“Because I.T.C.H. isn’t here,” I guessed. “So if Warren came for you, he could be a—what? Gentleman of leisure?”
“Less complicated?” Lisa nearly shrieked, cutting off Eleanor’s answer. “Jesus! ‘Less complicated’ is the last phrase I would use to describe any part of this abortion! What. Is. Wrong. With. You? That’s not rhetorical, you deluded cow. I genuinely want to know what the hell your damage is. So far I count narcissism, pathological lying, histrionic personality disorder, possible borderline personality disorder, the early stages of tuberculosis—”
“And there’s none of that in this time, either,” Eleanor sniffed. “Labels.”
“Yeah, I’ll be you heard a lot of them before you quit the 21st century, you psychotic noodle brain. And why are you rich here? It’s not like you jumped with a treasure chest.”
“Good question,” I said, surprised. And speaking of rich, was it time to tell her Warren wanted her back mostly because of her money? And if not, then when?
“Well.” Eleanor looked taken aback by the question. “I’ve had years, you know, and—and that is none of your concern! Why am I answering your questions? I wanted to get you in here to tell you to your face what an insufferable interfering blight you’ve been on my life.”
“Noted. Then what?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well, you got to yell and do the ‘I would have gotten away with it if it wasn’t for you meddling kids’ speech—”
“I am getting away with it.”
“So what now? Warren sent me to bring you back. Forced me, actually—the only way he could do it was to trick Lisa into jumping, then let me go after her. So I was supposed to come back with you, then go back for her.”
“Really?” Lisa asked. “Why’d you get me first?”
“Why wouldn’t I? You were right there. Warren should have come himself if he wanted things done a certain way. And now’s probably a good time to mention that if I try to come back without Eleanor, Warren threatened to pull the plug and strand us.”
“Well, shit. Guess we’re bringing her back.”
“What?” Eleanor gasped. “No! He never. He would never.”
“Oh, take it easy, I’m not even sure I believe him. He said it himself—our absence was going to arouse 21st century attention that I.T.C.H. can’t afford. It’s a miracle they’ve kept the lid on this long.”
“They do seem to be a bit of a confederacy of dunces,” Eleanor admitted. “Not my field, though!” she added, as if worried we’d judge her for it. Because that’s why we’d judge her. “And you’re one to talk, aren’t you one of them? I admit I don’t recognize you, so I presume you’re an expert they brought in to—”
“She’s an intern,” Lisa pointed out.
“What?”
“Independent contractor. That’s what I’m going to put on my tax return. It’s not my field, either. I’m studying for a different degree.”
“You don’t have a college degree? Then why are you—why would I.T.C.H.—”
“Because they don’t know what they’re doing, Eleanor! It’s odd that you’re not internalizing this. They’re reacting, not acting, and they’re out of money and Warren’s out of money.” Huh, I guess now was the right time for that conversation. “And they’re just flailing around. They haven’t been proactive and they seem to be collectively allergic to doing the right thing. I’d barely cleared the willow tree before I spotted the holes in his stupid plan.”
Even worse, there was still so much we didn’t know. Why did one jump drop me in 1520, and the next in 1532, and the next barely a year after that? Why was I in Calais for one jump and London the next? Could someone go back further than 1520, or did the gates only open forward? If the gates could be brought under control, was there a way to track people searching for Losties? And plenty more besides, those were just ones I came up with on the fly.
“Your husband isn’t coming for you, Eleanor, and I seriously doubt he wants the life you’ve prepared for him. So your options are limited.”
“I’ll say,” Lisa muttered. “Be insane, or go more insane.”
“Not helping. Eleanor, if you don’t come back with me, you’ll have to live here. And eventually die here.” Except that wouldn’t work, either. Eleanor’s sanity had clearly taken a sabbatical; if Lisa and I left her here, she’d keep pulling audacious crap in the misguided hope of Warren leaping back through the centuries to ‘save’ her. The definition of insanity had taken human form and was right in front of me.
“You don’t know anything about my husband or me. And the choices are all mine. I only wanted to tell you to your face what a pain in the arse you’ve been and how I won’t be putting up with you one moment longer. Tuez-les!”
“Bond villain bullshit,” Lisa said, and stabbed the guard with the knife I’d slipped her from my sleeve during our hug. This made it easier for me to kick him off balance, get a hand on the back of his neck, and sweep him down until his forehead connected, hard, with the edge of the table. His head made a satisfying ‘bonk!’ as he rebounded, hit the floor, and didn’t move.
Huh. Thought that’d be harder.
Eleanor was not keen on any of it, because she’d rushed the table, snatched up a short sword (or a long knife), and lunged at Lisa with a mad slash. Lisa staggered back and clapped a hand to the side of her face, and I was horrified to see blood start streaming through her fingers.
So I shot her. Twice.
Eleanor, not Lisa. Just to clarify.
Chapter Seventy-Seven
“Jeez, Lisa. In the armpit?”
“I didn’t want to kill him.” Her voice was muffled as she put pressure on the slash in her face. We were staring down at the unconscious guard, whose blood had started to seep from beneath his doublet. Lisa handed my knife over with her other hand and I snapped it back into place beneath my sleeve. “What if he’s important? Or is the father or grandfather of somebody important? Also thank you very fucking much for shooting that loon. Now tell me you’ve got a first aid kit in that ass-pack of yours.”
I yanked up my skirt and tugged my pack free, then whirled as there was a tremendous racket outside the door as Thomas hurtled in. He took it all in with a glance, then slammed the door shut and got down on one knee to examine Eleanor, who had died glaring at the ceiling with an aggravated expression: I can’t believe this shit.
Where to start?
“For God’s sake, Joan, a .38?” Thomas looked up at me with a rueful expression. “Why not just throw rocks at her?”
“Whuh.” That was it. That was my snappy rejoinder. Wait, I’d try again. “…” Nope. Couldn’t even vocalize.
“Are you kidding?” Lisa cried, pawing through my meager first aid supplies. “All this time you’ve been one of Joanie’s—one of her—um—”
“Losties,” I managed.
“—and you never said? What the fuck?”
“Since I came through before she did, she’s my Lostie. But Lisa, lass, we’d best get you to the apothecary.”
“None of you hacks touch me!” She was pressing gauze to the wound, blood immediately blooming on the white, and backed away from Thomas as if he was going to pin her down and drop leeches on her face. And not the delicious kind. “I want a maxillofacial surgical consult with Dr. Anand at OHH and I want it right fucking now!”
“Noted.” To Thomas: “Whuh?”
“I promise to tell you everything, love, but we need to go. No telling when my guard is going to come to.”
“Love?” I hadn’t even gotten a handle on the fact that Thomas was a Lostie, and now this? “You called me love? The way the British do? You know how they use it like we use ‘dear’? Or did you mean love-love?”
“Really, Joan?” Lisa gritted out. “Now? Right now?”
“Of course it’s love-love. I love you. Have done since Cal
ais.” Thomas Wynter—or whatever his name was—told me that like it was a fact of life. Lisa was bleeding, Lady Eleanor was dead from two in the chest, I loved chocolate, he loved me. “It’s fine.” His bright blue gaze clouded for a second. “I understand you don’t reciprocate my feelings.”
“Whuh. Nuh?”
“Holster your sidearm if you please. Time to go.”
“Where?”
“To the willow, of course. To go home.”
Well. Couldn’t argue with that.
“You get migraines.”
Thomas looked relieved as I broke the silence. He’d let me ponder, again offered to bring Lisa to the apothecary, got a verbal ream-job for it, and now Lisa was riding pillion behind him while my Hertz horse was abreast of his.
“Yes, Joan. Not often, thank God. I don’t suffer them as frequently as you do.”
“That afternoon we took a nap at the Inn. I was telling you about migraines but I didn’t use that word. I just described them as really bad headaches and you said—”
“That I had suffered one or two myself. Yes. My first one was in Calais.”
“That’s the connection?” Lisa asked. The bleeding was starting to slow, thank God, though she still looked like she’d been in a war. Or had been slashed from temple to cheek by a crazy lady. “The Losties present with migraines? Well, hell. That’s why most of ‘em are women.”
“I don’t understand, Thomas. You’re Wolsey’s son. Nobody ever questions that, I didn’t question it.”
“One person questioned it. The same person who knew Wolsey better than anyone.”
“Thomas Cromwell,” I guessed.
He chuckled. “Cromwell knew I was full of shite, he knew my background was all wrong, my accent was wrong.”
“Wait, so you’re really Scottish? And what’s your real name, for God’s sake?”
“My first name really is Thomas. Thomas MacRae, born and raised in Edinburgh,” he replied, smiling. He pronounced it the way the natives do: Ed-in-burr-uh.
So I messed with him. “Do you mean Ed-in-berg?”
He actually shuddered. “Please don’t.”
“You deserved that, you sneaky bastard.” Was he even a bastard? “Be resigned; you’re going to hear me mispronounce that a lot. Now talk about Cromwell.”
“He knew I was an imposter. But he also knew I posed no threat to the cardinal or the king. He didn’t realize I was from another century, he just assumed I needed a fresh start after an eventful childhood.”
“Like Cromwell himself did.” To Lisa: “Apparently Thomas Cromwell’s dad was a real thug, so li’l Cromwell ran away and became a mercenary and worked his way up to the number two slot in the kingdom.”
“I don’t give one shit, Joanie.”
“And this was a man who hated boredom,” Thomas added, “so it suited him to keep a walking talking mystery around. I made myself useful to him, but I never forgot who he was. If he had ever needed something from me, he would have brought the hammer down.”
I rubbed my forehead as pieces fell into place with near-audible clicks. Calais, at the Field of the Cloth of Gold, when Wolsey got close: If he sees me I’ll be in rather a lot of trouble.
Yes. He would have been. Because Wolsey wasn’t his father.
Who could miss this, if there be any way to attend? Who would ever leave, if they could but remain?
But Thomas wasn’t just talking about that day. He was talking about that time period. Because he could have told me his background anytime, and never did, since he had no intention of returning.
“And when I complimented you on your outfit, you said the clothes weren’t ‘technically’ yours. So you showed up in Calais, stole somebody’s clothes, then hung around for the spectacle, ran into me, and … stayed?”
“It sounds insane, doesn’t it? And it’s difficult to explain. I’ll give you the short version: I’m a confirmed Luddite with no family—”
“So no MPU report,” Lisa interjected, which was a good point—I’d been wondering about that very thing.
“That’s right, lass. And the NSPCC—National Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Children—had a hard time keeping up with me, so at best, any report of my disappearance would have come in late.”
“I don’t actually hate his background story,” Lisa said to me. “Plus, he’s an orphan like we are.”
I rolled my eyes. Golly, an orphan like us! Why, I guess it’s meant to be! All is forgiven!
“No family, but what I did have was a background in Medieval Studies, as well as the distinction of being the only lad in the system who never e-mailed, used social media, owned a tablet phone, or frequented a dry cleaners.”
“I get most of that, but the last one’s just dumb. What do you have against using perchloroethylene to clean suits?”
“So here I was,” he said, ignoring Lisa’s sensible question, “with a literal once-in-a-lifetime chance. And I took it. I knew enough about the period to make myself useful and well-off—I think we can all agree that this is a terrible place to be if you’re a peasant.”
“Anywhere is a terrible place to be a peasant, you big dummy.”
“And I never caught on,” I groaned. “Not once.”
“Be fair, Joanie. You weren’t looking for someone who didn’t stick out. Tommy Boy here had a great cover story plus Cromwell on his side. So why would you question it?”
“Because I should have.” The clues had been there. Giving me the holy fool cover story. Telling me “it’s the linen” when I was surprised he didn’t reek. Giving me the fever = haircut cover story. Giving me advice about my accent. And always, always dropping everything to help me.
“Help me with this,” I said. “So Eleanor makes the first jump. She’s fighting with her husband and there’s a tussle and she falls into 16th century Calais. And wherever you were in the 21st century on that day—”
“Tower of London,” Thomas said promptly. “The Ein deutches Requiem.”
“Okay. So you found yourself in 1520, and then I came right after. Is that how the gates work? You follow whoever went through just before you did? Eleanor landed in Calais so you did, and then I did? But later she was at Windsor, which is why I ended up there? And are the gates prone to open where significant amounts of people have gathered? Not just a random crowd?”
“Otherwise anyone attending the Super Bowl would be vulnerable to a gate.”
“Or a random unprecedented crowd? Like at Blackfriars?” Ugh, none of it made sense. No idea why I was trying to science my way through any of this.
“So I stayed,” Thomas finished, as if that was an actual ending to the story.
“So you stayed.” Yes, that was incredibly unsatisfying. Although we’d been rehashing events for half an hour, I was still startled to see the Inn come into sight. “You must be excited.”
“I’m happy I could finally tell you the truth.”
“That’s not what I—well, first, there wasn’t ever anything preventing you from telling the truth.”
“Just fifteen years of careful camouflage and self-preservation,” he pointed out dryly.
“Yeah, yeah. I meant excited about going back.” By now we’d pulled up, Thomas had dismounted, helped Lisa down, then turned to help me down. I held onto his shoulders even after my feet were on the ground. “You’re coming back with me, right?”
He just looked me. “You know I won’t, my Joan.”
I knew. He’d been too careful, worked too hard, built a life he loved, been witness to some of history’s most significant moments, knew he was ringside for several more, to toss it and roll the dice that I.T.C.H. could send him back to his carefully constructed existence in TudorTime if he wanted a do-over.
I rested my forehead on his chest. “It’s not fair.” The lament of a child, sure, but it covered so much. Virtually ev
ery aspect, in fact, of my adventures over the last few weeks. “And now I have to go back home where you’re a bag of bones buried in a box somewhere.”
“Actually, depending on where he’s buried, he’d be closer to dust than actual skeletal remains and forget I said that, not helping, I’ll go over here and stand under this random willow tree.”
“How can I leave you?” I murmured. “You’ve been looking out for me for years. You’ve done so much for me and I’ve never done one thing for you.”
“How can I let you go, my Joan?” he countered. “You hold the world away from your true self, but you allowed me to see you. You risked your life for strangers when the slightest misstep could have meant an ugly death. In this I’ll take my cue from you: you’re strong enough to leave, and I’m strong enough to see you off.” He brushed his thumbs over my cheekbones, then leaned in and took a kiss. I clutched his wrists so I wouldn’t cling to his forearms and do something deeply dumb like not go back. “And I doubt this is our ending.”
“Why?”
“I feel it. I know it. Like I knew I’d always love the addled American at Calais, like I hoped I’d be worthy of her when I was at last a man.”
“Hey, that’s right, you were a teenager when you guys met! Joan had almost ten years on you! And what kind of supergeek teen has a background in Medieval Studies and now that I think of it these comments could have waited for later, sorry, sorry, carry on.”
“Jesus Christ,” I said under my breath, and Thomas dissolved into laughter. I stepped away from him then, because it would never be easier to leave him than in that moment. Did I love him? I wasn’t sure. I considered him a good friend, certainly, and I was hot for his forearms, definitely. But in terms of time, I’d only known him a month. I wasn’t prepared to make a permanent life-altering decision just now. Even if it meant I might never see him again.
I adored him, but I wasn’t willing to give up my life for him. Or risk further brain damage. So I had to respect his choice not to give up his life for me.
A Contemporary Asshat at the Court of Henry VIII Page 35