A Sword in Time (Thief in Time Series Book 3)

by Cidney Swanson

  DaVinci thought it was more likely Father Joe wanted a physical barrier between her and Quintus. They hadn’t exactly been subtle, staring at each other all through their late-night dinner and that round of Polish liqueur. (DaVinci, who’d made plans for the night, had only pretended to sip the stuff.)

  DaVinci’s plans, strangely enough, did not involve Quintus. Or, not directly.

  This was about her muscles, and the memories they had either retained or lost.

  As quietly as she could, she scooted off the mattress she was sharing with Jillian. And from there to the door leading to the Sunday school classrooms. The door opened silently—Father Joe did seem like the kind of guy who would keep his hedges trimmed and his hinges oiled—and she slipped into the corridor.

  Neither the kindergarten/first grade classroom nor the second/third grade room had what she wanted. She struck out with middle school, too, and there was no high school. That left the classroom for the combined fourth, fifth, and sixth grades. She entered the room, closed the door behind her, and flicked on the lights. After searching the closet that had held art supplies in the other rooms, DaVinci found something that would work, in a pinch.

  “Watercolors,” she said, without enthusiasm. “It had to be watercolors.”

  She sighed. Well, watercolors were still technically paint. It was better than tearing construction paper into teeny, tiny pieces for a paper mosaic. Although, after those mosaics in Rome, she was going to have to explore that art form . . .

  It took another few minutes to find paper and set herself up, and a long time to scroll through her pictures from Rome to find one she wanted to try, but eventually she found a photo that was perfect. Several, actually. And so, from the hours of midnight to four in the morning, DaVinci painted and painted and painted.

  It was hard. A real challenge, but that was because watercolor was such an unforgiving medium.

  “One mistake and you start over,” she muttered to herself, laying down a Roman sky, complete with not-painted-over white sections that would become wispy clouds. Soon, though, she forgot all about how hard watercolor was and simply . . . painted. She captured angles, planes, highlights, shadows, Quintus’s frowns, his eyebrows raised, his eyebrows pulling together, biceps, latissimus dorsi, the swell of fabric and leather draped over glutes (wow on the gluteus maximus, even under a skirt), the clenched jaw, the jaw when it relaxed, and those lips . . . Yeah. She could totally get lost trying to capture those lips.

  When she was too tired to hold a brush any longer—it had actually fallen out of her hands twice—she took a long look at the three paintings drying on the counter, yawned hugely, and mumbled, without irony, “Thank God. I’ve still got it.” And then she stumbled back into bed, sleeping soundly until ten the next morning.

  It was the sound of Littlewood’s laughter from somewhere down the hall that woke her up. She rubbed her eyes, sat up, and noticed that Jillian and Everett, too, had already gotten up. Quintus was still sleeping. He’d thrown off his blankets, revealing a body covered in bandages. DaVinci winced. Tempting as it was, she couldn’t justify waking him up.

  Instead, she pulled on the sweatshirt and sweatpants someone (Father Joe?) had set at the foot of her bed and traipsed out of the vestry toward the sound of Littlewood’s voice.

  “Ah,” said Littlewood, upon seeing DaVinci. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?” Without waiting for an answer, he said, “I’m going for doughnuts. Do you have a favorite?”

  “Old-fashioned,” replied DaVinci. Her voice sounded raspy.

  “There’s coffee,” said Father Joe.

  At the sight of Father Joe, DaVinci’s stomach knotted, remembering her nocturnal, non-permission-based activities in the Sunday school hall.

  “Coffee would be great,” she said, with a tug of guilt.

  Well, she should feel guilty. She’d used up the entire supply of watercolors for grades four through six. She should have freaking asked before stealing things from the Catholic Church!

  As soon as Littlewood left, DaVinci turned to Father Joe. “So, um . . .” She exhaled.

  Yeah.

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  Father Joe quirked his head to one side. “Do I sense . . . irony?”

  DaVinci felt her cheeks warming. “Only kind of. Come with me.” As the two of them walked to the fourth through sixth grade classroom, she explained that she’d broken into the art supplies. That she’d really needed to know if she could still paint. She left out the part about time travel having created doubts for her on that score.

  “In here,” she said, guilt gnawing her insides. “So about my penance?”

  Father Joe crossed to the paintings and examined them. “These are lovely,” he said.

  “I’m so sorry,” said DaVinci. “I’ll buy more watercolors for the kids. And paper.”

  “That seems fair,” said Father Joe.

  DaVinci’s phone chirped with a text from Littlewood. She read it.

  By the way, I told Father Joe everything. Felt I had to, and of course he’s bound to secrecy since I told him in confession. Wasn’t that clever? Anyway, I thought you should know.

  DaVinci raised her brows and then her gaze. “That was Dr. Littlewood. So I guess my half-assed attempt—oh, um, sorry—I guess my, uh, attempted confession wasn’t the first confession you heard today?”

  Father Joe smiled.

  “Right. You can’t comment on that,” said DaVinci. “But I can. So, yeah. These are all Quintus. Well, obviously.” She flushed. “They’re of Quintus in his hometown. Home city. Home capital of the empire. Whatever.”

  “Republic,” said Father Joe. “Rome was a republic at this time.” He gathered the watercolor paintings. “I wonder if you would allow me to give one of these to a parishioner? She’s bedridden, and her favorite Bible story is of the centurion whose faith our Lord commended.”

  “Sure. Of course. Give them all to her with my blessing! Um, I mean, my blessing isn’t, well, um . . .” She flushed.

  “I should be delighted to give them to her with your blessing,” said Father Joe.

  DaVinci half groaned, half sighed and shook her head at herself. “You know, it has been a while since my last confession.”

  “Perhaps some coffee first?” asked Father Joe.

  “Yes. Coffee. Absolutely. Absolution can wait.”

  Great. Now she was making bad religious puns. In front of a priest. She flushed a deeper red, if that was possible.

  “Good one,” said Father Joe as he led her to the coffee.

  She frowned. “Yeah?”

  “Oh yes.”

  DaVinci smiled.

  She downed two cups of, honestly, pretty bad coffee, helped by an ungodly number of sugar cubes.

  “Perhaps you’d like to take a cup to Quintus?” asked Father Joe.

  “Oh, sure,” said DaVinci. “I guess he’s on bed rest?”

  “Doctor’s orders,” replied Father Joe.

  Unlike DaVinci, Quintus hadn’t gone to the ER. Father Joe had called in a favor with a retired surgeon who had stitched Quintus up in the vestry, no questions asked.

  She poured a cup of coffee and then frowned at it.

  “What is it?” asked Father Joe.

  “I don’t know how Quintus takes his coffee. Sugar and cream?”

  Father Joe smiled. “Milk and honey, actually. I used to wonder why, but now it makes sense—”

  DaVinci finished his sentence: “Because, no sugar in the Roman Republic.”

  “No coffee, either,” they both said at the same time.

  DaVinci laughed. Father Joe was growing on her.

  And then, with Quintus’s mostly milk-and-honey coffee in hand, she walked back to the vestry. It was time she and Quintus had an “us” talk.

  57

  • QUINTUS •

  Florida, July

  Quintus had awoken several times in the night, although he’d fallen back asleep each time, thanks to the relievers of
pain he’d been given. But every twist, every turn, made something ache. There had been no need for the physician tending him to advise bed rest; Quintus wasn’t sure he would ever get up again.

  He was awake when DaVinci entered the silent vestry, and he made an effort to sit up.

  “Careful, careful,” said DaVinci, setting down a coffee cup and rushing to his side. “Let me help you.”

  “I am ashamed, but I do not think I can rise without assistance,” said Quintus.

  “Okay, one, that is the stupidest thing ever to be ashamed of,” said DaVinci, “and, two—” She broke off when their eyes met. “Um, I brought you coffee. With honey and milk.”

  Quintus smiled. “Much thanks.”

  Between them, they managed to get him propped up against a wall using every pillow in the room. It hurt, greatly, which Quintus did his best to conceal.

  “Here’s your coffee,” said DaVinci. “Hmm. It might be a little cold now.”

  He took the cup and swallowed. Even swallowing hurt.

  “Is it too cold?” asked DaVinci.

  It was too cold. “It is perfect,” he replied. He would drink cold coffee rather than have her depart. He didn’t want her to leave. Not even for two minutes.

  “When do you return to Sancta Barbaria?” he asked.

  DaVinci’s eyes twinkled. “Santa Barbara,” she said. The twinkle disappeared as quickly as it had come. “And, well, I don’t know,” she said softly, her eyes down.

  It was a terrible answer. It was the least satisfactory answer ever given.

  “I was thinking,” she began, “that it might be nice to stick around awhile.”

  This was a wonderful answer. The most satisfactory imaginable! He should say something. He should say, I would like that, or maybe, Florida is a lovely place, or . . . or . . .

  How was one to know the right thing to say?

  “The sunsets the last two evenings,” DaVinci was saying, “oh my gosh. Unbelievable colors in the sky. It’s the clouds, I think. Or the moisture in the air? I have no idea what makes the sky go all crazy with color like that.”

  “The skies here are the fairest I have seen,” agreed Quintus. Yet she, the girl beside him, was fairer still. But no doubt she had been told this many times. Why could he think of nothing to say to her, nothing that would convey the extent to which Amor’s arrows had pierced his heart?

  “And that doctor who sewed you up last night? He said there’s a huge, wealthy population of retired people, and in my experience, wealthy people means clients. Hmm. Do you know the word client?”

  “Rome invented it,” said Quintus. How marvelous. He had managed to bring the conversation to Rome, a topic he had sworn to forego, in consideration of all the girl had suffered there.

  “So speaking of Rome,” said the girl, “I might have . . . well, listen, I took some pictures of you when you were at the second-hand jewelry place. The light was amazing. And I didn’t have anything else to do. And, well, I’m sorry I didn’t ask your permission first.”

  She had taken his picture? What did that mean?

  “There was no need to obtain my permission,” he said softly.

  “Okay. That’s good. Because I also made some paintings from the pictures, and Father Joe asked if he could give one to a parishioner. That’s a person who—”

  “I understand parishioner,” said Quintus. He was on the verge of explaining that that word had Roman roots as well, but decided to hold his tongue. He didn’t want to speak of words and roots.

  “I know I acted like a total spoiled brat yesterday,” said the girl. “I want to apologize.”

  “There is no need,” said Quintus. “My behavior was also . . . regrettable.”

  “Well, when in Rome . . .” The girl trailed off, smiling.

  “When in Rome?” asked Quintus.

  “It’s a saying. When in Rome . . . um, actually, that is the whole saying, but the implication is that if you are in an unfamiliar place, like, say, Rome, then you should behave the way the locals behave.”

  “I see. That is commendable advice.”

  The girl laughed again. The skin to the sides of her eyes folded in soft crinkles when she laughed. And on her round cheeks there appeared . . .

  “What is the word for the . . . indentations, just here,” he asked, touching her face.

  At his touch, she took a hurried breath. “Oh. Um . . . dimples? Maybe? I have the worst dimples in the world.”

  Quintus smiled softly. “I do not think you are employing the word worst in its intended sense.”

  “Oh . . .” The girl smiled again.

  There had to be a way to speak his feelings. To say something that would, at least, keep her here.

  “Your injured finger,” he asked, “does it pain you?”

  “It’s nothing. Seriously nothing.” She examined her injured hand. “I don’t even want to ask how you’re feeling.”

  “My injuries are as nothing,” said Quintus. It was both a lie and the truth. Compared to the ache with which he yearned for the girl, his injuries were nothing. Why could he not speak these feelings to her?

  “Quintus?”

  “Yes?”

  “I want to ask you something. You don’t have to answer, but . . . well . . . Look, I’m just going to ask it.” She closed her eyes as if in resolve. “Do you still have feelings for . . . for your wife? Because . . . well, I might have feelings for you—”

  “Beloved,” whispered Quintus. Her eyes flew open.

  “Okay, that is, like, the third time I’ve heard you use that word. To me. At me. Whatever. Do you actually know what that word means?” Her voice had grown soft as she asked the question.

  “That which is treasured or cherished,” replied Quintus. His heart began to beat faster.

  She smiled. The . . . dimples returned. He raised his hand to her cheek.

  “Dimples,” he said softly. “Yours are the most lovely.”

  This time, when she inhaled at his touch, she seemed also to shiver. She moved closer. Quintus’s pulse roared in his ears.

  “Okay,” said the girl, “I really, really need you to answer my question.”

  Quintus stared into her eyes, pools of luminous green. Question? What question?

  “Your wife,” she said, as if reading his mind. “Mucia. Sixteen- or seventeen-year-old with long straight black hair.”

  “Mucia?”

  “Do you still have feelings for her?”

  Oh. That question.

  “It matters to me,” DaVinci said softly. “I need you to be honest.”

  “I have . . . feelings,” said Quintus. “Of disgust. Of disappointment. Of . . . regret. Yes, I have many feelings, but none are pleasing.”

  “Oh,” whispered the girl. “That’s good. Not pleasing is very, very good.”

  Her head was now quite near his. He wanted to kiss her. Would she be offended? She had suffered so many affronts yesterday . . .

  She was speaking again. “So, my feelings, the ones I, um, just mentioned a minute ago, they are very pleasing. I like you Quintus.”

  A smile broke across his face. The smile hurt like, what was the expression? Like Hades? His smile grew. “Never has a man been more favored by Fortuna,” said Quintus. “I, also, like you.”

  The girl’s cheeks grew pink. She looked down at Quintus’s hands. “I might even . . .” She looked up, meeting his eyes. “You know what? After everything we’ve been through together, I’m just going to say it. I might be in love with you, Quintus. So as long as you don’t have a problem with that, I’d like to stay in Florida awhile. Like, indefinitely, because, yeah. Totally falling in love here. And lust, too, which I might as well admit, right? Because, just, wow. Quintus, you are the most gorgeous specimen of man I have ever set eyes on, and let me tell you, I. Have. Set. Eyes. Lots of eyes. Lots of setting—”

  Quintus touched her face, her beautiful pink and dimpled face.

  “I’ll, um, stop talking now,” she said in a whisper.
“Your turn?”

  58

  • DAVINCI •

  Florida, July

  He wasn’t saying anything. Well, he was touching her cheek like she was some freaking . . . treasure or something. Why wasn’t he saying anything? Someone should be saying something.

  “Listen, you’ve been through so much,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for everything you’ve lost. I know what it’s like waking up to find out you’re not even sure who you are anymore.”

  Quintus’s brow furrowed at this, but he didn’t say anything. He just took her face in his large, strong hands. He touched his forehead to hers.

  Oh God. She wasn’t sure she remembered how to breathe. From somewhere outside the vestry, she was aware of the sound of voices. Laughter rising and falling in the distance. But that was out there, and Quintus was in here, his hands weaving in her hair—she probably had the worst case of bed head, like, ever—

  And then she wasn’t thinking about her hair or Quintus’s losses or her losses, because Quintus’s mouth was on hers, hungry and wanting, and his hands were describing the curve of her neck, shoulders, and waist, and all she could think about was wanting, wanting, wanting, and she was reaching under his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin where her hand touched his chest—

  Which was the moment the vestry door swung open.

  Oh, dear holy saints and apostles! DaVinci pulled away from Quintus, gasping for breath and attempting to smooth her wild curls. She was making out in a church and she’d just been caught by . . . whom? A priest? She turned to look.

  “Jillian,” said DaVinci, breathless.

  Not a priest. Thank God. Literally. She was literally thanking God for that one. She turned to Quintus, who was staring at her, eyes dark with longing, breathing hard. Wow.

  She turned back to Jillian.

  “So we were just, um . . . Yeah. I guess you saw—”

  “I came to let you know there are doughnuts and coffee.”

  “Doughnuts,” said DaVinci. “And coffee.”

  “Yes,” said Jillian. “And Father Joe is wheeling them this way on a tea trolley, so you might want to—”