by Gwyn Cready
Peter nodded. The sadness returned and he went back to his painting.
“There is something else, though,” Mertons said.
“Oh?”
“It was in the news this morning. Miss Stratford’s book has been canceled. Seems the narrative took a turn for the worse.”
If Mertons had expected a cheer or even a victorious “Aye!” he was disappointed. Peter’s only reaction was a brief half smile.
“I am glad for the sake of the Guild.” Peter reloaded his brush with paint.
“And the Guild appreciates your time, though, of course, we were not as lucky in discovering the writer’s source of travel.”
Peter grunted. Mertons knew the man’s heart had never been in the assignment.
“I, er, found out a bit more about her motives.”
“Did you?”
“It certainly doesn’t excuse it, of course, but it seems she is in line for a promotion at her place of business—a museum of art, actually—and publishing a book is apparently an important hurdle in achieving that goal.”
“Let us hope she finds contentment elsewhere.”
Mertons smiled. Dry wit was an improvement over dour moodiness.
“Uh, she may get the promotion yet.”
“How?”
“The variables weren’t robust enough for significance, but directionally she appears to be heading for it. It seems she has negotiated the gift of a rather expensive painting to the museum—a Van Dyck, oddly enough, a portrait of the Countess of Moreland—and that may carry the day.”
“So, despite everything, our writer profits?”
“But the book is stopped. That is the important thing. As I said, the Guild is quite grateful.”
Peter made no reply, and Mertons turned his attention to the portrait. He regarded the flowing, flame-colored hair, sparkling on a gold background, and pale-blue gown. There was a silver hair clip pinned to the top of the easel.
“Is that Ursula?”
Peter daubed speckles of green into the hair. “Sometimes. It is today.”
“I must apologize. The Guild gave me no indication of the circumstances regarding her death. If they had, I hope I would have handled the affair with more delicacy. I’m sorry. It must have been very hard for you to go back.”
Peter sighed, laid down his brush, and extended his hand. “Thank you, Mertons. You are most kind.”
Footsteps on the path made them turn. Rembrandt was half running, journal in hand.
Peter held up his palm. “Mertons told me the news. I am glad for Van Dyck’s sake.”
“No, Peter,” Rembrandt said. “There is more. At the bottom.” He slipped on his glasses and read, “‘The publisher will instead publish a different novel from Stratford, The Artist and the Angel of the Street, an intimate look into the steamy goings-on in the studio of Peter Lely, bad-boy portraitist to the court of Charles II, where no woman’s portrait was complete until she loosened her tongue, her gown, and her morals, and the love affair with a prostitute that drove Lely to heartbreak.’”
Twenty-six
The Afterlife, Van Dyck’s home
“And that’s the whole story?”
“Aye.” Peter gazed at the pale-eyed, mustached man before him. They had known each other before, but not in this place. It was almost like meeting one’s father and discovering he hadn’t aged but you had. Peter was older now than Van Dyck, for Van Dyck had died at little more than forty. In the Afterlife, one remained one’s dying age until being reborn. Peter wouldn’t have come—it pained him to humble himself here—but he must stop Campbell Stratford, no matter what it took. How dare she meddle in his life, after using him to get to Van Dyck.
“Well, I’m very sorry for your trouble, Peter. Very sorry. Especially after all that you’ve done for me.” Van Dyck pulled at the narrow beard that ran from his lip to his chin. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“There are two things, actually.”
“Name them.”
“First, please don’t tell the Guild of my visit to you today.”
Van Dyck looked at him curiously but nodded. “And the other?”
“I need a letter.”
“Peter, I don’t have my letters here. You know that. None of us does.”
“’Tis a new letter.”
“A new letter?”
“Aye. Get a quill.”
* * *
Peter had constructed his plan carefully, and to have Mertons refuse this simple request was infuriating.
“It’s not that simple, Peter.”
“The hell it’s not.” Peter pounded his fist on the long marble worktable in the Executive Guild’s Time Lab, and Mertons jumped. “I told you, I need only a few hours.”
“Aye, I’ve been hearing that for two days. But while I’m glad to see you are sensible of the impact such an act could have, it doesn’t change the fact that travel into the future is strictly forbidden.”
“But not impossible. Mertons, I have done exactly as I’ve been asked, and at no little cost. The Guild must allow it.”
A blue button flashed on the wall next to the door’s window. Mertons pressed it and the latch on the door opened. A security guard stuck his head in the door, and Mertons waved him away. Peter eyed the ax, rope, and hand and foot cuffs that hung within arm’s length of the table. They clearly had a high regard for security in the lab.
“It cannot be done,” Mertons said, lowering his voice. “Traveling into one’s past is risky enough. Traveling into the future is a recipe for disaster. The models for the future are directional at best. We cannot know what will be affected. Hell, we can barely place someone at the correct destination, let alone ensure that the variables remain stable.”
Peter stole a glance at the locked case in the corner. A book, a scope, and a box of lenses sat on a counter in front of a stool. The whole thing looked as if it belonged in a tent at some village fair, though he knew from firsthand experience how well it worked. He looked at Mertons and with a loud, resigned sigh lowered himself into a chair.
“You’re right,” Peter said, nodding. “The risk is too great. In any case, I’m sure it’s not as simple as traveling backward. The Guild may have standardized many things, but even they could not have standardized that.”
Mertons laughed. “Are you joking? Have you never heard the story? Well, of course, you wouldn’t have, but it’s a good one. This is, oh, ten, fifteen years ago. A time accountant by the name of Robert DeLaney crashes a party at the university one night and meets the girl of his dreams. She professes a deep love for the work of a poet named John Keats. DeLaney, being a man of limitless determination though not ethics, quickly offers to introduce her. This is before the era of security cards and aura scans, of course. He brings her to the Time Lab and sets her up at The Book of Years.” Mertons inclined his head toward the book in the locked display. “And just as I did with you, Peter, he opens the book to 1962.”
“That magical year that is the focal point of all time travel?”
“Yes. As I said, it is a mystery time scientists may never understand. DeLaney opens the box of spyglasses, and after checking whether she wants the pre- or postconsumptive Keats, begins to fashion the scope into a proper configuration. Being a romantic, she chooses postconsumptive, and DeLaney dutifully selects the ‘141’ lens to get her the hundred and forty-one years she’ll need to move from 1962 back to 1821, the year Keats happens to be dying in Rome. Then he sits her in front of the spyglass, turns for a moment to pontificate on the magnificent intricacies of time travel—you know the verbosity of some men when it comes to this topic—and when he turns back, the spyglass is on the chair and she’s gone.”
“She’s left on her own,” said Peter, who knew that once you had the right lens it was simply a matter of pointing it at the page in the book.
&nbs
p; “Well, that’s certainly what he assumes. And being the gentleman he is, he gives her a good thirty minutes to get her fill of Keats’s sentimental imagery and wheezy coughing. Then he refocuses the lens to snap her back, and—lo and behold—nothing happens.
“He tries a second time and third time. Still nothing. So he goes back to 1821 himself and takes the glass, for, of course, it’s the only way we know of to trigger a return on your own, though it’s less dependable, which is why the two-person method, with a traveler on one end and a lensman on the other, is preferred.”
Peter gave him a dry smile. “Or perhaps it’s preferred because it ensures the person who’s traveled stays where they’ve been sent until the Guild is sure the job has been done.”
Mertons cleared his throat. “In any case. DeLaney finds Keats, plasters on his chest and a flannel around his head, but no sign of the girl. And no matter what he does, he cannot induce Keats to confess any knowledge of having seen her. Stumped, DeLaney decides to wait there to see if she shows.
“But”—Mertons held up a finger—“at the same time, back in the lab, an early-rising colleague arrives, sees the case open and the lenses gone, and calls the director. The director rushes over and is just about to rouse the Executive Guild from their beds when DeLaney gives up and returns. Horrified at being caught, he explains the situation as well as his motivation, hoping the confession, delivered in a man-to-man tone, will be enough to keep him from losing his job. Well, DeLaney’s smart. The director laughs, certain the girl will arrive eventually, and even offers to give DeLaney the morning off in order to capitalize on the opportunity he’s set up for himself.”
Peter made a fastidious noise. “And?”
“And nineteen hours later, after much wringing of hands, examining of equipment, and the utter implosion of the Guild, the girl reappears. Except,” Mertons said, clapping his hands, “it is the director’s daughter! DeLaney is fired, the director is suspended, and the Guild takes control of the lab. They restructure the entire security process. Even odder, though, it turns out the girl, who arrives bald and in tears, complaining of being pursued by a band of plethicords—”
“Plethicords?”
Mertons gave him a shrug that suggested he’d asked himself the same question. “It turns out that while DeLaney had his back turned she’d flipped the glass to gaze through the other side, the side without the padded eyepiece, and instead of transporting herself a hundred and forty-one years before 1962, she’s hurled herself a hundred and forty-one years beyond it.”
“The future.”
“The future.” Mertons nodded. “A wild and untamed place. Though who’d have thought it was a simple matter of looking through the other end?”
Peter stroked his chin. It was quite an illuminating story—more illuminating than Mertons had probably intended. And since Peter, like Mertons, perfectly understood the verbosity of some men when it came to time travel, he said, “I see your point about the risk. Tell me, though, given the outcome, what do you think are the implications for the future of, well, traveling to the future?”
“The implications?” Mertons clasped his hands behind his back and paced along the long row of windows with the air of a philosopher. “There are a number of them to be sure. First, there’s a certain amount of ethical debate that will be required before we could reasonably attempt it again, even with trained personnel. Second, the success of the simple reversal of the lens suggests straightforward rearrangements of other time tube paraphernalia may yield similar results. And third…” He laughed a private laugh. “A team of time accountants determined nothing significant had been changed, but even now I can tell you that if it were me being sent forward, I’d be prepared for a plethicord wearing a blond wig—What the…?”
Peter snapped one end of the cuff around his ankle and the other around the leg of the granite table.
The color drained from Merton’s face. “Oh, Peter, you mustn’t.”
“I’m sorry. If there was any other way…” In three strides, Peter was at the case. He lifted his heel and shattered the glass. Instantly an alarm began to ring. He reached in and undid the lock, and the door swung open. “I promise to return as soon as I finish.”
Mertons essayed a heartfelt speech on the risks and costs, most of which was lost on Peter, who picked through the lens case to find the one that would place him on her doorstep. Someone hammered at the door. Peter figured he had only a moment before a battering ram was contrived. He found the lens, laid it backward in the mount, and ran to Mertons.
“Would you care to be punched?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“A plausible defense, Mertons. I’m trying to help you.”
Mertons returned to his theme. “The Executive Guild will be furious. They hold all the cards. Peter, think about your future.”
The first boom sounded at the door. “Dammit, Mertons, shall I punch you or not?”
“This isn’t a joke. You will be brought before the examining board. They’ll start by rescinding your—”
Peter threw a reluctant fist into Mertons’s nose. Over the outraged rage howl, he yelled, “Crumple,” and with the sound of hammering crashes at the door, he returned to the book, put the wrong end of the lens to his eye, focused on the page, and disappeared.
Twenty-seven
Jeanne snapped off her desk lamp, slipped off her pumps, and dug in the tote for her Skechers. If I have to listen to one more high-paid business executive complain about how hard it is to be them, she thought, I’m gonna shoot somebody.
Cam was packed off with Mr. Ball, digging into old, rich-guy food somewhere, and Jeanne was looking forward to an easy bus ride home while she finished the sexy romance novel about the woman who falls into the pages of her favorite book. She actually thought Cam would enjoy it too, given her amazing adventure, but she’d been so damn moody since the Lely thing started, Jeanne didn’t dare risk suggesting it.
She dropped her walking shoes under her desk and was just about to slide a foot in when she noticed a flash of pink on the knuckle of her big toe. Oh, crap. She’d given herself a pedicure this morning—Moorea Dream Mango—and was hoping that wasn’t a smear. She’d just leaned into the kneehole to get a better look when the sound of a crash made her jerk upright.
Her head smacked hard into the underside of the desk, and she flung herself back and shot upright.
Trying to catch his balance in front of Cam’s desk was a long-haired man in a ruffled linen shirt, silk stockings, and puffy brown pants. Holy shit. It’s Hammer time.
“Who are you?” he asked, still clinging to the desk for support.
“Jeanne Turner.” Dazed, she ran across the floor and bumped the door closed. He looked like something out of Shakespeare, but he had a flesh-and-blood quality no actor could convey.
He made a low bow. “I apologize for the interruption. I—What is that?”
“That, my friend, is a laptop.”
He tilted his head slowly. “’Tis a lamp of some sort?”
“For some people, yes.”
His gaze flicked around the room. The coffeemaker, her dress, the tubes of paint at the little practice easel Cam kept on her desk, the telephone. He took a step backward, alarm on his face, then shook his head and brought his attention back to Jeanne. “I…I’m sorry. I should introduce myself. I’m—”
“Oh, I know who you are.”
“You do?”
“Painter by the name of Peter Lely.”
His eyes widened. “I’m looking for a woman.”
“And I’m pretty sure I know who.”
Twenty-eight
“Oh my God,” Anastasia said. “My sister decorates like a fifty-eight-year-old school nurse.”
Jacket, who had always liked Cam’s decorating, said, “Hey, me mum’s a fifty-eight-year-old school nurse.”
“Then
she’d love it here. Jesus, sprigged flannel.” Anastasia kicked the leg of the bed that had been shoved into the corner of the makeshift studio.
Jacket had no feelings for flannel one way or another and viewed the sheets with little interest.
Anastasia wandered to the window, her long legs disappearing under a tight black leather miniskirt.
“I can’t believe she came back here, to Mt. Lebanon.”
He shrugged. “She always told me she liked being reminded of her childhood. Plus, she can take the bus to the museum. She likes that.”
“The bus? Jesus Christ, what next? Twinsets?”
Jacket saw no connection between these items and steered the conversation back on course. “Do you want to see it?”
“The latest Jacket Sprague? I do.”
He turned the easel. She pulled out a pair of glasses and perched them on the end of her nose. Leaving one foot at a right angle to the other, like a ballet dancer, she stepped back. A scent he could only describe as flowers in a harem hung on her shoulders.
“Ballsy,” she said at last. “Ironic. Postapocalyptic Duchamp crossed with John Singer Sargent. Congratulations, you’ve reinvented yourself.”
Jacket beamed. That was exactly what he’d wanted to hear. “I told you it was good.”
“You were right.”
“Did you get a chance to talk to Ball?”
“I did,” she said. “I don’t think this is what he’s looking for.”
“He hasn’t seen this.”
“True. Still, the aesthetic is not—”
“It is true what I heard, then—that he’s buying big?”
“What you heard, my dear,” she said, touching his nose, “is that he’s building a new postmodern house in Florida with an entry hall the size of a small European country. He wants a dozen pieces, same artist. He wants to make a statement. He’s willing to go as high as twenty-five million.”
“Jesus, that’s a hell of a statement.” He took her arm. “Listen, I want it.” Their eyes met, and he felt a tingle of excitement mixed with fear. It was like looking into the eyes of a hungry panther.