~ ~ ~
It took Edmund a long time to drift to sleep, and when he did, it was with the image of Halley’s face nearing his, her ruby lips more intoxicating than the sweetest wine. But then his dreams took a dark turn, and he saw Halley in the grip of the magician while he looked on, powerless to aid her.
He woke in a sweat to the sound of someone crying Halley’s name in alarm.
25
• KHAN •
Dr. Jules Khan waited until 6:31 in the morning to call Inga Mikkelsen and inquire as to her daughter Halley’s boyfriend. Naturally, he wasn’t so transparent as to make it obvious he wished to know more about the boyfriend.
“Good morning, good morning,” he said jovially. “It’s Professor Khan. I wanted to get back to you and thank you for making sure there was someone on-property yesterday.”
Inga’s voice was scratchy, as though she’d just risen. Which she probably had. Khan continued with pleasantries to give her a chance to wake up, asking after her mother, how they had both weathered the earthquake, and so on. Eventually he returned to the topic of Halley.
“I was very impressed with her professionalism,” he said. “She took extensive notes on the property, annotating damage, checking for leaks, and so on. She managed to deal with a few immediate issues before I even got home.”
“She did?” asked Halley’s mother. “It’s good to know she’s listening.” Halley’s mother sounded surprised rather than smug.
“Of course, she had help,” said the professor. “That boyfriend—I didn’t catch his name?” His intonation made it clear he was asking a question, and his heart struck heavily against his ribs as he awaited the answer. A name. A story. An educational institution. Something.
“Did you say ‘boyfriend’?” asked Inga.
“Yes. The boy from Denmark.”
There was silence on the line, followed by what Khan assumed was grunting laughter.
“Halley doesn’t have a boyfriend. She won’t put in the effort to make herself presentable most days, much less attractive. The number of times I’ve seen her leave the house—”
Khan cut her off. “Sorry—I’ve got another call coming in. Can I place you on a brief hold?” There was no other call, but he needed a moment of silence in which to think and plan. The mother didn’t know Halley was dating. Surely it was no surprise that a teenage girl kept secrets from her mother. Still, he needed a name. If the boy was Danish, the mother should have some idea as to his identity. How many Danish young men was Halley likely to know that her mother didn’t also know? He clicked back to Inga.
“So sorry about that. Where was I? Ah, yes. The Danish boy.”
“A boy from Denmark? Dansk? What boy? What was his name?”
“I don’t think I caught his name.”
Inga was muttering in Danish under her breath. He tried redirection.
“Maybe I should send them a little something to say thank you. A Starbucks gift card, do you think? You must have some idea who the boy is. Perhaps it wasn’t a boyfriend—a cousin maybe?”
“I don’t know who she was entertaining, and I promise you it won’t happen again. Halley knows better than that.”
“No, no, no. I’m sure she didn’t mean to cause trouble. I think she said he only came by to make sure she was okay following the earthquake. Quite understandable.”
Inga made noises indicating mollification.
“Why don’t you just thank him for me in person when you meet him?” suggested the professor. “Or, even better, after you’ve met him, send me a quick text with his name and I can add it to a thank you note.”
Was he pushing too hard? He didn’t think so. The mother was so busy being angry that her daughter had concealed a boyfriend that Khan’s excessive interest in the boyfriend went unnoticed. A moment later they said their goodbyes.
Khan breathed out heavily. He had learned nothing. He didn’t even have a name. Who was this boy? Did he pose a threat to Khan’s carefully kept secrecy? The professor slammed his palm on the surface of his desk. He had to rule out even the slightest possibility of discovery. Maybe he was being paranoid. If someone wanted to spy on him, why would they send a teenager? The girl and boy were almost certainly harmless.
The professor, however, required certainty, not almost certainly. He had to rule out even the slightest possibility of discovery.
Perhaps . . . perhaps he could catch Halley and the boy at her apartment. There, he might find some documentation indicating the boy’s identity. He uttered a single laugh, mumbling, “Documentation,” in self-censure. Much simpler to ask for the boy’s name, ask what he was doing in the United States, if he was a student, what was he studying?
Within moments, the professor had a plan. A delivery in person, at her apartment, of flowers and a card. An offer to place the flowers in water. Yes, he was good at worming his way into people’s good graces when he wanted to. And he very much wanted to.
Before half an hour had passed, the professor was knocking on the apartment door, flowers, pastries, and a thank you card in hand. Was it too much? He debated while he awaited an answer at the door, rearranging his frown into a friendly expression, but there was no answer. He tried again. Still nothing. Cursing, he tried the door handle. It was locked. He stepped backward, off the welcome mat, and lifted it, uncovering a key.
He grunted in disapproval. Some people were just asking for trouble.
Silently, he let himself in, calling softly in case anyone was inside but asleep. The apartment proved to be empty, and the professor set about searching for something to identify Halley’s boyfriend, but there was nothing to be found. No wallet, no passport, no evidence at all that the boy was a part of Halley’s life.
Khan swore softly. Another dead end. Well, they couldn’t stay away from their apartment forever. Maybe they’d gone for coffee. He waited outside for another half hour, sitting in his car. At last he could wait no longer. He had an appointment to divest himself of some very valuable sixteenth-century jewelry.
“Another time, then,” he said. Then he started his Tesla and sped away, rearranging the gravel in the quiet parking lot.
26
• HALLEY •
Halley heard someone calling her name. Not her mom. Her mother never rose this early. Peeling one eyelid open, Halley contemplated the gray cast to the morning’s light. Fog.
“Halley?”
It was Jillian calling for her. Right. She was at Jillian’s. She opened her eyes. She was at Jillian’s, but she was not in the Jane Austen room. She was in Edmund’s room. In Edmund’s bed. Halley lifted her head. Why did Jillian sound panicked?
Because she was not in her room.
Halley jumped out of bed, thudding heavily on the dark walnut flooring.
Edmund lay tangled in a blanket on the chaise. It sounded like he was having a bad dream.
Halley crossed to him and jostled his shoulder. “Wake up,” she croaked, her throat scratchy from last night’s woodsmoke. Last night . . .
Last night had been . . .
She didn’t want to think about what last night had been.
She didn’t want to think about anything but what last night had been . . .
Crossing to the door, she opened it.
“In here,” she called.
Jillian spun to face Halley. She looked surprised to find Halley emerging from Edmund’s suite. Being a well-bred Applegate, she tried to hide her shock, but then she released a tiny laugh and then a bigger one.
Halley felt herself blushing from head to toe.
“So, um, it’s time for breakfast,” said Jillian. “I can have Branson bring up trays—”
“No need,” replied Halley. “Just give me a minute to put some clothes on.”
Jillian nodded. “I left a few things on your bed. I mean, the bed in the other room.”
Still blushing, Halley crossed to her own room, where she found a (no doubt very expensive) pair of leggings and a bulky cotton sweater that she suspe
cted was a one-of-a-kind hand-knit item. She slid her feet into her own flip-flops, leaving Jillian’s complicated-looking strappy sandals behind.
She thought she heard Edmund’s voice trailing across the hall from behind his closed door. It sounded like he was swearing. Or maybe praying with great fervor.
Halley was just reaching to open the door and leave her room when she heard Jillian’s voice.
“Oh, Edmund, wow . . .” Jillian’s voice trailed off as Halley emerged into the hall to find Edmund dressed. Sort of.
Edmund, a dark expression on his brow, was wearing the clothes Branson had left stacked for him in the bathroom. His trousers were on . . . backward. They’d been carefully tucked into a pair of socks. And his shoes? Halley wasn’t entirely sure Edmund had put the correct shoe on the correct foot. His shirt was worn out and buttoned to the collar. Around his waist, he had attempted to tie a scarf meant to drape around his neck.
“Oh, my,” murmured Halley. She turned to Jillian. “He’s taking the ‘stay in character’ thing pretty seriously, I guess.”
Jillian, with practiced restraint, suggested Branson might provide dressing assistance if Edmund required it.
“I understand not the closure of the breeches,” he murmured, at which point Halley realized he was clutching the zipper shut over his backside.
“There’s no need to send Branson,” she said to Jillian. “I’ll . . . fix things.”
Jillian nodded, maintaining the fiction that Edmund didn’t look completely ridiculous. “Right. So I’ll tell Branson you’ll all be down in a minute?”
Halley nodded and then turned to Edmund. “Come on. Back in your room.”
With a very straight face, she explained the zipper by demonstrating its use on a separate pair of jeans. She then showed Edmund how to drape a scarf, explained that shirts were often worn with a button or two left undone, and sorted Edmund’s left and right shoes—after learning Elizabethan shoes were agnostic as to left or right.
Once Edmund apologized for his ignorance and thanked her for her kind instruction, Halley had only to wait for him in the hall, trying not to imagine what he looked like out of his new clothes.
Breakfast was another of Branson’s “simple affairs,” which were anything but. On a sideboard in the breakfast room, Halley, Edmund, and Jillian were presented with Hungarian cultured cream meant to garnish blackberries, blueberries, and raspberries, alongside hard-boiled eggs, prosciutto, bresaola, capicola, lox, capers, schmear, bagels, and a variety of the miniature fruit-and-nut loaves Branson had arrived so early in the morning to prepare.
“Coffee?” murmured Halley, ignoring the sideboard.
Jillian jumped up and stationed herself beside a Jura espresso maker. “What can I make for you?”
“Espresso.”
“I’ll make it a double,” said Jillian.
“I love you,” replied Halley. She sank into a chair and stared at the assortment on Edmund’s plate: lots of fish, lots of fancy Italian dried meats, and a handful of blackberries.
“No coffee?” she asked Edmund.
Jillian responded. “There was none in the age of Queen Elizabeth I. No tea, no hot chocolate, and no coffee.”
“Really?” asked Halley, while Edmund looked blankly at Jillian.
“Really. You’re supposed to drink beer for breakfast, right?” asked Jillian
“I should be much in your debt, mistress,” Edmund said with a slight bow.
Jillian handed Halley her espresso and strolled to the doorway, calling over her shoulder that she would see what Branson recommended.
Edmund broke the strained silence.
“I trust you slept well, lady?”
Halley felt her cheeks flushing as she pretended to consider her espresso. She’d slept well. Quite well. She’d dreamed of kissing Edmund under the drooping branches of a weeping willow. And then under a canopy of stars. And then under the canopy of his bed.
“I slept fine,” she said, returning his smile with one of her own.
“Yet you eat nothing?” he asked.
“Caffeine comes first.” She lifted her tiny cup.
Edmund looked puzzled. “You stand in want of . . . the dark liquid?”
“Yes.” She took a shallow sip. It was hot. And dark. And richly dotted with oil from the freshly ground beans. And completely delicious. Her brain sparked back to life somewhere between her second and third sips.
“Why are you calling me ‘you’ and not ‘thou’?” she asked. Had she done something wrong? Was he regretting certain . . . behaviors last night?
Just as the morning fog dissipated outside, a tiny smile passed over Edmund’s face. Light poured through the great arched window of the breakfast room and lit his face, all angles and edges. His lips stood out redder than before, and Halley remembered the feel of them against hers.
“I wish to speak in a manner befitting your world,” Edmund said in reply.
Before Halley could comment, Jillian sailed into the breakfast room with two large glasses of amber-colored liquid.
“I have a Rudgate Ruby Mild and a Magner’s Hard Cider,” she said triumphantly.
Edmund graciously accepted both, and the three set to breakfast, Edmund remarking upon the excellence of Jillian’s cider.
“You will please to give your brewer my praise,” he said.
Jillian laughed. “It’s official,” she whispered to Halley. “He’s bewitching.”
Halley said nothing and focused on the lavender, hazelnut, and brown sugar loaf Jillian had insisted she try. It was moist, sweet, and fragrant, but Halley’s mind was too busy to give it the attention it deserved.
She was busy not thinking of how the back of Edmund’s neck had felt under her palm last night, busy not remembering the scent of lavender that had clung faintly to his face and hands as he’d touched her. She had to let him go—the scent of him, the idea of him, the nearness and here-ness of him. Halley had no need of yet another impossible desire.
She set the loaf aside, hardly touched, silently swearing off anything lavender scented.
Ten minutes later, the three were seated in Halley’s truck, on their way to hang DaVinci’s first gallery show at Montecito’s exclusive Plaza del Mar.
27
• KHAN •
Before slipping behind the wheel of his Tesla, the professor checked his pocket one final time. Yes, the three gold chains and one heavy carcanet, or collar, were safely in his pocket, lovingly swathed in organic cotton roving he’d ordered online from a hippie farmer in New Mexico.
He double-checked the message from his buyer, an art and antiques dealer, to make certain of the date and time. Khan had stayed in the parking lot of the Mikkelsens’ apartment complex until the last possible moment, having considered asking his buyer, Martin Nieman, to reschedule for a little later. Nieman had, after all, jumped at the opportunity to acquire pieces of sixteenth-century European provenance. But the early Saturday appointment would mean both the antiques shop and the attached art gallery would be closed. The dealer preferred to undertake his acquisitions without interruptions by the curious. The professor preferred this, too.
In fact, most of the professor’s assignations were conducted under more rigorous conditions than this, but he wished to raise cash quickly, and the close proximity of the tiny Montecito antiques dealer-cum-gallery owner made Khan willing to cut corners. Besides, he knew Nieman. Nieman was good at keeping his mouth shut, which Khan appreciated in a buyer. Even in person, the man seemed determined to speak as little as possible. Although, this was perhaps to maintain the fiction of the dealer’s English accent. Khan assumed the fraudulent accent was meant to reassure both “old money” and the nouveau riche that here, at least, was a dealer who knew what he was about. Khan didn’t care if the accent was real or fake—the cash payments were real, and Khan needed cash to continue funding his research. He was so close to a breakthrough—he could almost taste it. Thank God he wasn’t stuck relying on research grants for the s
ums he required.
As Khan slowed for a “California stop” at the next stop sign, he passed another Tesla. They’d become commonplace in Montecito. It made him want to shop for something more exotic. As he pulled forward, he wondered whether there was a weight limit as to what could brought back through the temporal rift. On the other hand, how would he drive a ’37 Bugatti Roadster out of the basement?
He continued along the eucalyptus-lined streets, winding his way down Montecito’s charming back roads and finally turning in to the tiny parking lot of the area’s most exclusive strip mall. Of course, no one would dream of calling the collection of shops by so crass a name as “strip mall.” It was called a “center” or “plaza” or some such nonsense.
When he pulled in, the parking lot was not empty. The back of Khan’s neck prickled. A wine shop stood a few yards from the gallery and antiques shop, but it wouldn’t open for another two hours. Montecito did not rise early on the weekends. Leaving his own car running, the professor assessed the potential danger of additional persons in the vicinity. The sporty Mercedes on the far side of the parking lot boasted vanity plates that read NIEMAN1. Khan curled his lip in disgust, ignoring the fact he’d once inquired as to the availability of OUTATIME (the DMV had regretted to inform him it was unavailable).
He turned his attention to the beat-up pickup truck parked directly in front of the gallery. A janitor, perhaps? And then, with a shock, the professor realized he’d seen the truck before. It was Halley Mikkelsen’s truck. What good fortune. What incredibly good fortune.
But then, the professor had always been a strong believer in the proposal that fortune favored the bold.
He didn’t bother locking the car as he exited.
28
• EDMUND •
“Some help, here?” asked DaVinci.
A Thief in Time (Thief in Time Series Book 1) Page 12
