Into the Dim

by Janet B. Taylor

  “While I’d love to share some serious bro time with you, mate,” Bran said, “maybe we ought to hold off until we don’t have a cadre of the city guard running up our tails?”

  Without looking back, Bran raced off. We followed until we were blocks away and the shouts of alarm had long faded. In this poorer area, the houses leaned on each other, as if for comfort. Two by two, we walked our mounts down the middle of the snow-packed street. Above our heads, shutters were thrown open and night soil splashed down onto the new snow.

  Collum reined up. “Now,” he said, “explain. Where did you come from? Who do you work for? Who are you?”

  Bran held up a long, slender finger. “First, your perception that I’m not from this time is accurate, though unimportant to our current situation.” Bran lifted a shoulder. In the dawn light, his jovial expression slipped, just for an instant. He kneed his mount closer to Collum until the animals jostled for position. Harnesses jingled, and leather creaked as they scraped together.

  “As to your second question, based on recent events, I’d say I’m likely unemployed at the moment.”

  As his third finger rose, I leaned forward in the saddle. “Bran—”

  “Third question.” He dipped a short, mocking bow. “Name is Bran Cameron. I generally use my stepfather’s name, though I suppose you’d have no trouble recognizing my legal one. In case you haven’t worked it out yet, mate, it’s Brandon Alvarez. Which—yes—makes Celia Alvarez my mum.”

  In the moment of stretched silence that followed, I knew what would happen. Knew it like I knew my own name or that the sun would set in the west.

  “Coll,” Phoebe begged at the same instant I kneed my horse forward.

  Too late.

  Collum kicked a foot free of the stirrup and lunged. He hit Bran sidelong, hurtling him from the saddle. Both boys tumbled to the snow in a tangle of fists and booted kicks.

  “Timeslipper scum,” Collum snarled as he pummeled Bran.

  Bran rolled away and sprang to his feet at the mouth of an alleyway. Collum was slower to rise. Already beaten and bloody, he hauled himself to his feet.

  “Listen,” Bran said, palms up in a conciliatory gesture.

  But Collum was incapable of hearing. He darted forward, and before Bran could react, Collum had snatched one of Bran’s curved blades.

  Sparks flew as the edge of the sword scraped along the wall.

  Bran’s eyes narrowed. His hand moved to the hilt of the other blade.

  “For God’s sake,” I growled. Bolting from the saddle, I shoved past the staggering Collum to stand between them.

  I glared at Bran, whose sword was halfway from its sheath.

  Don’t.

  Pivoting back to Collum, I huffed, “Look, we need Bran’s help right now. I mean, I doubt we can totally trust him.” I cast a withering glare Bran’s way. “Since he is a noted liar.”

  Bran clutched his heart. “You wound me, madam.”

  I rolled my eyes to the clouds.

  Phoebe called out from her mount, “Come on, Coll. If you’re finished trying to carve each other up, I say we go with Bran before the city watch shows, yeah?”

  Overhead, several heads peeked out of second- and third-story windows, watching the drama play out. Collum hesitated. I knew it must be hard for him to swallow. Rescued by the son of Celia Alvarez.

  Well, he’ll just have to get over it.

  With a disgusted huff, Collum stalked to his horse.

  Once he was mounted, Bran looked at me. One side of his mouth quirked. “Charming fellow.”

  “Bran,” I said, wearily, “just . . . stop talking.”

  True to his word, Bran’s inn was clean, if a bit worn around the edges. Collum, Phoebe, and I feared a trap. But when we entered, the first-floor tavern was empty.

  The small room boasted a well-swept floor with long oak tables scoured until their scratched surfaces gleamed. A blowsy matron took one look at us and shouted for her rotund little husband to bring food. With a few quick commands, she sent two young maids upstairs with buckets of hot water for baths.

  I loved her.

  “Eat up,” she ordered as steaming bowls of stew and loaves of brown bread were laid before us. “Then it’s off to bed.”

  “If we weren’t harboring a felon”—Bran lifted an eyebrow at a morose Collum sitting next to him—“I’d have taken you by the famous London cookshop that supposedly lasted for hundreds of years. It’s said to be the only one of its kind. Open round the clock, twenty-four hours a day, cooking any kind of meat you can think of, in any way you can imagine. If you’re rich, it’s braised lark tongues with honey. Or quick-fried hummingbird in beer batter. Eels sautéed in browned butter, or boar smoked for days in a deep pit. For the poor . . . Well, they don’t really discuss the meat’s origins. But it’s brown and served with thick onion gravy, so no one really cares.”

  “Hummingbirds?” Phoebe muttered through a mouthful of bread. “The poor wee things. That’s barbaric.”

  “Barbaric? Hmm, perhaps,” Bran teased. “But they’re tasty little buggers. And afterward you can pick your teeth with the beaks.”

  Phoebe’s brows shot up. I could see Bran’s charm beginning to work on her. She snorted, choking back the laugh when she saw her brother frown.

  Eyeing the bowl before me, I wondered at the origins of the meat chunks floating in this thick brown sauce. I wasn’t hungry. Or so I thought, until the first tender bite passed my lips and I groaned. It could’ve used some salt, and for a second I actually looked around for a salt shaker.

  Stupid. Only the rich could afford salt at table, and even then only for the most important guests. We definitely did not fit either category.

  Salt or no salt, we all scarfed it down. Soon, I was sopping up the remnants with a crust of coarse bread.

  Before I could ask, the innkeeper ladled another helping into all our wooden bowls. That one I savored, slurping it in long, delicious mouthfuls and washing it down with a crisp ale that sparkled on my tongue.

  When we were done and the table cleared, Bran stood.

  “I’d like to say something,” he announced quietly. “If I may?” All humor erased, Bran’s voice sounded grave and almost fragile as he glanced nervously at each of us in turn. “In my life, I’ve done many things I regret.” He cleared his throat and glanced up toward the ceiling.

  When Bran’s gaze dropped back to mine, the huge knot in my chest began to unravel.

  “But I swear, I never wanted any harm to come to you. And if you could try to trust me, I’ll do everything in my power to see you safely home.” His blue and green eyes flicked to Phoebe, then Collum. “All of you.”

  Phoebe, Collum, and I exchanged looks. “He did help us, Coll,” Phoebe said. “I say we give him a chance.”

  Collum’s tawny head tilted as he studied Bran. “Fine,” he said through clenched teeth. “But if you play us false, boy, I will kill you, aye?”

  Bran’s own jaw tensed in reflex, but he nodded. “Agreed.”

  Slowly, Phoebe and I filled them in on what had happened in their absence. Sister Hectare’s tale of seeing Celia Alvarez at her convent, fifty years earlier. How the small nun somehow knew if not exactly who we were at least that we did not belong in that time. We told them of the queen’s invitation to meet with her before the celebration that night, and how she’d make sure my mom was there.

  When we explained how the lodestone we’d brought for my mother was stolen by the guards at Mabray House, Collum’s head dropped into his hands.

  “With Sarah’s bracelet gone, there’s no option, then,” he said as he raised bleary eyes to mine. “We have to get the Nonius.”

  To Bran’s credit, when we spoke of Celia and the stone, he didn’t flinch.

  “You must understand,” he said, “my mother is obsessed with the Nonius Stone. She and Doña Maria—her grandmother, and the most twisted old bat you’ll ever meet—have a master plan. I, however, am most definitely not part of their inn
er circle.”

  He held up a hand as Collum made to protest. “No, mate, I admit I knew about the visit to the convent. It happened a year or so ago, and Mother was furious. I find it both amusing and ironic that the good sister is here.” Bran took a deep breath, visibly bracing himself as he went on. “There is something you should know, however. Recently, my mother and Doña Maria recruited a new chap, a genius, who’s been tinkering with Tesla’s design. When they noticed the timeline to this place was relatively stable, he conceived a way to incorporate the Nonius Stone directly into the electrical components. Something about encasing the gem inside copper housing. Or at least that is what he claims. I don’t know the details, but apparently, the stone would allow us—allow them—to open and close the Dim at will, and go anywhere, to any time, they wish.”

  “Bran’s telling the truth,” Phoebe said to Collum. “That matches with what Sarah told us.”

  Collum nodded, his poor, wrecked face solemn as he murmured, “And with that kind of control, there’d be no stopping them.”

  “The only thing of which I’m absolutely certain,” Bran finished, “is that the Timeslippers will go after the stone tonight. The exit point we came through will close about midmorning tomorrow. As for the rest, believe me or not. But my mother has never confided in me.”

  I noticed an almost imperceptible tightening around his eyes when he spoke of Celia. Sure, she was a murderous lunatic, but she was still his mom, and he’d openly defied her to—

  Save me.

  “Bran?” I had to ask it. The answer might mean everything. “Back at Mabray House, did you push Celia out of our way on purpose?”

  When his hand landed lightly on top of mine—warm, callused, strong—I looked up. Our eyes met.

  “Do you truly have to ask?”

  He said it so simply, so sincerely, that I could only swallow.

  At the corner of my vision, I saw Collum lean in, hazel eyes hooded, fixed on the spot where Bran’s slender, tanned hand covered mine.

  “Well, then.” I eased my hand back, ignoring the way the warmth lingered even as I picked up my horn cup. “I think—”

  “Hold that.” Collum raised a hand, shutting me down as he spun on the bench to face Bran. “Aye, you may’ve helped us today.” He shrugged, mouth pursed, as if the words tasted bitter. “But you’re still a bloody Timeslipper.”

  Bran’s hand splayed on his chest in mock offense. “Well, that stings a bit.”

  “We may need you for the moment,” Collum said, ignoring Bran and rising halfway off the bench. “But understand this: I am in charge of this mission. In charge of them.”

  As he flung a hand toward me and Phoebe, Bran reared up, meeting Collum nose to nose. “And a great job you’ve done so far, yeah? Getting yourself arrested. Leaving the rest of your team to fend for themselves. Was that part of this grand scheme of yours, mate? Top notch, then, I’d say.”

  “Why, you limey bast—”

  “Not again,” Phoebe groaned.

  “Oh hell no!” I shoved back so hard, I nearly sent her tumbling off the bench. Marching around the table, I planted myself between the two bristling boys. “Sit,” I ordered. “Now. Both of you.”

  To my utter shock and amazement, they did. I’d never ordered anyone around before. I decided I rather liked it.

  “We,” I said, “are going to work together to get out of this mess. So you two are gonna cut all this machismo crap and stop being such . . . such . . . buttholes to each other.”

  Bran snorted. Then his head fell back, and he howled with laughter. Phoebe giggled, and even Collum’s mouth twitched. A momentous accomplishment on my part.

  I was offended. Here I was trying to assert the tiniest bit of authority for once in my life, and they were laughing?

  “What,” I spat, “is so freaking funny?”

  “A butthole?” Bran wheezed to Collum. “I don’t know about you, but I haven’t been called a butthole since I was in primary. I have literally never been so terrified. I think we’d better agree, or we’re likely looking at big trouble from this one.”

  I pointed at Bran, pinning him with my sternest look. “I’ve said it before, and I know I’m going to say it again: You. Stop. Talking.”

  Bleary with food and exhaustion, we trudged up the stairs to our rooms. I mumbled to Phoebe as we climbed, “Shame we can’t watch the coronation. To be so close . . .”

  “Not me.” Phoebe yawned as we entered the small bedchamber. Her eyes lit on the steam rising from a wooden hip bath. “You couldn’t get me to move from this spot for a brick o’ gold.”

  “While you bathe and rest, I’ll have the girls brush out your gowns.” The serving matron frowned at our near-ruined dresses.

  “No need,” Bran called from the hallway.

  Without asking, he strode in, hefting a trunk. “Before I left for the Tower, I took the liberty of having some of your things brought over. A helpful young girl named Alice packed them for you. Though apparently some shrew of a housekeeper gave my man a bit of trouble.”

  “Hilde,” Phoebe murmured in a drowsy voice. “I almost miss that moldy old hag.”

  “The innkeeper’s wife will tend to MacPherson’s injuries and give him a tincture to help with the pain. He’ll sleep for a while.” Bran set the trunk down with a bang. “Get some rest.” He winked at me as he sauntered out. “I’ll see you soon.”

  Phoebe’s eyes narrowed as he closed the door behind him. She wheeled on me.

  “What?” I asked, suddenly finding great interest in a row of wooden clothing pegs that protruded from the wall.

  “You know very well what,” she said as she began unlacing the sides of her filth-spattered gown. “And I get it, I do. The lad’s charming and no mistake. And he did help us today. I want to trust him too. I do, but.” She paused, until I reluctantly met her gaze. “Just be mindful, Hope. Remember, he’s still Celia’s son.”

  As if I could ever forget.

  Seconds after her bath, Phoebe was snoring in the narrow bed. I took my time, even though the water was barely tepid. Despite the small, red-hot brazier in the corner, I was shivering by the time I’d dried off and pulled the clean shift over my head.

  A soft knock startled me. Dust motes danced in strips of late-morning light as I opened the door to find Bran Cameron staring at me. His eyes ranged from my face down to my bare feet. My toes curled when I realized I was standing there before him in only a threadbare shift.

  I crossed my arms over my chest and tried to ignore the way that—even in the chill—I felt his gaze burn like a trail of coals.

  “It can’t be time to go already?”

  “What?” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Oh. No. There’s plenty of time. But I thought . . . maybe . . . you might care to see the coronation?” His eyes scanned my face.

  I darted a glance at Phoebe, still dead-asleep beneath the covers. “I don’t know about that. Collum might be recognized. We haven’t even dyed his hair yet.”

  Bran studied the toe of his boot as it scuffed the floor. “Well, you see, I know a place we can watch the entire event without being seen. The abbey isn’t far if we use a shortcut, but there’s only room for two. Of course, if you don’t want to go without them,” he hurried to add, “I’d understand.”

  I nipped at a cuticle as I studied him. The thought of witnessing one of the most remarkable events in history sent a thrill through me. But though Bran had risked his life to help us, he had still lied to me. About everything.

  Yet nearly all the nobility in England would be there. What if Mom was among them?

  “I heard you say you wished,” he started to turn away. “Never mind. It was just a thought.”

  “Wait.” I reached a hand out to stop him. “I’ll go.”

  Chapter 36

  THE STONECUTTER’S SCAFFOLDING WAS DRAPED IN YARDS of scarlet silk, disguising our climb.

  “Are you sure this thing will hold us?” I whispered as the wobbly wooden structure creaked beneat
h our weight.

  Bran’s ash-colored tunic blended with the dappled stone of Westminster Abbey as he spoke from a few rungs above me. “It better,” he said. “I paid the mason a fortune to let us have his spot.” He frowned, letting his gaze drift down my simple gray gown. “Unless you weigh more than a half ton of granite?”

  I punched him in the leg.

  He was still chuckling as we emerged onto a narrow platform that butted up against the ceiling. Crouching, we eased over to the edge and settled, arms propped on a rickety wooden railing. Our boots dangled a hundred feet above the floor.

  Even at this great height, the sweet melange of melting beeswax and incense wafted up in waves, mixing with the lilting voices of a hundred choir boys. Carefully, Bran parted the rippling silk. I sucked in a sharp breath.

  Our bird’s-eye view was perfect. Far beneath, the new king and queen of England knelt on the steps of the altar, upon which sat two thrones. One large and sturdy. The other smaller, delicate. As the song faded, the magnificently robed archbishop of Canterbury raised his arms before them. I shivered when the king and queen made sacred vows that echoed up to us, as clear as if we stood at their side.

  The priest took a small bottle and anointed the royals with holy oil, then placed the crowns of England on their heads.

  Henry helped Eleanor rise. Once they were seated on their thrones, the archbishop lay the scepter and orb in Henry’s waiting arms. He turned and threw up his hands as he called, “God save the king. God save the queen.”

  The roar blew the roof off the place. The reverberation rocked the scaffolding beneath us.

  “Can you believe we’re actually seeing this?” I elbowed Bran in my excitement. “It’s so surreal.”

  I glanced over to see if he felt it. The sense of wonder at witnessing this incredible piece of history. But Bran wasn’t watching what played out below. No. He was looking at me. Watching my face, my reactions. A fluttery heat skittered across my skin, like butterflies on fire.

  “Thank you for this,” I whispered.