I was also catching up on my Tudor history. Not the pop culture stuff—I’d had all that memorized for years—but the actual history. Which was hilarious on its own merits; I hadn’t willingly opened a non-fic Tudor tome since my training bra days.
And as I read up on Cromwell, Henry, Catherine, Norfolk and the rest of their wacky gang, I realized I was guessing everyone’s ages wrong. Argh, stop using the present tense!
Let’s try again: it occurred to me that I had guessed everyone’s ages wrong. And not by a little. Norfolk, whom I’d pegged as in his eighties, was barely out of his fifties. Catherine’s fierce advocate, Countess Willoughby, was only in her early forties when I met her. Henry and Catherine were both younger than they appeared to me. Living in the Tudor era must be stressful as hell. Remember those before-and-after the Civil War pictures of Lincoln? Like that.
And speaking of the Countess, she’d hit my expectations and then some, which made me laugh out loud.
“It freaks me out when you huddle up on the couch and giggle,” Lisa said. “What are you even holding?”
“Stop that. You know what a book made from trees looks like.” Lisa embraced modernity in all things, which was hilarious given how much she liked wood-burning stoves. I think it was her way of confirming that old-fashioned = bad. Beloved mothers don’t O.D. on meth in the paperless and addiction-free world Lisa was determined to make. The only dead-tree book she owned was Gray’s Anatomy. “Just some history.”
“Why the fuck are you reading about the Tudors?”
“I lost a bet.”
“Yeah, figures.” She shook her head. “You don’t know you’re doing it, do you?” I must have looked blanker than usual, because she added, “You’re picking up the accent.”
Lisa had made this observation while reading. And when I say “reading”, I mean she had a newspaper out (the old-fashioned kind, but only because she was about to burn it), had unfolded her phone into tablet mode, and had her all-time favorite storybook, Gray’s Anatomy, open to one of the penis pages.
Since she didn’t make a habit of quiet observation, that got my attention.
“I am? It doesn’t sound forced, does it? Like I’m faking it?” Was this something to fret over? Perhaps I should fret.
“No. That’s my point. We’ve only lived here a few months and you’re starting to sound like a native. And you’re not aware of it. At all. It’s … it’s just what you do.”
“And?” If it didn’t sound like a pretentious affect, big deal, right?
“You don’t have to camouflage.” Now she was speaking quietly and gently as I tried not to be terrified. Lisa didn’t do quiet or gentle. “You don’t have to hide. No one’s coming in the middle of the night to take you. The things you did to survive your childhood … you don’t have to do them anymore.”
Abort. Abort! “I. Know. That.”
“I thought if I got you out of Wisconsin, away from where it all happened, you wouldn’t work so hard to camouflage yourself. That you’d be free to …” She trailed off and frowned. “Well. It hasn’t even been a year. Give it time.”
“Give what time? Scratch that, I don’t want to know. I don’t need to be fixed,” I warned.
“Sure you do,” she replied cheerfully. “But don’t feel bad. Most people do. I do.”
Got that right. But because I wasn’t as brave as she was, I didn’t say it out loud.
So I was picking up the accent. What, blending in was a bad thing? Ha! Shows what Dr. Destructo knew; blending in would keep me from getting killed when I went back to TudorTime except I just remembered I quit so I’ll never go back to TudorTime.
And that’s fine.
It’s totally fine.
Really. It’s all fine.
Chapter Forty-Nine
I was transcribing the clinic notes for Mr. Stollen’s chronic obstructive pulmonary disease when my phone clicked at me. I.T.C.H. was calling, either looking for a debriefing or because we—they—had a new Lostie.
I let it go to voicemail.
All three times.
And then I went to bed.
“You want me to talk to them?” Lisa asked. She had a vase-sized glass of chocolate milk in one hand and was holding a Pop Tart with tongs in the other. This despite several discussions about how the toaster was a better option than her Bunsen burner.
“No.”
“Because I’ll be glad to have a chat with them.”
I smirked down at Suzannah Lipscomb’s A Journey Through Tudor England. Lisa’s chats—with a sexually harassing prof, the dumbass who tried to steal her identity, the utilities company, a meth dealer—were mild forms of ‘I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds’. “No, things haven’t gotten that bad.”
“What is going on?” she demanded, and I jumped, because she’d crossed the room and was reading over my shoulder.
“Writing!” It was the first thing to leap into my brain, then out my mouth. “I’ve taken up writing things down. Well, first reading and then writing things down.”
“What kind—”
“Tudor period.”
I braced myself for the fallout. But I lucked out—she just blinked, sans comment. A perfect time to bring up my agenda.
“And I wanted to ask you some stuff. For starters, I wondered if you knew any old-timey cures for migraines.”
“Well, death is technically a cure in that it results in the total abatement of symptoms.”
“And also the total abatement of a pulse. Next.”
“Why do you need to know? And, again: what’s with the Tudor reading? You hate that shit.”
“No, I was bored by that shit. For years. But lately it’s gotten interesting to me again. Possibly because I’m maturing into a sophisticated, well-read woman who—stop laughing, jerk.”
“So you’re picking up the accent and turning into a Tudor-phile before my eyes. Goddamn unending horror, that’s what I’m in for.”
“But you always knew that. Also I need to talk to you about drugs.”
“You …” She took a gulp of milk and sputtered. “What?”
I put the book aside and followed her back into the kitchen. “I’m writing a book about time travel back to the Tudor era. Well. Thinking about it.”
“Why? Lose another bet?”
I shrugged.
“I smell the Information Technology for Culture and History all over this.”
“You’re literally the only person who doesn’t use the acronym. And you’re right, but I can’t go into it.”
“NDAs suck a dead donkey’s balls.”
“The restriction can be annoying, but a deal’s a deal. And nobody made me sign it.”
“I’m still astonished you did sign it. Now I’m gonna haveta get you drunk and get the whole story out of you.”
“You might not have to get me drunk. There might be a way around it, but I have to do some more research first. But I can’t pretend I didn’t get anything out of it.” Twenty-nine thousand thirty dollars and eighteen cents, to be specific. And a lifetime of yummy historical food memories. And some memorable afternoons with the yummy Thomas Wynter. And a crush on Warren’s forearms. And profound disillusionment.
I shoved it all to the back of my brain. “Let’s say a modern heroine knows she’ll end up in the mid-sixteenth century.”
“Hey, I’m just glad to see you’re engaged in something. Anything.”
“Don’t start,” I warned. “I engage all over the place. Now. My heroine can’t bring much, maybe a backpack’s worth. What medications should she have on hand?”
“How long is she stuck there?”
“It could be a couple of hours to several days.”
“But she can expect to return?”
Please God, yes. I nodded.
There was a ‘fwoosh!’ as Lisa fir
ed up the burner and started caramelizing the Pop Tart. “Well, antibiotics, to start. If she gets even a splinter, she’s gonna want something to kill any infection, especially if she’s stuck there a while. I wouldn’t set a sole fucking toe in the 16th century without a couple of cycles of Keflex. And some opioids. Hydro, maybe. Or Oxy.”
I was putting it all into my phone. “What else?”
“Well, the water back then was essentially sludge. And the diet was less than varied.”
“Right, but on the upside—no MSG, no artificial growth hormones, no pesticides.”
“Fair point. But still—water purification tabs and vitamins. OTC laxatives and antacids would be good. Maybe some antihistamines. A really good First Aid kit. Is she gonna fuck?”
“God, no! I mean—I don’t think so. She’s not there long enough and even if she wanted to there can be no happily ever after so she’d never have sex with anybody.” I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “At least, that’s my take on it.”
“All right, calm down. If she’s on the Pill she’ll need to bring some, that’s all I was saying. Modern condoms would be tough to explain.”
“Just a bit.” I almost laughed at the idea of waving a Magnum condom at Thomas Wynter, to use an example of something that wouldn’t happen because I was done with all of it.
“If she has time before she goes, immunizations would be good. With time for boosters, ideally. MMR, diphtheria-tetanus-pertussis. Varicella, polio, hepatitis, typhoid. A flu shot.”
Before long, we were off meds and onto other practicalities (“Tampons. And hand sanitizer. A fucking oil drum of hand sanitizer. And a good pocket knife.”). Lisa got caught up in the challenge in spite of herself, which led to speculation about whether or not smuggling a .38 to the past was brilliant or suicidal.
I know, I know: what did I think I was doing? I was done with I.T.C.H. and they were done with me. They had been done with me before I even returned on their last danger-fraught escapade. It wasn’t my job and it had never been my responsibility.
But I still had to go in for the debriefing, and maybe my notes would be helpful to whomever they got to be their new Lostie wrangler. And who knew? Maybe I would write a book about my adventures, non-disclosure agreement be damned.
After we were done brainstorming, Lisa demanded I try a caramelized chocolate Pop Tart. So I bit. Chewed. Swallowed. “Dammit.”
“Right? They’re so much better this way! That’s it, I’m throwin’ away the toaster.”
“I am lost without you.”
I crumpled the card in my fist and watched the floral truck drive away. “Lost? Oh, very funny, Warren.” Though I had to admit, the two dozen peachy-pink roses were gorgeous.
“Oh you manipulative pricks.” I.T.C.H. had texted me a picture of a lovely dark-skinned woman with cheekbones you could cut yourself on. Teresa Lupez, visiting from Washington D.C., missing thirty hours, last seen at The Tower of London. Family and friends very concerned, anyone with information, please call the Missing Persons hotline or the police, etc.
“Concerned, but not enough to risk an I.T.C.H. tech,” I snapped at my phone. “Concerned, but not enough to tell the authorities what really happened.” I’d always known I was dispensable, but I.T.C.H. was really rubbing it in.
And why wasn’t I going to the police, non-dis be damned?
Because they won’t believe me. And once they decide I’m deluded or a pathological liar, which they’ll decide pretty quickly, they’ll look into me, not I.T.C.H., which will lead to inevitable questions about The After and big trouble when they find my gun.
I deleted the text. I didn’t owe them anything, and them included Teresa Lupez. Besides, I had a number of errands to run. Not that I had to explain myself. Because I didn’t. And I wouldn’t! Over and done, all of it.
Yep.
Chapter Fifty
“All right, you pack of amoral Igors, fine, I’m here, fine, Jesus, you win.”
I’d stormed past the non-existent receptionist (coffee break? sick day? laid off?), blew past all the stupid corporate retreat photos, and made my way to the warehouse-sized lab.
“Did you hear? I’ll go. I’ll go. All right? I’m here. I’ll go.”
Silence except for the humming and whirring of various machines. Dr. Holt stretched out a hand to Karen, who grimaced, pulled out her wallet, and slapped a bill in his palm.
“Really, Karen? Really?”
“Thank you, Joan.” This in a tone of deep relief as Dr. Holt rushed over to me. He, like Warren and Karen, had showered and eaten recently. He was much less hollow-eyed and rank. “Thank you so much. And I’d like to apologize—”
“Save it. If you get me thinking about Project Abandon Joan To A Nasty Fate, I’ll change my mind. I might anyway. Are you any closer to figuring out why this keeps happening?”
“Ah. Well.” He cleared his throat and looked at the floor. “About that …”
“Sorry, I’ll rephrase. Are you any closer to clueing me in on what you’re really up to?”
That got his attention. “What? What makes you think—”
“Please.” I folded my arms across my chest and leveled a Lisa-like glare. Tried, anyway. I couldn’t see my face. Maybe I just looked tired and constipated. “You guys have been squirrely from Day One. First off, there aren’t enough of you. I’ve only ever seen you three and one or two others. Pretty light staff for a lab this size. Second, you’re not reading any of the non-disclosure agreements you’ve gotten us to sign. Third, there doesn’t appear to be any long-term plan in place—you’re only concerned with the little fires, not the bonfire that might burn everything down—and fourth, you haven’t reached out to any of the Losties once you’ve got their paperwork.”
(My errands? Were informative.)
“There’s no way you—”
“I called them all, Dr. Holt.” I resisted the urge to grab him and give a tooth-rattling shake. Holt was blocky and sturdy, but I had adrenaline and irritation on my side. “What, you think I’d go to the trouble of risking my life bringing them back and then never think of them again? That they’d never think of me and have questions once the shock wore off? Just ‘See ya!’ and that would be that? Of course we exchanged contact info.”
“Which was strictly forbidden in our agreement,” Holt said sharply. Which was fine; I wanted him to get pissy.
“I signed and initialed all the paperwork as Martha Washington.”
“You—what?”
“And dated it all 1776.”
“What?”
“Which you didn’t notice because you didn’t bother reading any of it. Or, at best, you skimmed for details but didn’t bother with any of the signature pages. You’re not looking closely at the paperwork because you don’t actually care about it, it’s just a way to intimidate your victims, keep us out of your face, and discourage us from contacting the authorities.”
“Who would you even contact?”
“Exactly—that’s where your focus is: keeping secrets. The only reason you’re worried about Losties is because you can’t afford any scrutiny—good or bad.”
Total silence.
“None of you are even supposed to be here, are you?”
“Oh, hell.” From Karen. “How’d you figure it out?”
“The real question is why it took me so long.” I decided to ignore the urge to indulge the trope, ‘I didn’t. You just told me.’ “You guys are not slick.”
I.T.C.H. didn’t ask many questions, that had been one tip-off. For cutting-edge scientists with a supposed seven-figure budget who were devoted to culture and history and who had the godlike power of time travel at their fingertips, they were remarkably incurious. Other than Warren’s interest (and not to blast my own trumpet, but I think that had more to do with me personally than any love of Tudor lore), there was never an
y of the “tell me about the past I can’t believe you time-traveled what’s Anne of Cleves really like wow!” attitude I’d expected.
No, it was always more like, “Huh? Oh. You’re back. Hooray?”
At the time, I reasoned that they were focused on the bigger problem: how to stop random gates from opening and grabbing the unsuspecting.
But here’s what it really was: a total lack of interest because none of them cared about time travel, or Losties. I just couldn’t figure out what they did care about.
And when they did ask questions, they were the wrong ones. “Don’t tell anyone, okay?” “You understand our arbitrary rules, right?” “You don’t have family? Great! But you’re not going to divulge to your roommate, either, got it?”
“Tell me what happened.”
So it all came out. I think they were glad of it. They were all interrupting each other to explain the details behind the unfolding crapfest. How Warren and Holt were practically the only original team members left. How they’d worked on information teleportation right up until they blew through their funding. How the entire project was shutting down, their lease was up in sixty days, most of the group had transferred out, and the ones left got Senioritis and started goofing around with the tech and accidentally exposed wormholes.
“You accidentally exposed wormholes,” I parroted, because for God’s sake. This was insane, they were insane, we were all deeply, incurably insane.
“There was some kind of power surge that coincided with what we were doing.” This from Karen, who added, “I don’t think we could recreate the accident, to be honest.”
“No, of course not. Power surge? So, what, a Frankenstein’s monster effect? The ‘a lightning storm happened during the experiment so now there are wormholes’ excuse? Seriously?”
“Well, it sounds stupid when you put it like—”
“It’s stupid, Karen! It’s not about the phrasing!” Jesus. These people. “So a bunch of—what? Science temps? A bunch of you were dicking around with equipment you didn’t understand and the resulting power surge made wormholes.”
A Contemporary Asshat at the Court of Henry VIII Page 20