timer said to Neven.
“I have been living in Brittany for several years, although I am originally from farther east. Just before one reaches the Ottoman Empire.”
Remi relaxed. Neven had remembered what the map of Europe looked like at this time.
“McCallum…that’s Scottish, isn’t it?”
Remi hesitated, trying to figure out the ramifications of saying yes, and what possible complications it might introduce. Now he was beginning to understand why Neven was so pedantic about properly preparing for a jump. “I don’t know if it is Scottish,” Remi said bluntly. “I didn’t know my parents.” It was safer to claim himself a bastard than get roped into antecedents and bloodlines.
The silence at the table lasted only a second or two. The old man shrugged. “You look liked you’ve made a place for yourself despite your birth. That’s admirable.” He nodded and reached for another of the onions he was peeling.
Remi chided himself. He had been braced for the subtle drawing back of shoulders, the raise of brows and the shift of feet which would put distance between them and the bastard in their midst. It was what the nobility did. These were common folk, though. They accepted him on face value.
The work continued around the table. The aroma coming from the pots bubbling at the end was a savory, rich scent. There were herbs in the pot, lots of vegetables, yet little meat. From the smells, Remi guessed mutton was cooking in the broth. The carcass of the cow being butchered on the other table would be used for future meals, most likely.
The pile of vegetables in the center of the table was down to a small handful when the big ballroom doors cracked open once more. Light running feet sounded.
“Papa!”
Remi jerked his head up, his heart kicking into life. The voice was achingly familiar.
Aimée ran across the parquetted floor toward Denis, dressed in a simple floral gown. Edgard toddled behind her, while the nurse followed with baby Micheline in her arms.
A murmured of delight and approval came from the people around the table. They were used to seeing the children.
Remi held still, absorbing every single second of this moment, while his heart slipped his control and beat wildly.
Aimée ran past his table, around the end of the third one and threw herself against Denis. He bent and held her with one hand, the other holding the paring knife well away from her. He kissed the top of her head as she beamed up at him.
Remi felt the jolt down to his toes. These are not my children, he reminded himself. Still, he ached to touch them. To speak to Aimée and Edgard, and perhaps see Edgard’s shy smile. To have Aimée smile at him the way she was smiling at Denis right now. And baby Micheline—Remi could stroke her downy head and maybe see if he could make her laugh and reveal her two little teeth.
“Keep working,” Neven whispered.
Remi realized he was standing stock still and drawing attention. He turned back to the turnip he was working on, but found himself looking up once more. Aimée was chatting happily to Denis, who listened with interest, while Edgard gripped the tail of his father’s coat with his small fist and stared up at him.
Neven’s hand on his arm brought Remi’s attention back to the table. “Are you unwell?” he asked in a voice designed to be heard by the others.
Remi couldn’t think of anything to say. He couldn’t tear his awareness away from the small family standing at the other table. His chest ached.
Neven tugged on his arm. “Come. Come and sit down.” He glanced around the table. “Remi was ill, only a few days ago. His recovery…” He gave a shrug with one shoulder, then turned Remi and led him away from the table, over to the big doors. One side was open, now. Beyond, the hall, which had been completely dark when they first crossed it, was now showing a pale light from tall windows on either side of the front door. Dawn would be here, soon.
As they passed through the ballroom door into the front hall, Neven said, “This will give us an excuse not to eat, anyway.” He moved over to the stairs and pressed on Remi’s shoulder. “Sit.” He used English.
“I’m fine.” Remi’s voice was a croak.
“Bullshit. Sit. Go on.”
“Sitting won’t fix this.”
“Sit anyway. You’re supposed to be weak from a recent illness. Play the part, remember?”
Remi settled on the fourth step from the bottom. The stone was cold beneath his ass. “How do you do this?”
“This?” Neven settled beside him.
“This let’s-pretend. London is out there, somewhere, taken by Carole and you insist upon staying human and pretending we’re scared of a few shadows—”
“Denis advised against leaving the house before dawn. I always take note of advice I get from locals.”
“Between the two of us, we could overpower anything that came at us,” Remi pointed out.
Neven bumped his shoulder. “You’re kind to include me in that tally. We both know you could manage it on your own.”
Remi pressed his hand to his chest. Would the pressure never let go? “Don’t distract me,” he growled. “London is out there. Taken. While we play at being human.”
“Exactly,” Neven said, his voice even. “We stay as humans at all times—especially when events might be changed if we do not. If we were to leave now to find her then, yes, we can see in the dark and could find her by her pheromones. We could deal with anyone who g
ot in our way. In doing so, what would we change?”
“I can’t stand doing nothing!”
“It is what prudent humans would do.” Neven’s tone was pedantic. “London is smart. She has learned a lot about taking care of herself since she met us. You. Veris and the others. I’m confident she can survive for a few hours more, while we take care not to disrupt the timeline any more than we have.”
“Fuck time,” Remi growled. “I want to leave now.”
Neven turned himself on the step to look at Remi with a speculative gaze. “Is this really about London?” His tone was gentle.
Remi sucked in a breath, happy to submerge into a dark pool of anger, spray his fury everywhere and get his way by sheer force of will.
Only it was Neven asking.
Every day he lived with the man, Remi collected another drop of difference in the vast sea of changes between Neven and Kristijan. Remi had thought himself in love with Kristijan. With Neven, he had learned that what he felt was a superficial emotion at best. Now he knew what love really was, and it held his impulse in check. With Neven, he was safe to be himself.
Remi blew out his breath once more and shoved his hand through his hair. “They’re alive. Laughing. Right there!”
“And you can’t speak to them,” Neven finished. He put his arm around Remi’s shoulders. No one was in the hall to see them. “Can you not take comfort in the fact that they have a long life ahead of them?” His tone was soft. Reasonable.
Remi closed his eyes and hung his head. Neven had said exactly the right thing. Abruptly, all the pressure around his chest eased, as if a giant and invisible elastic band had snapped apart. He could breathe properly once more—and needed to breathe. His human physiology was breaking through the symbiot’s control, making itself felt. Demanding air.
“Yes,” he whispered. “They have a chance for life.”
“And they still have you. Just a different you.”
Remi gripped his hands together. “A better me,” he admitted. “I watched Denis. The man is a natural father—did you see it?”
“He is you,” Neven reminded him.
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