“Exposed,” Holt was careful to differentiate. “Not invented.”
“The gates,” I guessed.
“Correct.”
“So after you dolts did whatever-it-was, suddenly people within—what? seventy, eighty miles of your facility?—could see wormholes, and they either fell or blundered into them by mistake. But usually the wormholes aren’t … uh …”
“Traversable.”
“That’s it.” I gritted my teeth over the irritation of a careless moron knowing a word I didn’t. “They aren’t traversable all the time, and even when they are, not everyone can see them.” Otherwise half the population would have gone missing, not half a dozen in a month. “And none of you have been able to figure out why.” Not that I could blame them for that last one. As far as I could tell, other than accidental time-travel, the Losties, myself included, had nothing in common. Different nationalities, races, races, religions, creeds, genders, political leanings, education, upbringing, blood type, etcetera.
“Say, gang, do you know what might have provided you some valuable clues? Reading the paperwork you made us sign.” My God. That’s how much trouble poor Teresa Lupez was in: I had more common sense than the scientists responsible for her plight. “So I.T.C.H. was government-funded, but is now officially shut down. And you guys decided to keep the lights on how? Private funds?”
“Yes.”
“And were inspired to play with unregulated tech.”
“Yes.”
“With no fucking idea what to do next.”
“Well. Uh. Yes.”
(I tend to be liberal with the F bombs when I’m beyond aggravated, unlike Lisa, who treats them like everyday adjectives.)
“Which is why you shut everything down and went on your merry way last weekend. You gave me up for lost or dead so …”
“… so we figured shutting everything down for a few hours was worth a try. Experiments often yield negative results which in turn lead us to—”
“Shut up, Karen. It was a pathetically desperate attempt to fix something you weren’t sure would work and if that meant stranding me, oh well, bigger picture and all that. Right?”
“I have the feeling that if I answer you’re going to hit me.”
“Excellent instincts, Karen. Cripes, you’re wearing a lab coat that isn’t even yours!”
“I like the extra room,” she whined, flapping her arms.
“Warren even needled you about your background when I came back from Calais! He asked if they mailed your diploma or sent an e-card.”
Warren cleared his throat. “That was more because I don’t like her as opposed to thinking her credentials suck.”
“Understandable.” To Ian Holt: “You can’t get the authorities involved because not only did you inadvertently kidnap several people, you’re basically running a fraudulent operation and breaking about twenty laws, from misdemeanors all the way up to felony. And maybe murder, if I can’t save Teresa. Or myself.”
“Why are you narrating?” Warren asked.
“It helps me think!” I snapped. “And not a single one of you was a decent enough human being to risk getting into trouble for strangers. Jesus! No wonder you were so amazed when I came back from Calais.”
“It was miraculous,” Warren said quietly. “Appearing out of nowhere, the only one to make it back. You were a goddamned miracle.”
“Don’t you dare try to be nice to me now. So how’d you pay me? How are you keeping the lights on? If you’re out of funding? Is that why the receptionist is gone? And the parking lot’s always empty?”
Warren cleared his throat. “Yeah. And that was me. I paid you with my own money.” When I just looked at him he added, “I thought you were worth it. And then some.”
I remained unmoved. (Right? Yes. Unmoved.) If he hadn’t technically lied, he’d withheld a lot of necessary information. The fact that he was the only one of the lot who had any faith in me was irrelevant. Right? Yes. Because I historically didn’t have a soft spot for the one person in a group (Lisa, Warren, Mary Boleyn) who valued me. Not at all.
“And I’m happy you came back,” he continued, “but in the interest of full disclosure—”
“Why? Is that a new thing you’re trying?”
“—my funds are nearly depleted. I can’t pay you this time.”
“Not a factor.” I couldn’t take it even if he had the money. I was now officially an accessory to their bullshit. I wasn’t going to make it worse by taking more money. And when these complicit shitheads got caught—and they would—I might have to give the $29,030 back. “I don’t care about the money. And poor Teresa has been kept waiting long enough, so I need to get moving. Now: what is your plan if it takes me more than an hour and a half to find Teresa?”
“Um … to not shut everything down and leave?”
“Very good, Karen!” I clapped. Hey, she deserved it. She’d just taken a huge step. My applause was only 80% mockery. “But just in case you forgetful idiots get forgetful, believe that I’ve left some contingencies in place, none of which will rain down on your lives provided you do the right thing.”
Karen’s eyes practically bulged. “But—my God, you can’t—what if you get killed over there?”
“That is literally the most upset I’ve seen you get at the prospect of my death—when it’s going to screw up your weekend plans. Hope I don’t die, Karen! Obviously!”
“Risky,” Holt said. He wasn’t as visibly upset as Karen, he just seemed dourly resigned.
“Yes, Dr. Holt—wait, are you even a doctor?”
“Of course I’m a doctor, I got my doctorate after—”
“Shut up now. Yes, it’s risky—just like every single trip I’ve taken for you duplicitous dillholes has been risky. And yes, it could end badly. Just like every single—”
“We get it,” Holt snapped.
“Really? Are you sure? Because for scientists, you guys aren’t bright. You’re the ‘book smart but no common sense’ trope come to life.”
“But you admit we’re book smart?”
“Shut. Up.” I took a breath so I wouldn’t kill someone while simultaneously suffering a fatal heart attack. “Give me ten minutes, and then do whatever it is you do to summon a gate. Try not to shatter the space–time continuum while you’re at it.”
“And then what?”
“Pray I come back. Obviously.”
Chapter Fifty-One
Dear Lisa,
Don’t freak out. But if I’m not back in 24 hours, it’s because I’m a time traveler who scoops up people who fall through a wormhole accidentally created by imposter scientists who don’t understand how any of it works and they cut me a five figure check every time I jump. Well, they used to. Not anymore, because now I’m an accessory to fraud. And time travel, I guess?
I’m not crazy.
This is why I couldn’t tell you what I’ve been doing for I.T.C.H., because your first instinct after screaming “What the fucking fuck are you even talking about?” would be to slap a seventy-two hour psych hold on me. I don’t have time for a ten-hour psych hold, never mind one that lasts for three days. Also the food would be terrible. Don’t try to tell me different.
Anyway, if I’m not back, DO NOT GO TO I.T.C.H. I’m serious, Lisa. Do not behave like one of those silly horror movie heroines and seek out danger by yourself. KEEP CLEAR. You’ll never be able to convince the cops that I.T.C.H. had anything to do with my disappearance, or that time travel is real, and if you show the cops this letter, they’ll wonder why you didn’t place a psych hold on me when you had the chance. The only thing storming I.T.C.H. will do is bring trouble on your head—perhaps a lethal amount. STAY AWAY.
For a while. But when things have quieted down and they think they’ve gotten away with everything, you can use the stuff I left you in my strongbox to wreak fiscally ruino
us and violent revenge upon them. There’s simply no one in the world who would rain havoc on their lives like you, which is one of many reasons I adore you.
When I return (because I’m actually getting a handle on this and am pretty confident I’ll be back and yes, I’m aware that sounds as insane as thinking I’m a time traveler), I’ll tell you everything, full disclosure, NDAs be damned.
If I don’t return, I’ve made arrangements for you to take possession of my money (not that you need it) and my stuff (not that you want it).
You know where the key to my strongbox is.
I’ve loved you from the minute you helped me out of the ice cube pile I made when I got sick that first time.
I hope to see you soon.
Love,
Joan
Chapter Fifty-Two
The willow outside London again. And soon enough, since I had founded Horse Hertz, I was riding into the city on a good-natured bay gelding who had a back so broad I felt like I was doing the splits. And yes, I was attracting attention, and it would get worse the closer to the city I got, but I could handle—
“Lady Joan!”
“Thomas Wynter.” I pulled up, smiling when I saw him lope out of one of the buildings on my right. “What in the world are you doing out here?”
He gestured at The Gray Horse with his hat, which he’d plucked off when he saw me. “I took a room at the inn so I could better focus on my studies of the—”
“Great! Listen, Thomas, I’m on the trail of one of my Losties.”
“Yes, I assumed when I saw you.” His smile was a little crooked. “One of these days I hope to catch you at your leisure. Your devotion to your wayward lambs is commendable, but you seem to take no time for your own pleasure.”
“I do, just not, um, around here. But listen: I’m looking for a woman named Teresa Lupez. She’s about this tall …” I had no idea what 5’9” was in centimeters, so I held my hand up to my eyebrows. “… with brown skin and short black hair and brown eyes and she’s thin.”
“A long, dark lass?”
“If that helps you. She would have gotten here about two days ago and her clothing probably attracted a lot of attention and why are you looking at me like that?”
Thomas was gazing at me with not a little sympathy. “A woman matching that description did come through, but it grieves me to tell you she has been taken to the Tower.”
Dammit. “Because they think she’s insane,” I sighed, resigned that my errand had gotten exponentially more dangerous.
He shook his head. “No, Lady Joan. They do not think she is mad.”
Oh. Oh, shit. What could be worse than the locals thinking you’re insane? Thinking you’re a traitor or a witch. And I doubt they’d assume she was a traitor. I was about to dig my heels into the horse’s side for a madcap ride to the when I felt Thomas’ hand close around my ankle.
“Wait.”
I did, because I had an inkling what he was up to. He came back not three minutes later in a riding cloak atop a black mare, and hit the road with me right behind him.
(Inkling confirmed.)
An hour later, we were pulling up to the Tower of London, which looked odd as it wasn’t surrounded by souvenir shops. That was a money-making venture Henry VIII was missing out on.
We both swung down, and I almost fell while my knees convened for a few seconds to determine if they were going to hold me up. I will never dismiss dressage events as purely ornamental ever again, and the next time Lisa does, I will scold the hell out of her.
“Ooof! Sorry, I’m out of practice. And color me crazy—”
“I beg your pardon?”
“—but it’s really hot.” I needed to know the date, and there was no time to be subtle. “So so so hot. Unseasonably hot?”
“Yes, about that.” Thomas lowered his voice as he tied up the horses, though no one was paying attention to us. “There are some who claim the heat is God’s punishment for Cardinal Fisher’s execution. They warn the crops will fail again and fear many will starve come winter.”
“Oh.” Okay, that put us at 1535. Elizabeth I has been born, to her parents’ disappointment, and there is definitely trouble in paradise. “That sounds bad.” And inadequate. Plus I was distracted by the urge I had to run my fingers through Thomas’ mop of hair. Which was nuts: if I was going to go for anyone, it would be Warren, the only member of I.T.C.H. who valued my contribution to their dysfunctional team of science imposters. Plus he got bonus points for living in the same century I did.
Thomas was looking down, as if someone had just slung a weight across his shoulders. “And as you doubtless heard, More was beheaded this morning.”
I nodded. Oh, sure, you betcha. I knew all about it! You’d have to be from a different time period not to know all about it!
July 1535, then. Anne Boleyn has less than a year to live, and once again, a wormhole had spit me out on a significant date in British history. When Henry killed Thomas More, he rocked his country as well as the continent. The repercussions would be severe and ongoing, and if so many innocents wouldn’t also suffer, I’d say the megalomaniacal jackass deserved all the trouble coming his way.
“Is that why everyone is so subdued?” I’d been worried about attracting unwanted attention, but the closer to the Tower we got, the quieter people became. Everyone looked exhausted and uneasy, everyone seemed to be waiting for the next terrible thing.
“Oh yes,” Thomas murmured back. “No one thought he would execute Fisher … and then he did. But More was one of the king’s oldest friends. He’s known him since he was a lad. And all the world admires Thomas More.”
“Sure. The Utopia fellow.”
“Just so. There’s not a prince on the continent who would not move the heavens to have More’s singular skills at their disposal. So it was unthinkable the king would execute an old friend who had one of the finest minds in the world … over this … but …”
Worse: this was only the start. Henry Tudor, Waste of his Name, was realizing no one—not the Pope, not other monarchs, not his Privy Council, not Parliament, not public opinion—could thwart his murderous impulses.
“But there’s nothing we can do about it,” I said, heartless yet practical. “So let’s focus on what we can do.” I eyed the Tower looming before us. It wasn’t a tourist attraction in 1535, which wasn’t a problem. It was a residence, a fortress, and a prison in 1535; that was the problem. The Tower was built to keep people out. Or in.
So it wasn’t a matter of simply strolling in whistling “God Save the Queen.” Which I shouldn’t whistle, not least because I had no idea when the song was written.
“Thomas, will the guards let us in?”
“No,” a voice said from behind us. “But I will.”
We turned and Thomas bowed. “My Lord Cromwell. You remember the Lady Joan.”
“My Lord, huh?” Cromwell looked almost exactly the way he did the last time I saw him, except he was wearing more velvet and jewelry. I couldn’t imagine having to wear velvet in this heat, so I felt sorry for him. “You’re coming up in the world.”
Cromwell inclined his head and showed a thin smile. “It is my good fortune to serve a generous master in the king. What brings you to the Tower on such a …” He paused and I could practically see him groping for le mot juste. “… rehabilitating day?”
“The Lady Joan’s angels have once again sent her to fetch a wayward lamb,” Thomas explained on my behalf, which was annoying, but this was neither the time nor place for a chat about feminism.
“Is it so?” Then, to me: “Dark skin and eyes? Bizarre clothing and speech?”
“That’s her. Is she here?”
“Yes, I regret to tell you that yon wayward lass was, ah, pursued by a group of concerned citizens—”
“Chased by a mob,” I said flatly.
�
�—and fell into the Thames in her attempt to flee. My men plucked her from the river not long ago and brought her here.”
I could have swooned with relief. One of these days I would swoon, just to see what it was like to do it when it was socially acceptable. “May I see her?”
“Of course.”
“Great! Thank you so much. Before we go in, though—I’ve been on a horse for a while. Is there somewhere I could freshen up just a bit?” Blink-blink-blinketey-blink.
“Are you all right, Lady Joan? Do you have something in your eye?”
Dammit! Mary Boleyn makes it look easy.
Doubtless worried I was coming down with chronic pinkeye, the Thomases escorted me to the Beauchamp Tower, where I was shown a room just off the entrance. It was small, gloomy, and sparsely furnished (a table, two chairs, not much else), but suited my purpose. With about as much delicacy as you might imagine, I hiked my skirt up, grabbed my fanny pack, yanked my phone out, and looked up the first week in July, 1535. After my “what should my hypothetical book heroine who definitely isn’t me bring to the 16th century” chat with Lisa, I downloaded several libraries’ worth of 16th century history (specifically Tudor England). In a minute I had an idea of what would happen this week (or, at least, events that made enough of an impact to be noted by historians) and felt better prepared to chit-chat with the Thomases and spring Teresa. With luck, I’d be back before Lisa even read my note.
I emerged refreshed (but not really), thanked the Thomases and followed them past several guards into the tower.
I vaguely remembered Beauchamp’s fame for distinguished prisoners like Jane Boleyn, Catherine Howard, and Lady Jane Grey, which boded ill for Teresa. The Tower didn’t even reek that badly; there was an overall fishy, muddy smell—doubtless the proximity to the Thames—and the smell of rotting vegetation underneath that, and everything was damp and chill, but I’d been to fish markets that had been more unpleasant.
A Contemporary Asshat at the Court of Henry VIII Page 21