With a practiced gesture, ó Cuilinn drew a small metal bar from his pocket. It was just a few inches long, made of some dull silvery material. He pressed a spot on the side of the octopus’s body. A section of the front slid open—as though the octopus had opened its mouth into a rectangular yawn. ó Cuilinn placed the metal bar inside. The mouth closed again; this time, I could see the thin lines marking its edges.
“What kind of metal is that?” my father asked.
“An iron-chromium alloy, your Majesty,” ó Cuilinn replied. “It proves less reactive than pure iron.”
If he doubted my father’s ability to understand the answer, he made no sign of it. But one question led to a barrage of others from the Court scientists. Those batteries, what were they, and what charge did they produce? Was it purely electricity his device used? If so, what role did those glass tubes perform? A modified Leclanché cell, ó Cuilinn replied. Ammonium chloride mixed with Plaster of Paris, sealed in a zinc shell, each of which produced 1.5 volts. He was corresponding with a collective of scientists from Sweden and the Dietsch Empire, concerning a rechargeable battery with nickel and cadmium electrodes in a potassium hydroxide solution. Yes, the results would certainly prove more reliable. Also, more expensive. (Here the councilors muttered something about how these research men always demanded more money.) As for the role of the batteries, they were purely to start the necessary reactions. He would rather not discuss the further details until his Majesty and the gentlemen had observed the machine’s performance.
Turning away from his audience, ó Cuilinn began to manipulate a series of switches and dials along the lower edge of the machine. The scientists and mathematicians fell silent, absorbed in watching his work. The astrologers were less entranced, and one old man continued to mutter about the stars and their effect upon the Earth’s magnetic currents. ó Cuilinn ignored them all. His long slim fingers moved deftly over the octopus’s face. Gradually I became aware of a soft buzzing between my ears. My skin along my arms itched. Just as I reached up to rub them, a loud crack echoed from the device.
The audience gasped. I started, then found myself unable to move.
Gas inside the tubes ignited into gaudy colors; the wires burned golden inside. Smoke roiled around the device, and there was a distinct burning odor, as though lightning had struck inside the palace. The astrologers and other philosophers were all whispering. The scientists frowned. My father too was frowning, but in concentration.
ó Cuilinn alone seemed unperturbed. He leaned down and touched the device. Again the octopus yawned. I stared, uncertain what I might see inside its mouth.
I saw nothing.
More muttering broke out, louder than before.
“Where has it gone?” my father asked.
“The future,” Doctor ó Cuilinn replied.
An uncomfortable silence followed that pronouncement.
Less assured than before, ó Cuilinn said, “Please understand that I’ve not yet calibrated the timeframe. So I cannot predict when it will reappear.”
“Meaning, it might be anywhere,” one mathematician said.
“Or any when,” another quipped.
A bark of laughter, just as quickly smothered. My father said, “Your application states you are on the point of proving that time travel is possible.”
“I have proved it,” ó Cuilinn said, a bit heatedly.
My father smiled. It was a kindly smile, but his obvious sympathy clearly irritated this young son of a country doctor just as much as the open disbelief from the scientists. Flushed, he jerked around to face my father. “I have proved it,” he repeated. “Even if I cannot predict precisely when into the future my machine sends these objects. And, well, there are certain difficulties. But to overcome them, I need money. It is a crass plea, your Majesty. I know that. But I swear you shall not regret it.”
My father gazed at him steadily, no trace of kindness on his face now. “What use do you see for such a machine, Doctor ó Cuilinn?”
“That is not for me to say, your Majesty. But if you were to ask—”
“I just did, young man.”
Breandan ó Cuilinn grinned, then ducked his head. “So you did, your Majesty. Well, then. I would say the uses are infinite, just as time is. You could send artifacts forward, for future historians. And if once we make travel into the future, surely it follows that those in the future will have the means to communicate with us. Think of that, speaking with the future and hearing its answer. “
One of the astrologers objected. “Impossible. If the future is immutable, our descendents cannot interfere by offering us assistance, in any form.”
“How, immutable?” said one of the philosophers. “If the future has not happened yet, we are free to change it.”
“But change implies existence—”
“It implies nothing of the sort. You can change a man’s potential without altering his situation—”
The argument broke out, louder and more strident than before. ó Cuilinn scowled. My father shook his head, but made no effort to quash the debate. He beckoned ó Cuilinn to one side. They stood within a half dozen steps from my alcove. One glance upward, and the man would see me, or at least my dim outline, but his attention was wholly upon my father.
“Tell me truthfully,” my father said, “how you believe to breach the walls of time.” And as ó Cuilinn looked about to launch into a long speech, he held up a hand. “In simple terms, please. I have dabbled in science in my youth, but I am no scholar.”
ó Cuilinn flushed and smiled. “You undervalue yourself, your Majesty. I know your reputation. Well, then, my research and my methods depend on time fractures. These are—”
“I know what time fractures are. Most scholars believe them to be myth.”
“They are not. Or rather, I have uncovered certain historical documents that support their existence. My theory is that they cluster around specific events. If you provide me with funding, I can map the largest of these clusters and use them to send forward items. Of course I would also need to refine my calibrations for how far into the future . . . ”
My father nodded, but said nothing. By now, the noisy debate had died off. Clearly the demonstration was over. My father spoke a few final words to ó Cuilinn, so softly I could not make out the words, then with a signal, he and his court departed.
From my alcove, I watched ó Cuilinn disassemble his machine into pieces and pack them into the same five crates. Though I knew he must be frustrated, or angry, he worked without hurry, carefully wrapping each item into paper sleeves, then packing them into straw and cotton. His were strong deft hands, pale and beautiful in the fading November sunlight. A faint flush lingered on his cheeks. Now that I had the leisure, I could examine him freely. He was long-limbed and graceful. His complexion fair, his hair the color of pale straw, and fine. Not precisely handsome, but pleasing to look upon. I wondered if he had had many lovers.
Doubtful, I thought. A man like that—a scientist—could have only one obsession in his life, and usually that was his craft, not a woman.
He had done with his packing. Still he had not detected my presence, but then I had placed myself outside of anyone’s casual notice. It was a trick my mother had taught me, back when I was a young child. Watch first, she said, and then you will know how to act.
One by one, the crates vanished from the room—no doubt going back to the same hired van. ó Cuilinn returned a final time and scanned the empty room, as though checking for forgotten items. The sunlight fell across his face, but his expression was hard to read. Discouraged? Or merely preoccupied?
The door swung shut. I counted to ten before I left my alcove.
Only a half hour had passed since ó Cuilinn had begun his demonstration, and yet the sun already dipped below the windows. The fire burned low; the air felt chill. Soon servants would come to sweep the floor, rebuild the fire. Soon my father would send for me, to ask me my impressions. Still, I lingered. I made a slow circuit of the room, s
niffing. The burning odor had faded, but traces of it remained. The closer I approached the table, the stronger the traces were. The prickling sensation returned, as though tiny pins ran over my arms and neck.
Intrigued, I held my hands a few inches over the table. Where the octopus had sat, it felt pleasantly warm.
His demonstration was exactly like that of an illusionist. One moment, you saw the apple on his palm, the next it had disappeared. Hardly proof of a scientific discovery.
But he was so certain. And I am certain he could not lie, even if it meant his death.
And then I saw it—a shadow on the table. A clear dark shadow, in spite of the fading afternoon light. I bent closer. Not a shadow, but a thin layer of ashes on the tabletop. Exactly where the bar had sat inside the machine.
My pulse beating faster, I touched a fingertip to the shadow. A film of dust clung to my skin. I tasted it. (A rash move, since several of my recent ancestors had been poisoned.)
Fine grit on my tongue. A sour metallic taste.
Rust?
No, not just rust—a metal bar, corroded.
Very quietly, I brushed the iron flakes into my palm and closed my fingers around them. I felt as though I held the future.
A year and a month passed before I saw Doctor ó Cuilinn’s name again.
My father had approved a grant for his research, and from time to time, the King’s Constabulary sent reports on his work, but these went directly to my father. My own time was consumed latterly with preparations for my formal presentation to the Congress of Éireann. I had appeared before them once, five years go, when my elder brother died, and my father named me the new heir, but that was a token affair. Now that I was eighteen, almost nineteen; this presentation signaled I would soon take my place at my father’s side in ruling the kingdom.
This morning, however, one of those reports lay in the stack of documents handed to me by my father’s secretary. Memory shivered through me as I read the name. Only after a moment did I take in the import of the report itself.
“He has given up his post,” I said. “I wonder why?”
“Who has?” my father said.
We sat at the breakfast table, both of us reading feverishly in preparation for another long day. Lately, my father spent more time reading than consuming his breakfast, which worried me, and his face had taken on a gaunt and harried look. He looked older—much older—than his fifty-seven years. One could almost see the shadow of bones beneath the translucent veil of his fair skin.
He has outlived three children and his wife. He is older than his years.
Hurriedly, I put that thought aside. “Doctor ó Cuilinn,” I said, in answer to his question. “The man who invented the time machine.”
“Hardly invented,” my father murmured. “There were and remain several significant obstacles to such a device.”
“The corrosion of materials?” I guessed.
“Among others. According to the Constabulary, our doctor made slow but regular progress for the first six months. Lately, however, his laboratory assistants admit they do little more than sweep the floors while Doctor ó Cuilinn scribbles notes and formulas into his journal.”
“You set spies upon him.”
My father set his papers aside and regarded me with mild eyes. “I set spies upon everyone, my love. It is necessary, and you know it.”
I did. I remembered the assassination attempts from my childhood, and the investigations after my mother’s and brother’s deaths, when my father stalked the corridors of the palace, suspecting every councilor and courtier of plotting against the throne. That investigation had proved a simple accident of infection. But the assassination attempts—those were real.
“Back to Doctor ó Cuilinn,” my father said. “He gave no concrete reason for quitting his post, but if I were to guess, I would say he believes himself close to discovery. He wants no distractions.”
“But the reports—”
“—are accurate, but they can only record his outward activities. Not his secret thoughts.”
Or his soul, I thought. I had only observed the man for a scant half hour. Still, he had impressed me as someone who did not give up very easily. The word obsessed came back to me, along with a tremor of premonition. “Will you extend his grant, then?”
“Possibly. Certain members of our Congress believe the device will have practical applications, and my scholars agree Doctor ó Cuilinn’s theory about time fractures is . . . plausible.”
His gaze turned inward a moment, as though he were gazing upon a scene far different from this bright breakfast room, the warm yellow gaslight glinting off the silver platters and coffee urns. Was he pondering the implications of time fractures? (The idea alone made me shiver.) Or was he perhaps remembering my mother?
Then he gave himself a shake. “Enough speculation. We both have a busy schedule this morning. Let us finish our breakfast and set to work.”
It was Tuesday. A day set aside for meeting with delegations from other nations. Today, my father would meet with the Prussian ambassador, a stiff-necked, belligerent man, who matched his king’s personality well. It would not be a pleasant hour. The Prussian States were seeking to expand their territory, and while their activities did not affect Éireann directly, they did affect our closest ally, Frankonia.
Mine was the easier morning. A brief meeting with the newly-appointed representative from the Papal States. Another with a group of Nubian scholars, who wished to organize an exchange between their universities and ours. A much longer session with an ambassador from the Turkish States, listening demurely as the ambassador droned on, and the interpreter murmured in my ear.
The hour bells chimed. The Turkish ambassador and I rose and went through all the formalities of leave-taking. It had been an especially tedious hour, and later events should have erased this insignificant moment from my memory, but a scattering of images and impressions remained. The man’s pale blue eyes, almost ghostly in his pale brown face. The high soothing lilt of his voice. How faint lines and mottlings belied his otherwise youthful appearance. The scent of coriander and rose and patchouli that hung about his person.
One of the senior runners escorted the ambassador from the room. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. A few moments remained before the next interview. I needed them. My head ached. My muscles felt tense from too many hours of control.
And then, a door swung open.
I heard it first, a deep, grating noise that penetrated to my bones.
Even when I opened my eyes, I could not quite take in what I saw.
It was not the unobtrusive side door, used by servants and runners. Nor the ordinary-sized doors used by state visitors, such as the Turkish ambassador. No, these were the doors used only for affairs of state. Immense. Each panel carved from a single tree imported from the American Farther Coast, decorated with intricate patterns and overlaid in gold leaf.
An old man in dark livery marched into the room and stepped to one side.
Next came a silver-haired Lord with the ribbon and chain of office draped over his raven-black coat. It was Lord Melville, the oldest of my father’s Councilors. He had served as an officer, then as my grandfather’s personal advisor, when my father was but a young man. Old, so very old, his thin white hair like a veil over his skull. He walked with a stiff limp, but he held his chin high, and I saw there were tears in his pale blue ears.
He stopped six paces away. “Your Majesty.”
“What are you saying?” I whispered.
Lord Melville knelt before me and bent his head. “My Queen. I have the great misfortune to report that your father . . . ”
I heard nothing past that, only a roaring in my ears, but I knew what he was saying. My father was dead. Impossible, cried a voice within. He was well not three hours ago. He—
“ . . . the first to pledge my honor, my loyalty, my blood, and my self to your throne . . . ”
My pulse thundered; my body turned numb. As Lord Melville recit
ed the vows of Lord to Queen, a part of me remembered that he had recited those same vows to my father, twenty years before, when he had lost his father to an attack from Anglian revolutionaries. It was important that I face the news with as much strength and composure as my father had. And so, when Lord Melville finished his speech, I held out my hands to receive his kiss upon my rings. With great difficulty (I knew better than to make any move to assist him), Lord Melville rose and gave way to the next Lord just entering the chamber . . .
Later, much later, I sat alone in my private chambers in the palace and laid my head upon my hands. Firelight jumped and flickered against the dark walls. No gas lamps burned. Only a single candle guttered on the table—an orange-scented perfume overlaying the wood smoke and pervasive sourness of my own fear.
I was Áine Lasairíona Devereaux, the seventeenth of my house to take the throne, the thirty-second ruler of Éireann.
I do not want this, I thought.
I did not want it, but I could not turn away from my duties.
And so I let tradition carry me through the next six weeks. When I look back upon them, I remember nothing in particular, just a weight against my heart, a curious and lasting numbness. The funeral itself proceeded without any misstep. A hundred ambassadors passed before my father’s coffin; thousands more—from Éireann, from the Anglian Dependencies and Albion—paused to bow and whisper a prayer, before making way to the press of mourners behind them.
And I, I stood dry-eyed upon the podium, flanked by guards.
I have no tears, I thought. No grief. Or had grief been burnt entirely away?
There was no one who could answer that question. Or at least, no one I trusted.
Afterward, I met with my father’s Councilors and members of Éireann’s Congress. I held innumerable interviews with representatives from the Continent and farther abroad, those who came to express their condolences, and to reassure themselves that an alliance with Éireann would continue to be to their advantage.
I also met with the royal physicians and ordered an autopsy on my father’s body. They soon reported he had died of a simple heart attack. There were no signs of poisoning, nor that the heart attack had been induced by artificial means. I thanked them for their thoroughness, wondering all the while when my grief would break free.
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