Kiss Across Blades

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  “We look for Denis near those caves,” Neven said. He looked at London. “You, too. We don’t separate. Not now. Keep your guard up.”

  “Don’t get caught off-guard again?” London guessed.

  “Yes,” Neven replied, his tone frank. He whipped the silky cravat around his neck and tied it with a deftness she would not have expected for a modern man. “Carole overcame you because you were not ready. You were still thinking as a twenty-first century woman. You should have dealt with her as an enemy until you learned if she was friend or foe.”

  “Guerilla thinking,” London murmured, for this was an old lesson. “It is true…I didn’t make the mental shift when we jumped.”

  “You made up for it,” Remi assured her. “And now we have a direction to search, so lighten up, Neven.”

  Neven grimaced. “Sorry, but this is exactly the sort of stuff that gets travelers killed.”

  “I won’t be caught that way again,” London assured him.

  Neven took in a breath, let it out and nodded. “Then I’ll stop lecturing.” His smile was only a little forced.

  They stole passed very tall doors from where the clatter of bowls and the murmur of people chatting as they ate, and the smell of a savory stew wafted.

  London’s belly cramped. She was starving.

  Neven glanced at her, startled. “Damn, I’m sorry…” he breathed and spun back to the doors and disappeared inside. He emerged a few seconds later, with a loaf of bread the size of his fist, and a hunk of cheese and thrust them toward London. “Can you eat as you walk?”

  “I’ll manage,” London assured him and gratefully tore a hunk of the bread off and chewed quickly. The bread tasted like nothing she had ever eaten, not even the famous French bread of modern times. It was delicious, even though she could see flecks of grain husks and the bread was not the fluffy white she was used to.

  They moved to the front door of the house, as she took a bite of the hunk of cheese. That, too, did not taste like any cheese she had ever eaten.

  Once, this front hall and the door must have been a grand entryway into the chateau. Now the door was marred by a raw piece of tree trunk which barred it, sitting in heavy, crudely carved brackets on either side of the door. The brackets were nailed to the walls with what looked like horseshoe nails. The nail heads were flat and large.

  Neven studied the bar “He didn’t come this way.” He looked at Remi.

  “There are doors off the ballroom,” Remi pointed out.

  “I’d rather not go through there and have our departure noticed by the entire household,” Neven said. “Clearly, Denis did not use that exit, either, or everyone would know he has let.”

  Remi considered. “The servants’ entrance at the back,” Remi said. “Denis would know it well.”

  “Do you?” Neven asked.

  Remi grimaced. “I think I know where it is,” he admitted. “Although I never used it myself.”

  Neven raised his hand, indicating that Remi should lead the way.

  Remi led them into a wide corridor which ran through the center of the house on the far side from the apartment they had just left. A door at the end opened upon a far less grand and narrower corridor, with plain walls and raw floorboards. The staff quarters.

  At the end of that corridor was a set of stone stairs. A lamp burned on the wall, to illuminate the steps. They moved down them into a cold cellar-like room with stone walls and no window.

  Another corridor ran off to the left and London glimpsed doors and at the far end, a kitchen with an old workbench and copper kettles hanging overhead. Remi did not head toward the kitchen, though. Instead, he moved to another door in the same wall as the corridor.

  There were brackets for a bar across this door, too. The bar, though, was propped against the wall beside the door. It was not nearly the same crude tree trunk the one upstairs was. Someone had taken time to work the wood into a smooth square plank. The wood was dark in the middle where hundreds of hands had handled it for many years.

  Neven reached for the simple latch on the door and opened the door.

  The cool of the morning beyond was not as shocking as it might have been in a twenty-first century home, with its central heating and year-round comfortable warmth. The chill in the house matched the chill outside.

  More stone steps rose in front of the door. There were weeds growing in the cracks and edges of the steps. From nearby, London could hear the warble of morning birds, chittering and singing their dawn chorus.

  She pulled the coat in around her. “Let’s hurry. I need to warm up.”

  They climbed up the steps and stepped onto weed-choked gravel. Dotted across the gravel were enormous clay pots that London guessed once held flowers, even bushes or miniature trees. The lip of the pots came up to her waist. They were filled with weeds, now, including dried-out straw-like husks of weeds from previous summers.

  “Don’t use the gate we used yesterday,” Remi said. “It will take us past the ballroom doors and windows. There’s another gate, down there.” He nodded to the east of the house.

  London remembered this landscape, for she had stared at it in moonlight, from the window of the sitting room where they had arrived. The hedgerow which separated the grass from the vineyard beyond had a break in it where Remi indicated.

  They crossed the damp lawn, moving as fast as London could manage. Her hunger prompted her to keep eating, so she bit and chewed as they moved down the slope to the gate, then through into the vineyard.

  They walked swiftly across the field to the other side where trees rose. Remi plunged into the trees without hesitation. Neven seemed to know where they were going, too.

  The winding path through the trees was narrow, but distinct. Many feet had used it before, London guessed. Then it turned and ran straight. Just ahead, the trees ended. She heard water running.

  The path ended at a narrow footbridge that crossed a great river. The river ran slow and deep. To their left, an island split the river. Farther on, a larger and solid stone bridge crossed the river. A cart used the bridge as London peered at it, which gave her a measure of the size of the bridge.

  On the other side of the footbridge, the path plunged back into trees. They wound through the trees for only a few minutes before it opened onto a wider route. This path was also worn smooth. It ran ahead with fewer turns than the path they had emerged from. Twin ruts let her guess what it was. “Is this an official road?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Remi said. “It leads from the bridge at Sauveterre, to Moynes, although there is a track ahead which branches off, to get to the old house.”

  London held back her comment that the road itself looked like a track. The track ahead must be a barely passable route in comparison

  They moved down the road, walking three abreast. There was enough room for the three of them, and London found herself walking along the slight hump in the middle of the road.

  A hundred yards on, she noticed something white lying in the verge. It stirred a memory. She watched it until they drew close enough for her to see it clearly.

  It was a flat-faced stone lying on its back. The front of the stone had letters and numbers carved into it.

  “I know this place!” London said, hurrying over to where the stone lay.

  Paris.

  Kilomètre 655.

  The face of the stone had been hacked at and scratched, so the letters were defaced and barely readable. “No, this isn’t the one I saw,” she added, staring at it. “It was almost the same, but it wasn’t this one.”

  “They’re milestones,” Neven said.

  Remi snorted. “They’re kilometer stones,” he amended. “The new republic invented a system of measurement—kilometers—and insisted everyone use the new system. They had all the old milestones replaced with these, marking how many kilometers to Paris from here. As if Paris was all that counts. Royalists don’t like the system as a matter of course. Most people resent that the stones don’t say how far to the
nearest town. When they can get away with it, they tear down the stones and scratch them. Just like this one.”

  “The metric system was invented here?” London said.

  “I don’t know where it came from,” Remi said. “They tried to enforce its use, but everyone resisted. It was…thirty, forty years later, when the politics had been forgotten, that everyone started using meters and kilometers and kilograms.”

  “The French Academy of Sciences invented the metric system,” Neven said, unexpectedly. “I learned about it in school. Europe is fully metric,” he added. “The United States, of course, made up its own system.”

  “Typical,” Remi said, with a sniff. “Shall we?” He waved at the road.

  They started walking again. London looked for the next stone, but before they reached it, she recognized the trees and the grassy verges. “This is where I woke up, after Carole attacked me in the house. She had…well, hung me over the back of a horse. I stared at these verges for a long while before I could put two thoughts together. Then I saw the milestone…there it is.” She moved over to the stone. The hole at the foot of it was just as she remembered. The scratching and gouging was not as severe on this one. Perhaps the defacers had run out of energy by the time they reached here.

  “And there is the track,” Remi added, pointing.

  The track was as narrow and insubstantial as London had expected. There were two narrow traces where wheels would travel. Weeds grew down the center of the track, while tall grasses and bushes came up high on either side of the track, crowding it. The trees grew right next to it, too. There was no tidy verge on either side.

  “For the second house belonging to a duke, the road to the house is less than grand,” Neven observed.

  “This is the back way to the house,” Remi replied. “There is a public road and a driveway, to the north of the house, from the road leading from the bridge at Sauveterre, which loops around to the east. This track was used by people who knew about it, who wanted to cut miles from their journey from the chateau to the old house.”

  The track bent around a great old oak tree, the packed earth rising over roots that ran beneath. They stepped around the curve and London gasped, for Denis lay on the path, ahead. He was face down, his sword beside him.

  “No, no, no, no, no!” Remi muttered, running to him.

  Neven moved just as quickly.

  London came up to them as they turned Denis over.

  There was a great wound in his belly. Blood had soaked most of his shirt and coated the inside of his jacket.

  London moaned and put her hand over her mouth to hold the sound in. For a moment, she did not see Denis in Neven’s arms. It was as if she was looking at Remi. Remi dying.

  Remi hovered his hands over Denis, as he tried to decide what he could do to halt this.

  Neven looked grimly down at the man he was propping up.

  “The blood is black,” London whispered. Dark blood like that meant Denis’ liver had been perforated. Even modern medicine would have difficulty dealing with such a wound.

  Denis coughed and took a wheezing, pain-filled breath. He opened his eyes. London felt the same disorientation as she had a moment ago, for it was Remi’s green eyes, filled with agony and knowledge.

  “He caught me by surprise,” he whispered.

  “Brusard,” Remi growled.

  “Why did you leave? Why come alone? We could have dealt with him together.” Neven’s voice was hoarse. He would be feeling the same wild disorientation London was, even though Remi crouched right next to Denis.

  Remi shoved his hand through his hair, breathing hard, as he watched Denis struggle to answer.

  Blood trickled from the corner of Denis’ mouth. London clamped her jaws together, to stop herself from making any sound.

  “It had to be me,” Denis whispered. “Honor demanded…”

  “Honor!” Remi choked over the word.

  Denis blinked. It seemed to London he grew properly aware of who stood around him. His gaze settled on her. “Lucienne. You’re here. Good…”

  She bent so he could see her more clearly. “Yes, I’m here,” she assured him. “What can we do, Denis? What should we do?”

  Remi lurched to his feet and spun away.

  Denis’ gaze wandered, then came back to her face. “I did it for you. I have done it all for you.”

  London grew still. “All?”

  “Everything. As you said. I came for…for her, and for Brusard, to repay what they did to you.”

  Neven closed his eyes, with a soft sighing sound, as if he had mentally leapt ahead and knew what Denis was about to say.

  “For me, Denis?” London asked. Her voice was as hoarse as his. Her throat was tight, making it hard to speak. Her eyes ached with tears. She could not rid herself of the sensation that this was Remi, dying in Neven’s arms. Her mind knew better, but her heart was wailing in distress.

  “I love you, Lucienne. I have since I first saw you.” He coughed, and this time, the blood didn’t just trickle. It ran freely from his mouth. He shuddered. “Take my children with you,” he whispered.

  Remi whirled to stare at the man, his eyes wide.

  “Are you sure, Denis?” London asked him, forcing herself to speak clearly. “Where we return to…it is not like here at all.”

  Denis groped with his hand. Instinctively, London picked it up and held it. It was Remi’s hand, familiar in shape and weight, but warm with human heat.

  “Your time must be a kinder, better place for them,” Denis whispered. “It is a place that lets three of you freely love each other.”

  His fingers worked against hers and London realized he was trying to squeeze her hand. “Promise me,” he urged.

  London looked at Neven and Remi helplessly. Her vision was blurring with tears, but she saw Neven nod.

  London squeezed Denis’ hand in turn. “I promise I will take them and care for them as if they were my own, Denis. We will give them every opportunity to be happy and healthy and live a long life.”

  Denis sighed. “Then my work is done.” His gaze shifted to Neven. “Think better of me, now.” And he closed his eyes.

  London held in the sob that wanted to burst from her. Instead, she rose to her feet and moved over to where Remi stood frozen by the edge of the road. She wrapped her arms around him and felt that he trembled as badly as she.

  Neven came up behind her and wound his long arms around both of them.

  Remi turned his shoulder so he was properly between the two of them and shuddered, his eyes closed. “The stupid, stupid man!” he muttered, his voice strained. “Honor! It killed him!”

  “That honor runs as deep in you, Remi,” Neven said gently. “You spent years guarding London from Kristijan’s excesses, yet you never let a hint of what you felt reveal itself to her because she was married to him.”

  Remi gave a harsh, choking sound. “That was different!”

  Neven caught his face in his hands. “No, it wasn’t,” he said softly. Firmly. “You want it to be, but it isn’t. Don’t waste his death, Remi. Don’t let this be for nothing. You have to help us now.”

  Remi drew in a shuddering breath. “Help with what?” he asked dully. Then he lifted his head, his eyes blazing. “We kill Brusard for him.”

  “No, Remi,” London said. “We have to go back ten years from this time and warn Denis about the coming revolution.”

  Remi tore himself from their arms and took three steps down the road. “So he can end up here?” he demanded, pointing at Denis’ body.

  “We have to close the loop,” Neven replied.

  Remi shook his head. “Let it stay undone. Let the timeline choke on it. I refuse.”

  Neven glanced at London. She understood what he wanted, even though he didn’t speak. She moved up to Remi and took his arm. “You must,” she said softly. “It is the only way we can take your children home with us. If we don’t go back there, and don’t close the loop, the changes that omission introduces t
o this timeline might destroy any hope they have of a future. Just as they did in your timeline.”

  Remi growled. London didn’t feel any fear, though. He was simply working through his frustrations. He was listening to her.

  Then he let out a heavy bellow of breath and the tension in his arm relaxed. “Alright. Okay. Fine. We go back. After that, I kill Brusard. Those are my terms.”

  Neven opened his mouth to protest.

  “We’ll talk about it when we get back,” London said quickly, before Neven could speak.

  “Talk all you want. I will kill him anyway,” Remi growled. He glanced at Denis’ body. “There’s an old cart falling apart behind the house. It’ll do to get him back to the chateau. Let’s take him home.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Neven remembered the bombs falling upon Kosovo when he was a child. Remi’s face and London’s reminded him of the people who wandered the streets of his neighborhood, their expressions a mix of shock and bewilderment. Puzzlement over how to cope with the upheavals being thrust upon them.

  He kept his voice low and calm, directing London to follow the rickety cart—which was really an overgrown wheelbarrow, with a flat platform instead of a bucket. Even though Remi blustered and muttered about killing Brusard, his eyes wore a pinched look and he was slow to respond to anything.

  Neven waited with one of the cart handles in his hands. “You must pull the other,” he explained to Remi. “I could haul it by myself, only it would look odd to anyone who sees us. Pick up the handle, Remi.”

  Remi blinked. He came over and gripped the other handle.

  Neven checked that London was behind them, then pulled the cart into motion. Remi didn’t have to do anything other than look as though he was pulling.

  They rattled and clattered home, the wheels rocking from side to side on the old cart, as if they might fall off at any moment. They stayed on long enough for them to take the longer route, following the road around to the bridge across to the village, then through the village itself.

  It was still early. The same people were going about their business this morning whom Neven had spoken to yesterday, asking after London. A few of them glanced at Neven, London and Remi. They nodded at Neven. He’d found the lady he had been asking after.