No Time Like the Present

by Ellison Blackburn

  “Ah.”

  “But you implied that your St. Clair relations are all thus inclined, inordinately tall and robust of build. Even the women?”

  “Most, yes.”

  “And as your aunt is small by comparison and so fair, I assume she favors the Carrs?”

  “Just so.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  AS SOON AS we turn onto St. Clair, I glance toward Perpetua. I halt mid-stride and tilt my head toward the sun. Damn him. I let the sun scorch my eyeballs for a second and then squeeze my eyelids shut. Two days ago, or so it would seem, the doppelgänger of my ex-boyfriend befriends my brother. Yesterday, I encountered a witch who knows my brothers and I are not entirely as we seem. And today, on Marlowe’s birthday no less, I meet my brothers’ long-lost uncle/cousin, nephew of the man who built the time machine that brought us here.

  Sometimes when it rains, it pours. Shit. It rains shit.

  “I suppose introductions are in order, Mr. Carr,” I say with more aplomb than I feel, my gaze drifting to the auburn-bearded man standing next to Archer in front of our house.

  “Surely by now, Sinclair, you will call me Owen.” His eyes rove over me briefly. “A woman may well shield herself behind formality for a time. A man behaving so reservedly, however, could be construed as namby-pamby.” His top lip once again curls at the corner as if I’ve offended him somehow. I nod—too distracted to play the attentive pupil—and pin my focus on my brother’s approach, the alienist thankfully lagging back by the side garden gate.

  Once he’s standing in front of us, his bulk mercifully blocking my view, Archer pins me with a disapproving glare, though I am not sure of what exactly he disapproves.

  “Archer?” I question, the surprise evident in my tone. It’s unlike him to leave himself open to my scrutiny.

  “Ri-Reid,” he says while assessing Mr. Carr with a critical eye. “Who’s this?”

  What’s your problem? I want to say, but my thoughts are sidetracked by a movement twenty paces past Archer’s shoulder. Suddenly, my heart is thudding in my ears. Calm down; it’s just the breeze rustling the branches of a tree. He’s probably gone. “Uh, meet, um, you should meet, … He, he’s—”

  “Never mind, Sinclair, I’ll take it from here,” Mr. Carr remarks.

  “Hmm?” I swivel my head toward the voice. I hear it now, the faint tuh after the “sin.” Though it sounds more like Sint Clair, he is, in fact, saying, “Saint Clair.” This minor revelation wedges into place in my brain, and I find myself staring up at the beautiful Mr. Carr, my half step-relative. “That’s probably for the best,” I say with a weak smile. I’m somewhat in awe that we’ve acquired two more family members in as many days.

  “Inspector, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Owen Kingsley Carr—”

  Archer shakes Mr. Carr’s proffered hand while continuing to slant a penetrating glare at me. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Carr,” he says and then takes a step toward me in obvious dismissal of the other man. Archer’s move also reveals Henry Ennis still lurking in the background. “And I’m sorry to have to cut this short but today is not a good day for social calls. If you remember, Reid—”

  “Oh, I do. The question is, do you?” I ask.

  Archer flicks a glance over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed in warning.

  Fine, I relay silently with a grimace and barely a nod. “Since you’ve made it abundantly clear that there’s no time like the present for expanding our society, Archer, perhaps you’ll recall your own manners and offer Mr. Carr a goddamned cup of tea.” His fleeting look of surprise is slightly rewarding, but I release an exasperated sigh. “I’ll be in in a minute.”

  For a pregnant moment, I try to channel my sanity into a clearing of inner calm where sunlight beams and a soft breeze wafts. But all the breathable air around me seems to dissipate when I peek around Archer again. To my amazement, he gives me an openly sympathetic look, causing Mr. Carr to glance at me. A flash of confusion passes over his face before he follows Archer up the path to the front door.

  I take another deep breath and proceed toward the psychologist who, all the while, has been studying the dense branches of the wisteria vine twisted around the arched arbor leading to the side garden. He doesn’t turn toward me when I reach him, which would be the polite thing to do.

  Gaia, help me. He’s exactly Vale’s height. With my eyes glued straight ahead to a spot on his upper arm, I tell myself, You can do this. Just get it over with, so we can all call it done. I crank my head upward.

  I don’t need him to look at me to know I’m now neck-deep in that aforementioned pile of manure. A half-cry, half-moan erupts from my mouth, and he winces, a flash of tiny crinkles fanning out around his eyes. At that moment, a white feather floats down to the ground, landing gently on the tip of his polished burgundy boot. I stare at it for what seems an eternity, willing my suddenly hammering heart to give me a break. My throat is so dry, and I feel like I can’t breathe, but for some reason, I haven’t passed out yet.

  “You-you’re wearing makeup,” my voice says. I take full advantage of its independence. “Did you really think it would be your freckles that gave you away?” I sense the slight and sudden tension in his posture and come around to stand in front of the man I’d been led to believe was Dr. Henry Flynn Ennis. But part of me knew. Taking in every last detail about him, I demand, “Are you going to say anything? Anything at all?”

  He had lost a good deal of weight, but underneath the lush beard, the round tortoiseshell eyeglasses, the longish hair curling around his collar, and the gentleman’s attire, it is irrefutably him.

  “Vale!” I huff furiously. If I were a corset-wearing miss, I would have passed out at least thrice today. And at this moment, the prospect of denying my brain of oxygen seems very appealing. I might be dead right now and wouldn’t have to deal with this.

  His brows descend, eyelids hooding over soulful eyes.

  “Cow-coward,” I sputter. “That’s what you are. Then and now.” I ball my fists tightly at my side, and they start to prickle with the need to pummel him until I can’t feel a thing anymore, but he can. At the same time, my feet twitch in my shoes as if readying to carry me away to safety. Only my anger at his cool quietude is keeping me planted to the spot.

  Finally, he focuses his gaze on the side brick wall of the carriage house. I cannot gauge where his thoughts are, but he had sucked in his bottom lip before turning away, a sure sign he isn’t as unaffected as he wants me to believe.

  “How are you, River?” His voice is soft and resigned. “You look well,” he says, barely looking at me. It would be so easy to lose myself in the sea of his eyes.

  I know I most definitely do not ‘look well.’ Still, an apt response to the question ‘How are you?’ escapes me. All I want to know is, how is he here? Quinn will want to know how too.

  “I grasp that you’re probably upset,” he says so blandly it stings.

  Probably upset? Probably? Upset? I take a long minute to tame my temper before asking, “Were you never going to explain?”

  Again, he looks at the brick wall.

  I step back and fold my arms over my chest, lifting my chin, my hands still fisted. “Forget it. Had we meant anything, you would have made an effort long before now. And it’s been a while, hasn’t it?” I scoff. “Oh, what am I saying? You’re not making an effort. I’m doing all the fucking work here.” From the corner of my eye, I see the draperies shift in the front window of the drawing room.

  “I will explain, River. I’m just not sure you won’t hate me still. And once it’s all out in the open, I’m also not sure I can deal with it if you do.”

  I shake my head and sigh loudly. “I don’t understand.”

  Still purposely avoiding my glare, he says, “You will.” The blunt reply is tinged with so much remorse and something else—pride. But I don’t know what he thinks I will. Will I hate him, or will I understand? He then casts a glance up and down the street, and finding it desolate, he reaches
out as if to take my arm, presumably to lead me into the garden. I shirk away, shoving his hand aside with my elbow.

  “We should go somewhere more private,” he says, finally looking at me, searching my face with slow deliberation. His jaw slackens when his gaze rests on the white crescent-shaped scar above my left brow.

  By now, my spine feels as though it’s made of butter that’s reached room temperature. I sidestep him through the garden gate before I melt at his feet. Stopping short, I spin on my heels and jab a finger into his sternum before my nose hits it. “Fine, but … know this, Vale, it’s nothing to me now if you decide you’d rather play the coward forever. I’ll hear you out for Archer’s sake. He seems to like you still, even after what you did. Maybe he thinks it doesn’t matter anymore, but I learn my lessons.”

  As to that, I am miffed at my brother. All right, I’m more than a little miffed; somewhere in the back of my mind, devastation awaits. Why hadn’t he warned me or told me himself? How could he forgive the two-timing bastard who’d broken his sister’s heart? And here I thought we’d finally acknowledged the gargantuan relationship hurdle and started over it. I’d actually thought he cared more than he’d ever shown. I push back the pang of lost optimism. I’ll deal with that later.

  “There was a time when you … come on, let’s go inside.”

  I march to the conservatory door, fiddle with the sticky latch and lock, and make my way to the smaller octagonal alcove at the back. Situating myself in the center of one of the cushions, I brace a hand on either side, occupying as much space as possible. Vale takes the hint and sits across from me. I detect a flicker of movement from the corner of my eye. Allen peers at us from behind a large spiral-shaped topiary.

  I eye him and Vale in turns. “You’re kidding, right, Bryce?” And when he doesn’t budge, I add, “Eavesdropping is not in the handbook, Allen. I’m sure of it because I checked Cassell’s myself.”

  Though he steps forward into full view, Allen still makes no move to leave. Instead, he looks down at his shoes, squares his shoulders, and folds his hands behind his back.

  “Why don’t you go make sure Quinn is present for the very interesting conversation Archer is having right now with Owen Carr.”

  “Quinn’s in with them already,” he says, again looking down at his shoes. I watch him inch one foot toward the other until they touch, then slide a foot infinitesimally forward, so both are correctly aligned.

  I smirk when he looks up, and our glances meet. In his former life, Allen was our meticulous family business manager and accountant, but that never stopped him from making my personal life his business as well. Not much has changed in that respect. “Okaay. Go check that everything is ready for the unveiling, then.”

  “All’s wrapped up and on schedule.” He gingerly draws a pocket watch from his waistcoat pocket. “Five, that’s our target. It’s just going on four now.”

  On an exasperated sigh, I say, “Allen, please. A little privacy is all I ask.” More gently, I append, “I swear, this man means me no harm.” To which Vale nods a confirmation without turning toward my self-appointed protector.

  “See? And I promise I’ll let you teach me defensive tactics and how to wield a weapon very soon. I’ve decided on knives or a knife.”

  Allen grunts and nods, backing away toward the spiral staircase, still studying the back of Vale’s head with a wary look.

  “It’s all right. Go,” I mouth. I follow his progress until he is out of sight and then wait patiently for the racket his steps make as he climbs to the second level to fade. Each contact of his foot on the floor grating seems to bounce around inside the enclosed space (and my head) like two metal plates clapping together. The clacking, though quieter, continues at an even sharper pitch off the landing and down the bridge path to the other side of the house. After the briefest pause, there is the telltale creak of the narrow wooden door being pulled open, then the sound of the gentle click of the latch when he closes the door behind him.

  All the while, I feel Vale watching me. Please don’t make me ask again, I plead silently.

  For what seems like eons, I stare at the hairline cracks running down the plaster wall just beyond the stairs. Like twin lightning bolts, a pair of lines ease toward one another for about three-quarters the length until they merge into a single fine line approximately a foot above the ground. It disappears into the tall baseboard. Then, skipping the first floor-tile, the fissure resumes and severs the second and third tiles completely in half.

  That’s not you and Vale, River. You don’t come together in the end.

  His ongoing speechlessness is making me more and more uncomfortable. I steel myself, so maybe he won’t see my resolve wavering. There have been many moments of silence between us in the past. But those were different. Some were comfortable, some charged as though with electricity. Even when we were in a fury, we always managed to calm each other down before we let our tempers get the better of us.

  I have to give him most of the credit. Where once I was stubborn and immovable, he made me want to be soft and more accommodating. He has always been a man of words. I don’t mean he’s a regular yapper—the sort who voices every opinion or thought that springs to mind—rather, he expresses or did express himself very well, at least in a language that spoke to me.

  Call me petty, but I refuse to start the conversation that now must be had, eventually. This time I would pretend it didn’t bother me until my dying breath if I had to. I wasn’t going back to the beginning of all that pain. Besides, hadn’t I already made the first move? It depends on what you call the first move, my desperate conscious corrects. Fine, I tell it back, I said something first.

  Besides, it wasn’t me who’d betrayed anyone, everyone. Despite the fog of hurt and confusion hovering around me, it comes back to mind that Archer knew—for how long, I don’t know. But I count that as betrayal too.

  Since the day I regained my memory, I’d kept the horrible feeling of being forgotten, abandoned, bottled up. When I bedded down every evening in the corner of the burned-out house on Cass, I wept over my family, assuming the same unforgivable God that had taken Reid, Kinnari, Everly, Marlowe, and Royce had also claimed Archer and Quinn. It was all there in my head, day and night, night and day. The sight of their burned bodies, real and imagined, had scorched a hole straight through my chest.

  Of course, I’d come back to the house a handful of times during the couple I was on my own after leaving the Blackwells. I peered at the blackened pile of purple brick from behind the giant boulders at the lakeshore. The house looked so strange, foreboding. Evil. I couldn’t let it see me let alone go inside. And afterward, when Martin rescued me for the second time and revealed to me that my brothers were still alive, I simmered over why they hadn’t looked for me.

  I cup my hands over my kneecaps and lean forward, hoping this will signal to him that my patience reached its end. Sure enough, his fingers lightly touch my arm.

  “You tell me where to begin, River. I’ve run this through in my head a hundred times, but …” He glances out into the back garden for a few seconds. When he drops his chin to his chest, his shoulders droop a little.

  I bite my lip to keep from groaning. I can’t help it. I love him. Instead of revealing my weakness, “But?” I bark.

  After another infuriating pause, he says, “It’s also a hundred times harder than I thought it would be. Look at me, River.” His voice is soft, warm. Calm.

  Shaking my head, I consider the grout between the tiles at my feet. I want him to be unnerved. “And you want me to make it easier, hm? Should I also tell you that I only need to know this bit or that bit?”

  “No. That’s not what I meant. Okay … so, Archer and I decided it was best I come forward when you seemed ready.”

  Humph. As if his impromptu visit Sunday, when he sat for over an hour in my drawing room, had been up to me. As if his trespass into my place of work too had been under my control. As if he hadn’t been waiting for me at my gard
en gate a quarter of an hour ago. “How noble of you. Though, it’s kind of hard to be ready for something I don’t know I should be preparing for in the first place.” I want to tell him that I’ve spent the last couple of years readying myself to get on with the rest of my life without him as well as three-quarters of my family instead. But he knows that.

  Tired of feeling as though I’m the one at fault for something here, I square my jaw and lift my chin until my eyes rest on his hands fisted on his thighs and his minutely bouncing knee. He lightly hits his thigh in frustration and then presses down firmly to still the twitch. I watch the color drain from his knuckles.

  “I’ve been visiting with Archer for a while now, since last September when I came to the Station to tell him I’d seen Winnifred Milner with Seymour Evans. And you and I have almost met accidentally on several occasions even before that.” I can hear the wistful smile on his face. “I’ve orchestrated our run-in a few dozen times too. If you think about it, we’ve seen each other around more often than chance should allow.”

  It’s true. We often saw each other on the street, usually on opposite sides. Or he would turn off before we came too close. Once, I remember we were walking toward one another, still half a street away from collision, when he’d made a show of looking at his watch, turning on his heels, and rushing off in the direction he’d come from as though he was late for an appointment he’d just remembered he had. I assumed he lived in the business district and had brushed it off as bad luck on my part.