A Thief in Time (Thief in Time Series Book 1)

by Cidney Swanson

  In short, he could not buy it.

  He looked up, removing the loupe. “I’m not certain I can concur with Mrs. Wu’s opinion as to the ring’s provenance. It’s understandable, of course. She’s a bit out of her depth.” Another smile, conciliatory.

  The boyfriend looked as though he were about to speak, but at a sharp look from the girl, the young Dane held his tongue.

  “I’m sorry I don’t have better news for you,” continued Martin Nieman. “But at first blush, this does not appear to me to have been produced in Hilliard’s workshop.”

  If the girl looked disappointed, the boy looked . . . angry.

  “I could, of course, run a few more tests, peruse references, and so forth,” said Nieman. He glanced at the boy once more. And then did a double take. “I say,” he began, staring pointedly at the boy’s left earlobe. “That looks interesting.”

  The remark was uttered completely without calculation. The golden earring the boy wore did look interesting. The ear wire was decidedly Elizabethan. Possibly early Jacobean. What if the professor had acquired his pieces from these two rather than the other way round?

  “Might I have a closer look at your earring?” Martin asked politely.

  The girl repeated something to her boyfriend in what Martin assumed was Danish, and the boy removed his earring, passing it over.

  Once more, Martin withdrew his loupe. There it was: the curvature of the miniature clasping mechanism, the uneven fineness of the wire meant to pass through the earlobe—this was no contemporary piece. Before Martin could formulate a question, the girl spoke.

  “It’s another family heirloom. Really old. Maybe, like, Vikings or something.”

  Martin restrained himself from comment. This was no Viking piece, but it was old. It might be Danish, from the time of a King Christian or Frederick—they were all Christians or Fredericks in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.

  “Or maybe not,” the girl added nervously.

  The boy murmured something in her ear.

  “Um, Edmund wants to know the cash value of his earring. If you’re, you know, interested.”

  “Of course, of course. It’s in good condition.” He withdrew his black test stone, scraping the earring over it before placing a drop of 18K solution on it. He raised an eyebrow and reached for the 22K solution. After a moment he addressed the young couple.

  “The gold is of a high-quality alloy. Very soft—you can see where it’s bent here and here—” Martin rather doubted the girl could see it, but professional pride was setting in and he rattled off a few more reasons he could declare with certainty the piece was old.

  The boy was whispering to the girl again as Martin concluded with, “It’s incredible, really, that the ear wire has remained attached for so long.”

  “We’d like to sell the earring instead of the ring,” announced the girl.

  Martin smiled. He made a show of carefully weighing it to distract them from asking its value as an antique and then offered them its value as scrap gold. There were, after all, only so many opportunities he could pass up.

  43

  • HALLEY •

  Half an hour later, Halley was driving Edmund, now $175 richer and down one earring, back from Martin Nieman’s home in Summerland. Driving northbound toward Santa Barbara on the 101 on a Saturday afternoon was bound to be bad, but it was doubly bad today, with visitors from Ventura and LA streaming north for Fiesta.

  Halley’s focus drifted from driving to Edmund’s gold ring and how they still hadn’t found a buyer. He seemed content, though, having made enough cash from the sale of his earring to afford at least fifteen jade rings. He said he would have eight or nine to sell in London, where he could turn a pretty penny on his investment. Halley supposed that if Edmund was content, she could be as well. She certainly didn’t want to accompany him back to the Channel Islands Estate Jewelry and Loan—the store that had accepted her friendship ring. Never mind that they couldn’t have known it had been stolen.

  A car passed her in the slow lane, cherry-red and bedecked in Fiesta finery. Halley had been so distracted she’d practically forgotten Fiesta. How was Edmund going to survive the Applegates’ post-Fiesta bash? She was going to have to hide him away. Or hide away with him . . .

  Her cheeks flushed with the thought. She wouldn’t mind skipping the party to spend more time alone with Edmund. If she was honest, Halley was finding it hard to think of anything as being more interesting than Edmund. Even the hoped-for meeting with the great Ethyl Meier seemed less do-or-die, more optional. DaVinci had always encouraged Halley to avoid pinning all her hopes on the internship with Ms. Meier. Was she finally gaining perspective?

  Sure, costume design still mattered, but it felt less urgent somehow. It wasn’t costume history that sparked her imagination; it was one particular costume hiding under a beach blanket in her truck that she couldn’t stop thinking about. Or rather, it was the owner of the costume that she couldn’t stop thinking about.

  Was this what it felt like to fall in love?

  The possibility kept her silent as she and Edmund crept along on the 101. Outside, the day had grown warmer, but a slight breeze blowing off the ocean kept the air moving. It was perfect weather for driving. Halley had just spotted the first sign for her Montecito exit when her phone vibrated with a text.

  “Read that for me?” asked Halley.

  Edmund picked up her cell phone and examined the screen. “It is most puzzling, lady, but I believe that betwixt my time and yours, certain letters have been exchanged within the alphabetum.”

  “Really? That’s weird.”

  “Certain letters are not formed as I would expect.”

  “Okay, but can you still read what it says?”

  “It is from your friend Mistress DaVinci, who desires you to know, ‘I found a reference to “J. Khan Detective Services, Specializing in the Recovery of Precious Jewelry and Antiques.” The business was only open for six months, from February 2002 through July 2002.’”

  “So I was right,” said Halley. “He does use his time machine to bring things back from the past.”

  “It would seem he has advanced from doing this for others to doing it for his own gain,” replied Edmund.

  Halley scowled.

  “Ah,” said Edmund. “Mistress DaVinci sends another message: ‘Will you send me back to Paris, April 15, 1874?’”

  “What?” asked Halley.

  “She further writes, ‘I want to go to the opening of the first Impressionists’ exhibition. Can you imagine what that would be like? Think about it.’ Shall I respond?”

  Halley’s frown deepened. “Yeah. Tell her it’s not my time machine. And it’s dangerous. I barely understand how it works.”

  Edmund looked alarmed, probably at the prospect of typing so many words.

  “Just type ‘No,’” said Halley.

  Edmund did so, and DaVinci responded.

  “She writes: ‘But you COULD, theoretically, right? Send me to Paris on April 15, 1874?’”

  Halley rolled her eyes. “Did she miss the part where it’s not my time machine?”

  “Shall I ask her?”

  “Just tell her . . . tell her I can’t do it. I didn’t see an input for exact dates on the machine. Don’t write all that. Just say, the scale resolution is set in years, not days.”

  As Edmund typed diligently beside her, Halley suddenly inhaled sharply. The scale resolution was set in years. Years. Not days. That meant . . . What did it mean?

  When she’d imagined returning Edmund to the right place and time, she’d imagined she would pick a day, pick a time of day, pick a year, and pick the location. But the screen on the podium had not provided a line for “time of day” or even “day of the year.” It didn’t calibrate that way. There had been a line for “year” and for “place.” That was all.

  Her pulse picked out a staccato rhythm.

  If she could instruct the machine only to send Edmund back to a particular year, w
ho knew what day it would be for him when he popped back to his century?

  Halley signaled to exit the highway onto Olive Mill Road.

  “Edmund,” she asked, her heart racing, “What month and day was it for you when I pulled you out of your own time?”

  “The fourth day of August, lady.”

  The fourth.

  Today was August fifth.

  Yesterday had been the fourth—for both of them.

  The choice of date and time must be automated, tied somehow to “real” time. If they had to wait another nine days to send him back . . . for Edmund, a week and a half of his life in 1598 would simply vanish. His family wouldn’t know what had happened to him. For ten long days, they would assume he’d run away or been murdered or something horrible.

  Halley took the exit and then took an immediate right onto Olive Mill.

  She was going to have to tell him, and he was going to be devastated. How many times had he brought up the necessity of finding his brother and preventing him from running up more debts? How much debt, exactly, could his brother run up in just ten days? Her stomach twisted.

  Just as she was about to tell Edmund the bad news, her phone rang.

  “The display readeth, ‘Jules Khan,’” said Edmund.

  “Jules Khan?” said Halley. “The professor?”

  The phone continued to ring. Halley swore and pulled her truck to the side of the road.

  44

  • KHAN •

  Half an hour earlier, the professor had been glaring at his cell phone, which had been turned face down and was ringing. It was an unwelcome interruption. As it rang a second time, a third time, he continued ignoring it. But somewhere between the fourth and fifth rings, he decided he was ready for a break from his laborious calculations.

  “Jules Khan,” he said.

  “Oh, I’m so glad I caught you. I was preparing to leave a message.”

  Man’s voice. Trace accent. English. Oh. It was—

  “Sorry, sorry. This is Martin. Nieman.”

  Yes. Khan smiled to himself. Nieman wanted the valuable sixteenth-century carcanet after all. Nieman had doubtless spent the morning fretting over the piece he had not purchased, feeling upset with himself for not having snatched it up when he had the chance, before Khan had decided to up the going price.

  And he would up the going price. He smiled more broadly.

  “What can I do for you, Martin?”

  “Yes. I—it’s just . . . I’m sorry. Let me start over. I was prepared to leave a message, you know, only now you’ve answered—”

  “Is this about the ruby and sapphire collar?”

  “Ah. No. Actually, I’m terribly sorry, but I must stand my ground on—”

  “Then what?” snapped Khan, now able to feel properly irritated by the interruption.

  “Yes. Well, it’s about the items I acquired this morning, in a manner of speaking.”

  “A sale is a sale, Mr. Nieman.”

  “Quite. Yes. No, this isn’t buyer’s remorse.” Nieman laughed nervously. “Quite the opposite, don’t you know. It’s just, I’ve only now finished the most extraordinary consultation, and I thought . . . well, I decided it would be remiss of me not to mention it to you.”

  “Mention what to me, Mr. Nieman?” Khan knew his impatience read clearly in his tone.

  “Right. A young couple, surname of Smith, came to see me shortly after lunch at my residence—most unusual, but then I wasn’t planning to go back in to work, not on the weekend—”

  “Martin!”

  “The thing is, this couple offered for sale a gold ring with a maker’s mark I’m absolutely certain belonged to Nicholas Hilliard.”

  Khan stood suddenly. “A ring from Hilliard’s workshop? Are you certain?”

  “Ah, well now, there’s no need to call in question my ability—”

  “Right. Of course you’re certain.”

  He’d offended Nieman. If the antiques dealer was able to identify the workmanship of the pieces he, Khan, had brought in, naturally he would have been equally well able to detect the provenance of another piece from the same workshop.

  “Quite,” replied Martin Nieman. “And I thought I’d best pass the information along, in the unlikely event you had recently found yourself, er, deprived of anything valuable from your collection.”

  “I see,” said Khan. He was pacing rapidly. Not usually a violent man, he nonetheless wanted very badly to break something. “I see,” he repeated. “As I have not recently been deprived of any of my personal property, I imagine this must be merely one of life’s odd . . . coincidences.”

  “Yes. A coincidence. Right-oh. So very glad to hear it. I’ll just ring off then—”

  “Just one more thing—could you provide a description of the young man and woman?”

  Martin Nieman was more than happy to do this, going into more than enough detail to confirm their identities.

  Khan’s hands were shaking as he tapped the screen to end his call. This was no coincidence. This was the proof he’d been after.

  “Surname of ‘Smith,’ my ass,” he muttered, pacing before his desk. They’d assumed false identities. Which meant they knew they had something to hide. They knew they were in trouble. And they were. In deep trouble. Because the girl had been here—here in his inviolable sanctuary—and she had used the singularity machine.

  In a swift motion, he swept a dozen photographs off his desk.

  He stared at the mess. He didn’t like messes. It hadn’t made him feel any better, either. He liked neatness. Order. Tidiness.

  Carefully, he stooped and gathered the scattered pictures, muttering, “Coincidence, my ass.”

  Khan didn’t believe in coincidences. He believed in tidying up, however.

  Picking up his phone, he dialed Halley Mikkelsen’s number.

  45

  • HALLEY •

  Halley answered the call after the fourth ring.

  “This is Halley.”

  “Dr. Khan here. Jules Khan. I wanted to thank you again for taking such good care of my property yesterday.”

  Yesterday? Had that been yesterday? It felt like an entire year had passed since she’d watched Khan’s estate. It felt like the work had been done by a different person. Khan was waiting for a response.

  “Sure,” she said. “I mean, you’re welcome.”

  “I wondered if you’d be interested in a longer-term assignment?”

  “Assignment?”

  “House-sitting this weekend.”

  Halley grimaced. House-sitting was her mom’s thing. Not hers. Never hers.

  “I don’t house-sit.”

  Another chuckle. “Some might beg to differ—”

  “No, I really don’t. Not professionally. Yesterday was a one-time thing.”

  She could feel a knot forming in her stomach. A memory returned. She’d been nine or ten and had created a business card, carefully copying one of her mother’s cards in tiny, precise print, replacing “Inga Mikkelsen” with “Mikkelsen and Daughter.” Her mother had scowled and thrown it away when Halley had presented it to her, but it wasn’t this memory alone that was tying her stomach into a knot.

  It was . . . repulsion. Halley’s mind was racing ahead, telling her how easily she could end up trapped in her mother’s life, with no friends, alone, until one day she woke up a bitter, demanding, selfish old woman.

  “I’m sorry I can’t help,” she said.

  “Wait—just hear me out.”

  She clenched her fists. She wasn’t her mother. She had plans. She had friends. She had a life. She didn’t have to hear the professor out.

  The professor continued, oblivious. “I’m in a tight spot for this coming week. I can make it worth your while.”

  This coming week? Halley’s gaze shifted to Edmund.

  “How does a hundred fifty a day plus food sound?” When Halley didn’t answer, Khan said, “I can go as high as two fifty.”

  “Um, you said this week?” If
it were possible to get Edmund back to his family sooner . . .

  “Starting tomorrow evening.”

  Tomorrow? Halley’s heart thudded in her chest. Tomorrow was too soon. She couldn’t say goodbye tomorrow. She wasn’t ready.

  “Of course, if you’re really not interested . . .” Khan allowed the thought to trail. “I suppose I can work down my list. I really can’t afford to miss this opportunity.”

  Boom. Boom. Boom. It felt as if there wasn’t enough air in the truck. Her hand scrabbled for the window crank. She needed air. Edmund, seeing her trying to get the window down, reached across her and smoothly turned the crank. Warm air and mariachi music from a passing vehicle floated into the cab.

  “Tell you what,” said the professor. “I’ll throw in driving privileges for the Tesla.”

  “Can I call you back in a minute?” Her voice rasped as she asked the question. She tried to swallow, but her mouth had gone completely dry. She felt like she might be sick.

  “Of course. I’ll be right here.”

  The call ended.

  The invitation to house-sit starting tomorrow solved a huge problem. It put her—and Edmund—eight days ahead of schedule, which was a godsend in light of what she had just figured out about the time machine’s limitations. It was the right thing to do.

  But how was she supposed to say goodbye to Edmund tomorrow?

  She couldn’t breathe.

  “Lady—Halley! Thy lips are pallid. Rest thy head at a lower incline.”

  Head between her knees. Right. Good plan. Except, the steering wheel was in the way. Fumbling, she opened the door, swung her feet around, and leaned forward.

  “Calm thyself,” Edmund said, his voice gentle.

  How could she? There was no calming this . . . this . . . this.

  She had to say goodbye to Edmund tomorrow. She felt like she should be sobbing, wailing, keening, but her eyes were dry. Her mouth was dry. She was numb, because really, the decision was already made. This wasn’t something she needed to take a moment for; it wasn’t a decision that required deliberation. For Edmund’s sake, she had to say yes to the professor. And as soon as she could start up that time machine, she had to send Edmund home. Tomorrow. There was no other possible choice.