"Mum?"
The voice was small, sleepy. Bisesa turned.
She was barefoot, her tummy stuck out, fist rubbing at one eye, hair tousled, a barely awake eight-year-old. She was wearing her favorite pajamas, the ones across which cartoon characters gamboled, even though they were now about two sizes too small for her. "You didn't say you were coming home."
Something broke inside Bisesa. She reached out. "Oh, Myra—"
Myra recoiled. "You smell funny."
Shocked, Bisesa glanced down at herself. In her orange jumpsuit, scuffed and torn and coated with sweat-soaked sand, she was as out of place in this twenty-first-century flat as if she had been wearing a spacesuit.
She forced a smile. "I guess I need a shower. Then we'll have breakfast, and I'll tell you all about it..."
The light changed, subtly. She turned to the window. There was an Eye over the city, floating like a barrage balloon. She couldn't tell how far away it was, or how big.
And over the rooftops of London, a baleful sun was rising.
END OF TIME'S EYE
Time's Eye Page 33
