“Didn’t see your name on any of the entry sheets,” Collum replied. “ Course, most of the competitions here require big arms, not a big mouth.”
Bran laughed. “Got me there, MacPherson. But it’s a shame, isn’t it? Maintaining all those bulging muscles must route so much blood away from the brain.”
Collum’s cheeks turned a mottled fuchsia. His large, freckled hands fisted.
Phoebe stepped inside our loose circle. Reaching into her tiny, furry sporran, she removed a small bottle of perfume. Her skirt flew around her as she whirled, pumping squirts of the flowery essence into the air and coughing theatrically.
“So, uh,” I said as the others stared. “Whatcha doing there, Pheebs?”
“Just trying to clear some of this bloody testosterone from the air so we can get down to business,” she said. “Wanna help? We’ll never get anything done with this lot if we don’t.”
Everyone but Collum burst into laughter. And even his tense features relaxed by a margin.
“As an evolved member of the male species,” Doug said, “I agree with my woman. We may be dressed like savages, but we’re modern men, are we not? So shake hands or punch each other in the face and let’s get on with it, aye?”
With that, Phoebe and Doug hurried away to fetch Mac and Moira, who also needed to hear what Bran had to say. Collum’s turn at the hammer toss was coming up, so he veered off, leaving Bran and me to stroll across the grassy field alone.
Contestants shouted or grunted as they hoisted enormous poles and sensationally long hammers into the air. Announcers extolled the various feats of the athletes while spectators cheered. The smells of summer, of roasting meat and the yeasty scent of beer, all mingled as the mild Scottish sun beamed down upon our shoulders.
Bran took my hand in his. And I was happy.
We reconvened around one of several massive wooden tables that edged the performance field. Very wide and solid, with their split tree trunk benches, they were gray with age, as though they’d been here since Sir William Wallace was a boy. The hard wood of the table’s surface was worn smooth as glass, and scored with hundreds of initials, each pair encased inside a roughly hewn heart.
“Look, D. Here’s ours.” Phoebe’s fingertip traced the letters P.M. + D.C. near the right corner of the table. “How old were we when we did this?”
“Nine,” he replied, pulling her down to perch on his generous lap. “And if I recall correctly, you dragged me over here, ordered me to do it, or you’d put a snake in my bed.”
I smiled at the thought of the fierce little girl, fiery braids swinging as she dragged a tall, awkward boy toward the very same table we sat at now. I could see them still, as they passed a gentle look between them. They’d been a couple even before that day, when Phoebe had rescued the newly orphaned Doug from a pack of schoolyard bullies who hadn’t cared for the color of his skin.
I’d seen pictures of Doug’s beautiful Senegalese mother and round-faced, freckled dad. With her high cheekbones and intelligent eyes, and his father’s kind expression, Doug was a superb representation of two remarkable people.
“Mac carved ours over on the table near the big tree, the year before we married,” Moira said as she settled in next to her granddaughter. “’Tis said any couple carved into the wood here shall never part. Even my grandda’s and grandma’s are here somewhere.”
Mac stood behind his wife, both gnarled hands on her shoulders. He leaned down and whispered something in her ear that made her jump.
“John MacPherson!”
“Well,” he said, “’tis true. And it was after that, I knew I wanted to marry ye.”
Moira’s plump face flushed as red as the second-place ribbon pinned to her shirt.
She caught me looking at it. Wrinkling her nose, she flicked it. “I swear that Catriona MacLean pays off those damn judges,” she scoffed.
“Well, let’s hear it then, Cameron.” Collum spoke over the laughter that followed. “What brought you all the way here from that spider’s lair? And what have you been doing that we haven’t heard a word in all this time?”
Seated beside Bran, I pivoted to better see his expression as he answered a question I’d asked myself every moment since we’d parted.
“Oh, you know me.” Bran shrugged. “Cricket. Pub crawls. Playing double agent amid a gang of murderous time-traveling thugs. It’s exhausting.”
“For Christ’s sake.” Collum’s hands shot up in disgust.
“Bran,” I said quietly. “Just tell us, okay?”
He followed my gaze as I glanced up at the sun, climbing ever higher overhead. The morning was passing too fast, and I knew we didn’t have much time before he’d have to leave me. Again.
His eyes met mine and he nodded. Beneath the table, I felt his graceful fingers entwine with mine.
“It was Doug’s idea, really,” Bran said. “The man’s a genius.”
“No genius,” Doug replied, humble as always. “It’s just that I remembered something Bran said while he was in hospital. Before his moth—before Celia—had him transferred out, that is. He mentioned that he and his brother, Tony, secretly communicated through online video games.”
“I’d been going mad trying to find a way to contact all of you,” Bran said. “Naturally, since my return, my every move is monitored. Gaming is the only contact I have with the outside world. And that only because she has no idea the level of sophistication some of these games possess. She believes them nothing but mindless diversion. Which they basically are, at least until Doug created this program.”
“I’d been tinkering with a new game design for a while, actually,” Doug said. “I contacted some gamers at his brother’s school and asked them if they’d like to beta-test. I had to be careful not to ask for Bran’s brother specifically, so it took some time . . .”
“It’s an amazing construct. A role-playing game, but one of the most interactive and realistic I’ve ever seen. If you ever decide to leave the Viators, Doug, you could make a fortune as a game designer. Tony and his mates are obsessed. He sent me an invite,” Bran continued. “Then, Doug contacted me within the game . . . and here we are.”
“And where is that exactly, lad?” Mac asked.
Bran released my hand to reach into the sporran at his waist and removed several folded sheets of paper. He laid the first one down and smoothed it out over the silvered wood. Moonlight made the pale brick of the hulking façade in the printout practically glow against the shadowy mountain behind it.
Collum slapped a hand down on the paper. “What the devil is this, Cameron?”
I leaned forward, squinting at the image. “It’s the front of our house. I mean, the manor. But . . .”
“Where’s the portico? And what’s that building?” Phoebe tapped the left edge of the photo, indicating a lofty stone structure I’d never seen before.
“That’s the old carriage house.” Voice gone flat, Mac studied the picture. “Lu and Sarah’s grandda, old Henry Carlyle, had it brought down just after the Second War. Used the stone to build a new shearing shed.”
“Yes, well,” Bran said, fidgeting a bit beneath Mac’s level gaze. “This is, as you’ve observed, Christopher Manor. Circa 1895. As you can see by the date and time stamp, however, this image was captured only three weeks ago.”
When we all began speaking at once, Bran raised his hands in a request for quiet. “I promise to explain the whens, whys, and wherefores—at least what I know of them—in a moment. But first, take a look at the others.”
When he laid the second image down, there was no question.
The full-color photo had been snapped at 11:23 the morning after the first photo. The lighting on this one was perfect, the image crisp and clear. From the partial obstruction and steep tilt of the camera angle, it was obvious the four figures, embroiled in conversation several feet away, were unaware of being photographed. The scene behind them was unmistakable. But it wasn’t the bookshelves or marble fireplace or
the portrait above the mantel that sent shock waves through me.
Mac grunted. “Well, damn my eyes.”
“Is that . . . ?” asked Moira in a hushed tone. “Is that who I think it is?”
The crease between Bran’s eyes deepened. “Yes, ma’am, it is,” he said. “Jonathan and Julia Carlyle, Archie MacPherson, and Luis Alvarez as they appeared in February of 1895.”
“Who took this?” I asked, though I was pretty sure I already knew the answer.
Bran took in a deep breath through his nose before slapping down the last and final printout onto the very center of the table. Everyone leaned in to get a closer look. I could feel Bran’s gaze on me as my hand covered my mouth.
“Holy crap on a bleeding cracker,” Phoebe gasped.
“Phoebe Marie MacPherson, what have I said time and again about using vulgarities?” Moira’s admonishment came by rote, lacking its usual heat.
“Aye, I know, I know. ’Tis cheap and all that. But Gram!”
“I don’t know, darlin’.” Hands white-knuckled now on Moira’s shoulders, Mac peered down at the picture. “I’m thinking this particular occasion might call for a bit o’ language.”
Though somewhat pixilated, there was no mistaking the identity of the woman now standing between the Edwardian-clad versions of a young Jonathan Carlyle and his wife. With her dark eyes and haughty features, she even resembled her several-times-great Aunt Julia. In the shot, Celia Alvarez was the only one looking directly at the camera. Her smile, as she faced the clandestine photographer, was unmistakably triumphant.
Mac straightened and let out a long breath. His wise, hooded eyes rose to meet Bran’s. “Do you yet know the meaning of this, lad?”
“First,” Bran said, “I want you to know that I knew nothing of this until a few days ago.”
Collum snorted but said nothing as he glared at Celia’s smug expression.
When Bran faltered, Moira reached out to him. “Go on then, Bran. We’re listening.”
Bran glanced down at Moira’s age-spotted hand as she patted his arm. When I saw the shy, almost awkward way in which Bran looked at her, I realized that such a simple maternal gesture was utterly foreign to him.
And I added yet another mark to the tally of reasons I despised Celia Alvarez.
“The Timeslippers have been recruiting heavily. Though most are little more than mercenaries, thieves, forgers, what have you . . . one of my mother’s newer ‘acquisitions’ is a Swedish physicist. A man named Dr. Gunnar Blasi.”
“Blasi?” Doug nodded slowly as he spoke. “I’ve heard of the man. I remember seeing a lot of chatter about him in some of the science forums a year ago or so. Worked for CERN, the international nuclear research facility in Geneva, right? Some hotshot working with Higgs boson particles in their Large Hadron Collider. But he got the boot and there was all kinds of crazy speculation about it, because he was supposed to be some kind of wunderkind. No one knew for sure; I just remember reading that he’d done something unsavory.”
“Yes,” Bran said. “‘Unsavory’ sums up Blasi’s character quite nicely. And though I haven’t a clue what happened at CERN, I can tell you he’s a nasty character who’s only fueled my mother’s obsession with finding a way to gain control over the Dim and ultimately . . . over time and space themselves.” Bran’s lip curled. “Yes, you heard right. The man’s ego is monstrous. Blasi had been working on a way to harness the lodestones to the current machine, in preparation for when they ‘locate the Nonius.’ Recently, however, the focus of his research has changed.”
“What happened?” I asked when Bran’s shoulders slumped.
Bran’s gaze fixed on the tabletop. He swallowed hard. The shouts and cheers from the festival grounds became muted, as though something as simple as joy could not penetrate the invisible barrier around us.
“I happened,” he muttered. “It’s my fault.”
Chapter 7
“THE WHERES AND WHYS AREN’T IMPORTANT.” Bran didn’t look up from the table as he spoke. “Suffice it to say that during the course of a recent discovery mission to gain some of Tesla’s more obscure papers, I happened upon a box. Nothing of substance, or so I thought, though I’d hoped to mislead Celia and Blasi into wasting time with it. The box’s contents were eroded. They were moldy, and at some point mice had been at them. It wasn’t until we returned and began to sort through that I realized my mistake. Hidden among bundles of receipts and formulas scribbled on cloth napkins was a letter, written by a man named Emil Stefanovic, one of Tesla’s assistants. The note was addressed to Emil’s friend, or—based on the letter’s tone—his lover. In any case, Blasi noticed my interest and took the letter from me. But not before I’d made several copies.” Bran looked across the table at me, his face carefully neutral as he removed a creased sheet of paper from his sporran. He unfolded it and pressed it smooth over the table’s surface.
“Here.”
January 15th of the year 1895
My dearest companion,
I hope this letter finds you well. And that your family has recovered from the terrible loss of your father. I know your mother and sisters must find great comfort in your return. Yet I pray that you soon find your way back to me. There is great excitement in the professor’s lab these days. Yet I feel little of it, for the days have turned gray without you by my side and in my bed. Sell the land. Return to New York. Bring your family if you must. But come back, my sweet friend. As you yourself have said many times, you would make a terrible farmer.
Now, the news I promised in my last letter. Oh, if only you’d been here to share in the wonder. For the first trial, Tesla chose that bootlicker Jacobo. A wise choice in my eyes, as there would be no loss if the man never returned, yes? Though he has not yet revealed our secret relationship to anyone, he still looks upon me with disgust and uses every opportunity to discredit me with Tesla.
But back to the tale. It has been two weeks since Jacobo returned, after being “away” for three days! Bedraggled and filthy he was, but very much alive. Hard to fathom, I know. But believe that I speak nothing but truth. The device the good professor has created! It is genuine. It. Is. Real.
I write you now to let you know this . . . The professor has finally agreed that I shall be next . . .”
Bran shrugged. “The next few sentences were too damaged to make out. Only the signature remained.”
“Tesla?” Moira whispered. “That can’t be right. This would indicate that Tesla . . .”
“Built his own device in New York City.” Bran slapped a hand on the table. “Exactly. The moment my . . . Celia . . . learned this, she became obsessed with contacting the man himself. It will come as no surprise that I am not exactly in my mother’s inner circle these days. So it took a while to tease out a few details. But from what I can ascertain, Gunnar Blasi has come up with an idea for an enhancement, which—for all intents and purposes—would mask the bearer’s genetic signature, giving the traveler more time in the past.”
Collum straightened abruptly. “More time? How much more time?”
Bran shrugged. “Several days more, according to my source. Blasi claims he must dismantle and rework the original Tesla device to know if his sketches for the enhancement are truly plausible. The good news is that Celia does not trust him enough to allow this. So, for weeks she’s been searching for a timeline that would allow them to meet up with Nikola Tesla so they could take Blasi’s sketches to the inventor himself. She finally became impatient when the Dim would not cooperate. And now . . .”
“Now,” I finished for him, “she’s contacted Jonathan Carlyle and convinced him to do her dirty work for her.”
Bran looked suddenly exhausted as he nodded. “Just so.”
“And,” Doug mused, “since we know that once the past has been penetrated time moves in a linear fashion in both timelines, by now Jonathan would’ve had time to sail to New York.”
Bran’s eyes skipped from face to face, turning last to me. “You c
annot begin to imagine my mother’s frustration when—only days ago—she received word that the time and location she’d been hoping for would soon open.”
Oh, and I bet she’s royally pissed about that. I smiled a little at the thought. Since poor little Celia already entered that stream, and the mean old Dim won’t allow anyone to travel twice to the same timeline, her butt is stuck here. Aww. Guess she’ll have to sit this one out.
My head shot up. The question emerged from my lips, though I already knew the answer. Of course I did.
“She’s sending you, isn’t she?” I said. “That’s what you came here to tell us. She’s sending you back.”
Bran’s lips were pressed into a tight line, but he raised his chin to look straight into my eyes. “Yes.”
“And you agreed?”
Bran’s blue and green eyes sparked with fury, and when he spoke, it was with such bone-deep resentment, I felt it ignite my own hatred of the woman all over again. “She has withdrawn my little brother from the school he’s called home since he was six years old, and is withholding his current location from me. She has further informed me that should I ever wish to see or speak to Tony again, I will obey her.” Bran rose, the tips of his fingers whitening as they pressed hard into the tabletop. “My loving mother has grown increasingly suspicious of Blasi and most of the others, you see. Recently, she learned that he tried to circumvent her by going directly to Doña Maria. The demented old bat being the one who holds all the money cards, Blasi thought to cut out the middleman.”
When Bran looked at me, I could see the bewilderment hiding behind the anger. “It has come to this. Aside from Jasper Flint, I am now the only person my mother trusts. And isn’t that just a sad state of affairs?”
Mac broke the silence that followed. “Do you believe this enhancement will actually work, lad?”
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