Into the Dim

by Janet B. Taylor

  Hectare’s grin showed her pale pink gums and creased her cheeks into a hundred wrinkles. “How could I forget?” she answered. “Considering I saw the same woman this very night at the feast. Black hair. Eyes that pierce. A haughty manner. And a face that had aged but little in over fifty years.”

  “Celia.” Phoebe breathed the name.

  “Just so,” the nun nodded. “That was her name then as it is now. She wanted that stone very much. I could see it in her eyes. To be truthful, the woman frightened me. I recommended the sisters not allow her access.”

  “Bet she didn’t like that much,” I muttered.

  Hectare chuckled. “No, no she did not.”

  “Sister,” Phoebe asked, “do you know what happened to the opal? Is it still there?”

  A flare of hope fired through me. We thought the opal in the Jews’ dagger was the Nonius Stone, but what if we were wrong? What if it was still safe in a French abbey?

  As if she could read my thoughts, Hectare shook her head. “No, child. The stone was sold off many years ago, before I was even called upon to help care for Eleanor and her sister, Petronilla. I’ve tried to keep track of it, however. All these years. There was something . . . odd about it. I—I needed to know where it had gone. I think we both know where it is right now: secure in the king’s counting chamber.”

  Phoebe and I sat immobile, stunned. Recently—at least in our own timeline—Celia had traveled back fifty years before this time and tried to buy or steal the Nonius Stone from the nuns. She’d failed, thanks to this amazing little woman before us. I felt an enormous tenderness and grief wash over me. Hectare was fading, and the world would be a sadder place without her.

  “Sister.” I choked against the lump in my throat. “Why are you helping us?”

  Hectare leaned forward and touched first my face, then Phoebe’s. “The two of you,” she said, “have a light around you that is so bright, I can barely see your features at times. It is a lavender shade that dances and flares from your skin. The black-haired woman also glows with this same light.” The wise, ancient eyes turned to me. She laid a too-cold hand on top of mine. “Like this Celia, you do not belong here.” Hectare’s scratchy voice dropped. “Or am I simply being fanciful in my old age?”

  “No,” I whispered. Her dear, homely features blurred. “You’re not being fanciful.”

  Hectare let out a deep sigh, and her eyes closed. “Then we must help you to get home.”

  Chapter 34

  THE SNOW HAD STOPPED DURING THE NIGHT. Outside in the predawn, the London streets glowed oddly bright as a new coating of sugary snow reflected the expanse of stars above. Phoebe’s black horse and my bay slogged through knee-high drifts toward the Tower of London. I couldn’t quit staring up as the horses whuffed clouds of steam into the brittle air.

  With no earthly light to compete against, a trillion stars glittered like tiny holes punched into a field of velvet, allowing an unearthly light to filter through.

  Twenty-four hours. It’s all we have left. Then the Dim will come. And if we aren’t there . . . poof.

  “Okay. My brain was too fashed when we went to bed, so explain it to me again.” Phoebe jounced at my side. “The stuff Rachel’s bringing.”

  “Oil of vitriol,” I told her, “is basically sulfuric acid. I had a hunch Aaron might use it. It’s common for apothecaries and blacksmiths during this time to keep a diluted form to clean their tools. We are going to use a full-strength version to melt those iron bars and get Collum the hell out of that cell.”

  “Will it really work?”

  “It . . . it has to.”

  The streets were mostly empty, though we had to duck around a corner when a city guard stomped by, muttering to himself as he pushed through the pristine snow.

  “I’ve been to the Tower before,” Phoebe said. “On a school trip to London. There used to be a moat encircling the walls. How will we get over?”

  I grinned. “The moat hasn’t been built yet. Richard the Lionheart had it constructed. And at the moment, he’s not even a gleam in Henry’s eye.”

  Phoebe snickered as our horses ambled along, patiently wading through the powder. I patted my mare’s neck. She tossed her head in answer, harness jingling in the stillness.

  On the ride over, the crisp air cleaned most of the cobwebs out of my head, and I was able to mull over everything we’d learned. The Timeslippers were after the Nonius Stone. That was clear enough. And who knew what they might do once they had it.

  Yet Celia’s motives were murkier. I didn’t know what had happened between my mom, Celia, and Michael MacPherson, but I was convinced it was key. Why go to all the trouble and risk of trapping my mother here? Of selling her out to the brutal Babcock? That took planning and foresight. No. Something else had occurred that night. Something besides Michael choosing to stay behind.

  “There they are.” Lost in the puzzle of what could’ve happened twelve years ago, I startled at Phoebe’s alert.

  “Yeah.” I nodded, shaking it off to concentrate on the task at hand. “Good.”

  William and Rachel hadn’t heard our approach, locked as they were in each other’s arms. My heart squirmed as William pulled back and gently clasped Rachel’s face between his palms.

  “I cannot bear it,” he was saying. “Please, do not go to him.”

  Rachel’s face crumpled in agony. “You know I must. My father, he—”

  “Damn your father.” William seized her arms. “All he cares for is the contract he’ll gain if you marry into that family. Tell me it isn’t so.”

  She gazed up into his face, wet eyes sparkling in the low light, like nuggets of gold under a moonlit stream. He pulled her to him. When they swayed together, I could feel the misery streaming off them.

  My horse whinnied, blowing steam. Startled, the two broke apart.

  “Oy.” William sent a final pleading look at Rachel before he stepped away. “There you are. Let’s get this done.”

  After we dismounted, I hurried to Rachel and whispered, “I’m sorry. We didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  Rachel swiped at her cheeks and tried to smile, but it wobbled and faded. “It matters not.”

  A single tear plopped into the snow as she bent to pick up the handle of a small iron pot. William opened the gate, obviously uncomfortable. He thought we were just going for a last visit. If he had known what we really planned, there was no way he’d have allowed it.

  Once we made it through the thick wall and into the snow-packed yard, William spoke. “I’ll wait outside and make sure no one comes. But I like this not. Pray you let me come with you.”

  He glanced at the pot dangling at Rachel’s side. “Food for the prisoner,” she lied. “He must be hungry, and even a thief deserves a meal.”

  William’s eyes narrowed, though his shoulders slumped in acquiescence. “Hurry. Dawn approaches, and the guards make their round on the half hour. We must away by then.” He pointed across a snowy expanse to where several ground-level, arched openings stood black against the paler stone. “Last one, near the back corner.”

  Once he was safely outside the wall, the three of us plowed across the yard. Our skirts grew heavy, as snow caked us to the knees.

  “Is it strong enough?” I whispered to Rachel. “How is it not melting the pot?”

  “’Tis lined with gold, which isn’t affected by the oil. It’s a fresh batch, though, and should attain our purpose.”

  It had to work. Had to. In a little over twenty-four hours, the Dim would come to take us home. And we were going to be there if it killed me. All of us.

  “Collum?” I dropped to my knees before the low, barred window. “Collum, can you hear me?”

  I pressed my face between the bars. Cold iron burned my cheeks. I ignored it, though I struggled to keep from gagging at the fetid stench. Rancid straw. Stale urine. Old blood. And worse.

  “Coll!” Phoebe pushed in beside me. “It’s us. Please, Coll. Answer me.”

  Nothing but
black silence. What would it be like to be trapped there? Entombed there? What if Collum was still unconscious? What if they’d hurt him so badly, he couldn’t walk? What if . . .

  “Phee?” My shoulders sagged in relief.

  Alive. He’s alive.

  “Phee? Hope? Is it really you? Or . . . no . . . I’m dreaming again.”

  I tried to keep calm, but the resignation in his cracked voice made me want to scream at the sky. “You’re not dreaming, Collum.” I said. “Listen. We’re going to get you out. Can you walk?”

  “Aye.” A shuffling sound came to us as Collum moved closer to the window. I listened for a telltale clink but heard nothing but boots on reeking straw.

  No chains. Thank God.

  A pained inhale came from a few feet below us. “You shouldn’t have come. If they catch you, I—I don’t know what I’d do. Please, just leave me.” Desperation infused the plea. It twisted up from that horrible, dark hole and wrapped around me.

  Phoebe’s nails bit into my forearms. She leaned forward and pressed her face hard against the bars. “Not likely, Collum Michael MacPherson.” Her thin shoulders spasmed as she choked back a sob. “You know Gran would tan my backside with that wooden spoon of hers if I came back without you.”

  She hiccupped and rubbed a shaking hand under her nose. “Just be quiet and stand back. Hope has a plan.”

  “No!” His voice was fierce with alarm. “I won’t risk you two getting caught. You have to go. I’m getting what I deserve, and that’s the truth of it. I was stupid and—”

  “You listen to me now,” I hissed through clenched teeth. “We’re not leaving without you. There’s no time to explain. Just back away from the window and be ready.”

  “Don’t,” Collum begged. “It’s not worth it.”

  “No man left behind,” I said. “That’s your motto, right? So listen to your own advice and back the hell up.”

  After a long pause, I heard the swish of hay as he moved aside. I knuckled away an angry tear. “Bring me the bucket, please.”

  Rachel removed a set of thick lead-lined gloves from a pocket and handed them to me. “Careful,” she said as she unlatched the lid. “Do not spill any on you or ’twill eat clear through to the bone.”

  “Gah.” Phoebe reared back as a putrid miasma of rotten eggs enveloped us.

  With a quick prayer, I picked up the heavy pot and poured it carefully down one bar after another. Smoke blasted up as the liquid bubbled and foamed against the iron. I kept my face averted, but the fumes scorched my face and stung my eyes.

  A miniscule droplet splashed onto the unprotected skin of my inner arm. I whimpered at the pain.

  “Hope?” Collum’s voice rose up from the pit. “What’s wrong, lass? Are you all right?”

  My hands shook as the acid burrowed through flesh into the muscle beneath, but I never faltered.

  “Hush.” Rachel moved up beside me, leather flask in hand. “She’s burned herself.” Cold water sluiced over my skin, making me moan as I poured the remnants of the vitriol onto the final bar.

  The pot empty, I handed it back to Rachel and shook off the gloves. All we could do now was wait. And hope.

  Metal sputtered and foamed as the minutes ticked by with agonizing slowness. Above us, the sky lightened in increments of gray. We’d run out of time. I picked up the leather gloves, but Phoebe stilled my hand.

  “Let me,” she said. “I’m stronger than you.”

  I stepped back without protest. Despite her tiny stature, Phoebe was nearly all muscle, while I had the upper-body strength of a toddler. Bracing her feet against the stone lip of the window, she heaved at two of the bars. They groaned, and one bowed but didn’t break.

  Panting, she tried again. “Aiii.”

  I glanced around. “Shhh,” I said. “You’ll bring every guard in the place down on us.”

  She crashed back on her butt as one of the bars snapped from its moorings. She held it up triumphantly. “One down.”

  A pinkish glow peeked above the wall behind us. No time.

  Collum’s voice sounded close as he spoke. “Phee, tell Mac and Gran I love them. And tell Lu—”

  “Tell them yourself.” Phoebe’s voice squeaked with terror. “Now stand back. We’re all going home—together. You hear me?”

  “Maybe if we all try?” Desperation pulsed through me. The guards will be here any moment. Hurry. Hurry. Hurry. “I’ll grab Phoebe. Rachel, pull on my waist. We’ll—”

  “Won’t work,” said a voice from behind us.

  I whirled, groping for the knife in my boot. When his features came into focus, my throat closed up, but I didn’t relinquish my grip on the blade.

  Voice flat, I brandished the knife at him. “What are you doing here, Bran?”

  Bran Cameron lifted one shoulder. “Out for a stroll.” He squinted casually up at the pinkening sky. “Lovely morning, isn’t it?”

  “Look,” I said through my teeth. “Just get out of here. Leave us alone.”

  He lifted one shoulder. “Could do that,” he said. “Or I could lend you a horse and a rope. As it happens, I have both.”

  Suspicion twined with a cautious exultation as I remembered him charging his horse at Celia. “Why?” I said. “Why would you help us?”

  “After you got away, my mother was . . . well . . . a tad miffed.” In the quickly strengthening light, I saw him press a hand to his side. “I thought it best to lie low, as it were, and spent a lovely night outside in a snowstorm, waiting for you to come out of Baynard’s. Once I figured out what you were up to, it took me the devil of a time getting inside the Tower after curfew. Had to give the guards most of my gold and my best flask of Tuscan wine, but it won’t hold them forever.”

  He didn’t look at me as he brushed past and clicked his tongue. A gray horse stepped out from behind the corner. With quick, economical movements, Bran uncoiled a rope from the saddle and latched the attached iron hook around the bars.

  He turned, his eyes intense on mine. “Shall we?”

  I exchanged a look with Phoebe. Rage burned in her eyes as she gave a sharp shrug. Rachel just looked confused.

  I nodded to Bran. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

  With an impertinent wink, he turned and spoke quietly into the gelding’s ear. “All right, boy. Pull hard now.”

  We stood back as Bran Cameron hauled at the horse’s reins. The animal’s muscles bunched. My body strained with it, urging it on. Go. Go. Go.

  The creak of leather. The squeal of bending iron echoed against the walls.

  We’re going to get caught. All of us thrown into cells to rot. Or hang.

  Already I could feel the dank walls closing in, the scratch of rope around my neck as the gallows dropped.

  Hurry!

  With a horrible screech of metal, the entire unit of bars ripped from its moorings. One ragged edge slammed into the side of my calf as I leapt out of the way.

  Bran didn’t waste a second. He unhooked the rope from the bars and tossed it down into the shattered window. “Can you climb, mate?” he called quietly down into the cell. “Do I need to come after you?”

  In answer, Collum’s blood-caked blond head appeared in the opening. “No,” he said as he scrambled the rest of the way out. “And just who the bloody hell are you?”

  “Shh.” I cringed as Collum’s hoarse accusation carried across the snow. Ignoring the question, Phoebe and I clasped him under the arms and helped him stand. “Be quiet. We have to—”

  “Oy!” A shout boomed down from an arrow slit a few stories above. Silhouetted against the flickering light, the guard yelled, “You there! Halt!”

  “Brilliant,” Bran quipped to Collum. “Since you’ve alerted the guard, I’d say this is no longer a clandestine mission.”

  With a deft hand, Bran untied the rope, dropped it, and casually leaped into the saddle. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he leaned down and let his knuckles brush gently down my cheek. “I’ll meet you on the next block. I’ve t
aken rooms at an inn in Cheapside. They’re not the most luxurious accommodations. But they’re clean enough, and no one will ask any questions. Hurry now.”

  He kicked his mount into motion, heading around the side of the building as the rest of us fumbled through the snow to the small postern gate. Muffled cries of alarm rang out behind us, but William Lucie was there to open the gate and hustle us through. He frowned when he saw Collum, but at a quiet word from Rachel only locked the small gate and turned away.

  Chapter 35

  WITH A GROAN, COLLUM PULLED HIMSELF ONTO PHOEBE’S HORSE. His voice was taut with forced control. “Who,” he said, “was that boy?”

  Phoebe mounted behind me. Neither of us answered as we cantered away, leaving Collum to follow.

  Dawn painted the tattered clouds in rose and lilac as Collum trotted up beside us. He hunched over his horse’s back, nursing obviously-battered ribs. In the pinkish light, I got my first clear look at him. I groaned inwardly at the sight of his broad face, a ghastly bloody mask of swollen eyes, bent nose, and horrific bruises. Behind me, Phoebe stiffened against my back.

  Though she hid it like a trooper, I could feel the shakes rattle her small body as she quickly explained how I’d come up with the plan for the oil of vitriol.

  Collum didn’t blink. “Answer the question.”

  “Does it matter?” I said. “He helped us, didn’t he?”

  Even as I said it, I still wasn’t sure of Bran’s motives. We could be walking into another trap. But something in his expression when he’d looked at me . . . I wanted to believe him.

  Collum’s scraped knuckles gripped the reins too tight, making his horse nervous. “He isn’t from this time. I know what I heard. And though I may be a fool,” he said, “I’m no idiot.”

  “You sure about that?” Bran nudged his gray gelding from a shadowed alley. “I’d say your idiot status is debatable at the moment. After all, who steals from the king at his own coronation feast?”

  Collum kicked his horse forward. “Who the bloody hell are you?”

  Collum’s heftier mount pressed in, causing Bran’s slim gray to stumble back. Bran glanced in the direction of the looming Tower, where shouts echoed up into the dawn sky.