Time Travel Omnibus Volume 2

by Anthology

  “Hey Chuck,” he said. “Working early . . . or late?”

  “Just working.”

  “How, how did you like my guest lecture the other day?”

  “Great, just great.”

  “Why thank you, Chuck. You know, I think you ought to be thanking your lucky stars that you specialized in the second banana, Shakespeare, because I’ve got the Marlovians shaking in their boots.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure you have.” I kept clicking through web-pages.

  “My book is a smash, you have to admit, Chuck. I’d meant to drop off a copy for you.” He thunked a thick tome down on my desk. “I see you’re busy, so I’ll be on my way. Oh . . . would you like me to autograph it before I go?”

  Ay, here’s the rub. As I paged through The Marlowe Fraud Unmasked: Final Proof That Edward De Vere Wrote the Plays, I realized that I had been short-changed my pound of flesh. I had proven myself right, but as the only survivor of the old reality, which my meddling had otherwise wiped out, only I knew that, and I could convince no one. Some revenge, huh? The following weeks revealed that there were occasional improvements in this new version of things, notably that my brother the English major had married a nice girl in Arizona and was now a proud grandfather, as opposed to my brother the physicist in Pennsylvania who was messily divorced, bitter, and obsessed with his work—but in my situation, there was no improvement as all. Cranchberger was as insufferable and dismissive as ever. I did not have my revenge, and without my brother being a physicist, there was no time machine. I could not meddle my way out of this one.

  At times like this I think of murder, or call my brother (which would not do much good) or consider selling my soul to the Devil.

  I clicked to the university directory. Did we have a Department of Demonology?

  SWING TIME

  Carrie Vaughn

  He emerged suddenly from behind a potted shrub. Taking Madeline’s hand, he shouldered her bewildered former partner out of the way and turned her toward the hall where couples gathered for the next figure.

  “Ned, fancy meeting you here.” Madeline deftly shifted so that her voluminous skirts were not trod upon.

  “Fancy? You’re pleased to see me then?” he said, smiling his insufferably ironic smile.

  “Amused is more accurate. You always amuse me.”

  “How long has it been? Two, three hundred years? That volta in Florence, wasn’t it?”

  “Si, signor. But only two weeks subjective.”

  “Ah yes.” He leaned close, to converse without being overheard. “I’ve been meaning to ask you: have you noticed anything strange on your last few expeditions?”

  “Strange?”

  “Any doorways you expected to be there not opening. Anyone following you and the like?”

  “Just you, Ned.”

  He chuckled flatly.

  The orchestra’s strings played the opening strains of a Mozart piece. She curtseyed—low enough to allure, but not so low as to unnecessarily expose décolletage. Give a hint, not the secret. Lower the gaze for a demure moment only. Smile, tempt. Ned bowed, a gesture as practiced as hers. Clothed in white silk stockings and velvet breeches, one leg straightened as the other leg stepped back. He made a precise turn of his hand and never broke eye contact.

  They raised their arms—their hands never quite touched—and began to dance. Elegant steps made graceful turns, a leisurely pace allowed her to study him. He wore dark green velvet trimmed with white and gold, sea spray of lace at the cuffs and collar. He wore a young man’s short wig powdered to perfection.

  “I know why you’re here,” he said, when they stepped close enough for conversation. “You’re after Lady Petulant’s diamond brooch.”

  “That would be telling.”

  “I’ll bet you I take it first.”

  “I’ll make that bet.”

  “And whoever wins—”

  Opening her fan with a jerk of her wrist, she looked over her shoulder. “Gets the diamond brooch.”

  The figure of the dance wheeled her away and gave her to another partner, an old man whose wig was slipping over one ear. She curtseyed, kept one eye on Lady Petulant, holding court over a tray of bonbons and a rat-like lap dog, and the other on Ned.

  With a few measures of dancing, a charge of power crept into Madeline’s bones, enough energy to take her anywhere: London 1590. New York 1950. There was power in dancing.

  The song drew to a close. Madeline begged off the next, fanning herself and complaining of the heat. Drifting off in a rustle of satin, she moved to the empty chair near Lady Petulant.

  “Is this seat taken?”

  “Not at all,” the lady said. The diamond, large as a walnut, glittered against the peach-colored satin of her bodice.

  “Lovely evening, isn’t it?”

  “Quite.”

  For the next fifteen minutes, Madeline engaged in harmless conversation, insinuating herself into Lady Petulant’s good graces. The lady was a widow, rich but no longer young. White powder caked the wrinkles of her face. Her fortune was entailed, bestowed upon her heirs and not a second husband, so no suitors paid her court. She was starved for attention.

  So when Madeline stopped to chat with her, she was cheerful. When Ned appeared and gave greeting, she was ecstatic.

  “I do believe I’ve found the ideal treat for your little dear,” he said, kneeling before her and offering a bite-sized pastry to the dog.

  “Why, how thoughtful! Isn’t he a thoughtful gentleman, Frufru darling? Say thank you.” She lifted the creature’s paw and shook it at Ned. “You are too kind!”

  Madeline glared at Ned, who winked back.

  A servant passed with a silver tray of sweets. When he bowed to offer her one, she took the whole tray. “Marzipan, Lady Petulant?” she said, presenting the tray.

  “No thank you, dear. Sticks to my teeth dreadfully.”

  “Sherry, Lady Petulant?” Ned put forward a crystal glass which he’d got from God knew where.

  “Thank you, that would be lovely.” Lady Petulant took the glass and sipped.

  “I’m very sorry, Miss Madeline, but I don’t seem to have an extra glass to offer you.”

  “That’s quite all right, sir. I’ve always found sherry to be rather too sweet. Unpalatable, really.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Hm.” She fanned.

  And so it went, until the orchestra roused them with another chord. Lady Petulant gestured a gloved hand toward the open floor.

  “You young people should dance. You make such a fine couple.”

  “Pardon me?” Ned said.

  Madeline fanned faster. “I couldn’t, really.”

  “Nonsense. You two obviously know each other quite well. It would please me to watch you dance.”

  Madeline’s gaze met Ned’s. She stared in silence, her wit failing her. She didn’t need another dance this evening, and she most certainly did not want to dance with him again.

  Giving a little smile that supplanted the stricken look in his eyes, he stood and offered his hand. “I’m game. My lady?”

  He’d thought of a plan, obviously. And if he drew her away from Lady Petulant—she would not give up that ground.

  The tray of marzipan sat at the very edge of the table between their chairs. As she prepared to stand, she lifted her hand from the arm of her chair, gave her fan a downward flick—and the tray flipped. Miniature daisies and roses shaped in marzipan flew around them. Madeline shrieked, Lady Petulant gasped, the dog barked. Ned took a step back.

  A ruckus of servants descended on them. As Madeline turned to avoid them, the dog jumped from Lady Petulant’s lap—for a brief moment, its neck seemed to grow to a foot long—and bit Madeline’s wrist. A spot of red welled through her white glove.

  “Ow!” This shriek was genuine.

  “Frufru!” Lady Petulant collected the creature and hugged it to her breast. “How very naughty of you, Frufru darling. My dear, are you all right?”

 
She rubbed her wrist. The blood stain didn’t grow any larger. It was just a scratch. It didn’t even hurt. “I’m— I—” Then again, if she played this right . . .

  “I—oh my, I do believe I feel faint.” She put her hand to her neck and willed her face to blush. “Oh!”

  She fell on Lady Petulant. With any luck, she crushed Frufru beneath her petticoats. Servants convulsed in a single panicked unit, onlookers gasped, even Ned was there, murmuring and patting her cheek with a cool hand.

  Lady Petulant wailed that the poor girl was about to die on top of her. Pressed up against the good lady, Madeline took the opportunity to reach for the brooch. She could slip it off and no one would notice—

  The brooch was already gone.

  She did not have to feign a stunned limpness when a pair of gallant gentlemen lifted her and carried her to a chaise near a window. Ned was nowhere to be seen. Vials of smelling salts were thrust at her, lavender water sprinkled at her. Someone was wrapping her wrist—still gloved—in a bandage, and someone who looked like a doctor—good God, was the man wielding a razor?—approached.

  She shoved away her devoted caretakers and tore off the bandage. “Please, give me air! I’ve recovered my senses. No, really, I have. If-you-please, sir!”

  As if nothing had happened, she stood, straightened her bodice over her corset, smoothed her skirts, and opened her fan with a snap.

  “I thank you for your attention, but I am quite recovered. Goodbye.”

  She marched off in search of Ned.

  He was waiting for her toward the back of the hall, a fox’s sly grin on his face. Before she came too close, he turned his cupped hand, showing her a walnut-sized diamond that flashed against the green velvet of his coat.

  Turning, he stepped sideways behind the same potted fern where he had ambushed her.

  He disappeared utterly.

  “Damn him!” Her skirts rustled when she stamped her foot.

  Ignoring concerned onlookers and Lady Petulant’s cries after her welfare, she cut across the hall to the glass doors opening to the courtyard behind the hall, and across the courtyard to a hideously baroque statue of Cupid trailing roses off its limbs. She stopped and took a breath, trying to regain her composure. No good brooding now. It was over and done. There would be other times and places to get back at him. Stepping through required calm.

  A handful of doorways collected here in this hidden corner of the garden. One led to an alley in Prague 1600; tilting her head one way, she could just make out a dirty cobbled street and the bricks of a Renaissance façade. Another led to a space under a pier in Key West 1931. Yet another led home.

  She danced for this moment; this moment existed because she danced.

  Behind the statue Madeline turned her head, narrowed her eyes a certain practiced way, and the world shifted. Just a bit. She put out her hand to touch the crack that formed a line in the air. Confirming its existence, she stepped sideways and through the doorway, back to her room.

  Her room: sealed in the back of a warehouse, it had no windows or doors. In it, she stored the plunder taken from a thousand years of history—what plunder she could carry, at least: Austrian crystal, Chinese porcelain, Aztec gold, and a walk-in closet filled with costumes spanning millennia.

  She dropped her fan, pulled the pins out of her wig, unfastened her dress and unhooked her corset. Now that she could breathe, she paced and fumed at Ned properly.

  She really ought to go someplace with a beach next time. Hawaii 1980, perhaps. Definitely someplace without corsets. Someplace like—

  The band played Glenn Miller from a gymnasium stage with a USO banner draped overhead. There must have been a couple hundred G.I.s drinking punch, crowding along the walls, or dancing with a couple hundred local girls wearing bright dresses and big grins. Madeline only had to wait a moment before a G.I. in dress greens swept her up and spun her into the mob.

  Of all periods of history, of all forms of dance, this was her favorite. Such exuberance, such abandon in a generation that saw the world change before its eyes. No ultra-precise curtseys and bows here.

  Her soldier lifted her, she kicked her feet to the air and he brought her down, swung her to one side, to the other, and set her on the floor at last to Lindy hop and catch her breath. Her red skirt caught around her knees, and sweat matted her hair to her forehead.

  Her partner was a good-looking kid, probably nineteen or twenty, clean-faced and bright-eyed. Stuck in time, stuck with his fate—a ditch in France, most likely. Like a lamb to slaughter. It was like dancing a minuet in Paris in 1789, staring at a young nobleman’s neck and thinking, you poor chump.

  She could try to warn him, but it wouldn’t change anything.

  The kid swung her out, released her and she spun. The world went by in a haze and miraculously she didn’t collide with anyone.

  When a hand grabbed hers, she stopped and found herself pulled into an embrace. Arm in arm, body to body, with Ned. Wearing green again. Arrogant as ever, he’d put captain bars on his uniform. He held her close, his hand pressed against the small of her back, and two-stepped her in place, hemmed in by the crowd. She couldn’t break away.

  “Dance with me, honey. I ship out tomorrow and may be dead next week.”

  “Not likely, Ned. Are you following me?”

  “Now how would I manage that? I don’t even know when you live. So, what are you here for, the war bonds cash box?”

  “Maybe I just like the music.”

  As they fell into a rhythm, she relaxed in his grip. A dance was a dance after all, and if nothing else he was a good dancer.

  “I didn’t thank you for helping me with Lady Petulant. Great distraction. We should be a team. We both have to dance to do what we do—it’s a perfect match.”

  “I work alone.”

  “You might think about it.”

  “No. I tried working with someone once. His catalyst for stepping through was fighting. He liked to loot battlefields. All our times dancing ended in brawls.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Somme 1916. He stayed a bit too long at that one.”

  “Ah. I met a woman once whose catalyst was biting the heads off rats.”

  “You’re joking! How on earth did she figure that out?”

  “One shudders to think.”

  The song ended, a slow one began, and a hundred couples locked together.

  “So, how did you find me?” she asked.

  “I know where you like to go.”

  She frowned and looked aside, across his shoulder to a young couple clinging desperately to one another as they swayed in place.

  “Tell me Ned, what were you before you learned to step through? Were you always a thief?”

  “Yes. A highwayman and a rogue from the start. You?”

  “I was a good girl.”

  “So what changed?

  “The cops can’t catch me when I step through.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question. If you were a good girl, why do you use stepping through to rob widows, and not to do good? Don’t tell me you’ve never tried changing anything. Find a door to the Ford Theater and take John Wilkes Booth’s gun.”

  “It never works. You know that.”

  “But history doesn’t notice when an old woman’s diamond disappears. So—what do you use the money you steal for? Do you give it to the war effort? The Red Cross? The Catholic Church? Do you have a poor family stashed away somewhere that you play fairy godmother to?”

  She tried to pull away, but the beat of the music and the steps of the dance carried her on.

  The song changed to something relentless and manic. She tried to break out of his grasp, to spin and hop like everyone else was doing, but he tightened his grip and kept her cheek to cheek.

  “You don’t do any of those things,” she said.

  “How do you know?”

  He was right, of course. She only had his word for it when he said he was a rogue.

  “What are
you trying to say?”

  He brought his lips close to her ear and purred. “You were never a good girl, Madeline.”

  She slapped him, a nice crack across the cheek. He seemed genuinely stunned—he stopped cold in the middle of the dance and touched his face. A few bystanders laughed. Madeline turned, shoving her way off the dance floor, dodging feet and elbows.

  She went all the way to the front doors before looking back. Ned wasn’t following her. She couldn’t see him at all, through the mob.

  In the women’s room she found her doorway to Madrid 1880 where she’d stashed a gown and danced flamenco, then to a taverna in Havana 1902, and from there to her room. He wouldn’t possibly be able to follow that path.

  Unbelievable, how out of a few thousand years of history available to them and countless millions of locations around the world, they kept running into each other.

  Ned wore black. He had to, really, because they were at the dawn of the age of the tuxedo, and all the men wore black suits: black pressed trousers, jackets with tails, waistcoats, white cravats. Madeline rather liked the trend, because the women, in a hundred shades of rippling silk and shining jewels, glittered against the monotone backdrop.

  Gowns here didn’t require the elaborate architecture they had during the previous three centuries. She wore a corset, but her skirt was not so wide as to prevent walking through doorways. The fabric, pleated and gathered in back, draped around her in slimming lines. She glided tall and elegant, as a Greek statue.

  He hadn’t seen her yet. For once, she had the advantage. She watched behind the shelter of a neoclassical pillar. He moved like he’d been born to this dance. Perhaps he had. Every step made with confidence, he and his partner might have been the same unit as they turned, stepped, turned, not looking where they were going yet never missing a step. It always amazed her, how a hundred couples could circle a crowded ballroom like this and never collide.

  He was smiling, his gaze locked on his partner’s the whole time. For a moment, Madeline wished she were dancing with him. Passing time had cooled her temper.