A Thief in Time (Thief in Time Series Book 1)

by Cidney Swanson

  Edmund, who had just finished holding a ladder steady for Mistress Halley, turned to assist Mistress DaVinci, who was standing at the opposite end of the gallery owned by some acquaintance of Jillian’s lady mother. Together with Mistress Jillian, DaVinci was attempting to mount a wide, and doubtless very heavy, tapestry upon a set of hooks. Neither lady was of a height sufficient to reach the hooks.

  “Allow me, Mistress DaVinci,” said Edmund. He made slight bows to DaVinci and Jillian.

  “Ooh-la-la,” replied DaVinci. Grinning, she allowed him to take the heavy piece from her.

  The hooks were at such a great height as to make it a challenge even for Edmund, but he had just succeeded in securing one side of the tapestry when he heard Halley greeting some person newly arrived.

  “Wow—what a surprise,” she was saying. “Sorry, give me a quick sec.”

  Edmund turned in time to see her turning slightly away from none other than the magician. She was rapidly brushing the surface of her message-delivering device. Edmund felt the overwhelming need to rush to Halley’s side, a need complicated by the fact he doubted she would thank him for it. Also complicated by the fact he was occupied in supporting Mistress DaVinci’s tapestry.

  “Halley Mikkelsen,” said the magician. “A surprise indeed! What brings you to the gallery? Ah, I see. Tapestries. My goodness. Impressive.”

  As Edmund hastened to finish with the tapestry, he heard buzzing sounds emanating from both DaVinci’s and Jillian’s message devices. He secured the tapestry and turned for Halley, but Jillian grabbed him by the arm, restraining him. He saw a puzzled look on Mistress Jillian’s face, echoed by a like expression upon Mistress DaVinci’s as both regarded him.

  Drawing him near, Jillian whispered in Edmund’s ear. “Halley says to remember you don’t speak English.” She held up her phone, showing a message which included that information.

  He nodded his assent and then strode to Halley’s side.

  “Min kæreste,” Halley murmured, taking his hand in hers.

  Edmund tried to indicate by a squeeze of her hand that he had received her message. He spoke no words. As he gazed at the magician, he saw again a certain something he could not like. A communication writ in the dark squint of the magician’s eye, in the nervous way he curled his fingers against his palms. The magician had the look of one who hid secrets. Of one who knew how to be dangerous.

  “And how nice to see your friend as well,” murmured the magician to Halley.

  Edmund widened his stance and anchored his free hand to his hip while focusing his attention on the magician. The posture was one he’d imbibed from his grandfather, a man who knew how to render himself as large and imposing as possible.

  “I didn’t catch his name before . . .”

  “Edmund,” murmured Halley. “Edmund Aldwy—Aldwyssen.”

  The mage turned to Edmund. “God morgen.” He enunciated carefully, striking his syllables hard.

  While Edmund stared at the man with a darkening brow, Halley replied to the magician.

  “The Danish pronounce it ‘goh-morn,’” she said to the magician.

  “Do they indeed?” asked the magician.

  “Goh-morn,” said Edmund, repeating Halley’s pronunciation with a nod.

  Tense silence followed, until a loud clatter drew everyone’s attention to DaVinci.

  “Can I please borrow your ladder?” DaVinci called to Halley. She bent to retrieve her fallen tapestry.

  Edmund instantly resumed his watch upon the mage, but as Jillian approached to grab the ladder, Halley addressed Edmund.

  “Hjælpe hende,” Halley said, pointing to Jillian. “Help her.”

  After considering the request for a count of three, Edmund gave a curt nod and strode away with the ladder. Halley was introducing Jillian to the mage, an activity which even Edmund could admit was perfectly safe. As he returned back to Halley and Jillian, he overheard the mage asking questions about him.

  “He understands some English,” Halley was saying, “But he doesn’t like to speak it in public. He’s embarrassed about making mistakes.”

  “I should probably get back to work,” Jillian murmured, excusing herself.

  “Of course, of course,” replied the magician. “I’ve got an appointment, too, actually. Until we meet again,” he said, smiling at Halley and Edmund.

  The magician turned to go, but then spun back around and reached for Halley’s forearm.

  Edmund’s right hand flew across his waist to his left side for his sword—a sword that was not there. He had only time to curse his luck when, just as quickly, the magician released Halley, having passed her what looked like a letter. The man turned to leave once more, calling over his shoulder, “Just a small token of gratitude.”

  “Thanks,” Halley called back.

  The heavy door closed behind the magician, and Edmund felt as though he could breathe freely once more.

  Almost as soon as the door to the gallery had latched shut, Jillian turned to Edmund and Halley. “Why are you two both pretending he’s Danish?” she asked.

  DaVinci, hands on her hips, evidently had the same question.

  Before Halley could answer, Edmund replied. “That man is a treacherous conjurer.”

  “Dr. Jules Khan?” asked Jillian.

  “Is a treacherous what?” demanded DaVinci.

  “Who are you, really?” asked Jillian.

  Edmund turned to Halley, a questioning expression on his face.

  “Oh, no,” said Halley, sighing.

  “Oh, no, what?” asked DaVinci. “What’s going on here?”

  Halley reached for the ring she kept strung about her fair neck. She withdrew the ring, grasping it tightly. After a moment, she spoke. “You’re not going to believe me.”

  “Try us,” said Jillian, her arms folding across her chest.

  29

  • HALLEY •

  In freshman-year English, Halley had made the mistake of explicating a very personal poem of her own composition; it was a mistake she never repeated. Later in the same class, Halley encountered Emily Dickenson’s advice: “Tell all the Truth, but tell it slant.” Halley had focused on the second part of the line. While she was essentially honest, there were some truths she told “slant,” with a certain bent or emphasis or adaptation that offered protection to her soft underbelly. There was safety in sharing only carefully apportioned pieces of the truth, especially with her mother, but sometimes even with her friends.

  But now, standing in the art gallery, DaVinci’s show half-hung and DaVinci’s eyebrow raised in expectation, Halley knew a slant version of the truth about Edmund was not going to satisfy her friends. She should have known better. DaVinci, like Jillian (who was failing miserably at keeping her face well-manneredly neutral), wanted the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. And then there was Edmund, who still believed—because she had told him to—that the professor was a magician. Exposed underbellies be damned, Halley was going to have to explain things honestly.

  She searched for a way to begin—for something that didn’t sound completely insane. But really, there weren’t any reasonable-sounding ways to begin. Like removing a Band-Aid, this was best done swiftly and irrevocably.

  To Edmund she said, “The professor isn’t really a magician. He does what he does with electricity and physics, not sorcery. I’m sorry I didn’t, er, clarify that earlier.”

  To DaVinci and Jillian, she said, “Edmund’s visiting from the sixteenth century.”

  Her friends regarded her with expressions mingling confusion and disbelief. Halley continued anyway, focusing on DaVinci and Jillian and hoping Edmund would understand why she had called the professor a magician.

  “The house I was watching for Mom yesterday had a time machine in it, and I accidentally dragged Edmund back from London in the 1590s.”

  “From 1598,” said Edmund.

  DaVinci’s deep belly laugh reverberated in the echoey gallery. “Right. God, Halley, you
should write this stuff down. Be a screenwriter, not a costume designer.”

  Jillian turned to face Edmund. “But in all seriousness,” she said, her tone perfectly polite, “You’re an actor, right?”

  “Madam, I am no player.”

  DaVinci snorted with laughter. “‘Madam, I am no player.’ What is that accent, anyway? Pirate?”

  Jillian glared at DaVinci.

  “I am no pirate, neither, my ladies,” said Edmund. “Time’s own hostage am I, captured and not captor.”

  DaVinci snorted again.

  Twisting the ring at her neck, Halley pushed on. “I’m not making this up. I’m serious. Professor Khan is some crazy time-traveling thief. I saw him appear out of thin air, clutching a fistful of old jewelry. Pieces that would be priceless today. And he’s got an original Gutenberg Bible and Shakespeare’s sonnets and all kinds of stuff he stole and brought back.”

  “Halley,” began Jillian, employing her calmest manner, “seriously, what’s going on?”

  Halley sank onto a bench and cradled her head in her hands. “You think I’m crazy. It sounds crazy.” Her voice was quiet as she spoke. “All I know is that there were these huge Tesla coils, and one minute I was standing between them, and then the next minute I was inside the Curtain Theatre in London. In fifteen-freaking-ninety-eight.”

  Tentatively, Jillian perched beside Halley on the gallery bench. “Halley, you know we love you. And we want to be here for you.” She glanced up at DaVinci.

  “Totally,” agreed DaVinci.

  “But what you’re asking us to believe doesn’t seem very . . . plausible,” said Jillian. “Don’t you think it’s possible there’s a more rational explanation?”

  “Like what?” demanded Halley. Heat seared the backs of her eyes. She’d been an idiot to think they would just believe her.

  “As far as you can, um, remember,” said DaVinci, “all of this happened after the earthquake, right?”

  Halley nodded, rubbing the back of her hands quickly over her eyes.

  “It’s just . . .” began Jillian, “maybe you might be a little . . . concussed?”

  “A lot concussed,” added DaVinci. “Come on. We should get you seen—”

  “Edmund!” snapped Halley. “Back me up here.” She shook her head in exasperation. “That means, tell my friends I’m telling the truth.”

  “Lady,” replied Edmund, “I have been endeavoring to persuade myself of it. Thou didst tell me at first I had entered the Faerie Kingdom, only to admit that was a deception. Now you tell me I was deceived in believing that man a magician—”

  “I was trying to keep you safe,” snapped Halley. “I didn’t have enough time to explain everything to you. You saw for yourself how long it took me to make clear what really happened. I said what I had to say to keep you safe, and then, with the professor, I just . . . I forgot I’d called him a magician, okay?”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said DaVinci. “Hal, you’re kinda scaring me here. I really think we need to get you to the ER—”

  Turning, Halley shouted, “I’m not going to the ER! There’s nothing wrong with my head. And even if there were, how do you explain him?” She pointed to Edmund. “Did we both have the same concussion or hallucination or whatever?”

  “Don’t shout at me,” said DaVinci, crossing her arms. “I’m trying to help. And I’m not the one claiming I visited the Renaissance using a time machine.”

  “That much is true,” said Edmund, his own voice rising. “The lady came unto my time by means of some . . . wondrous device. And by means of the same did we return. The lady seemed to fall, and I reached for her, and from thence we traveled to your world.”

  “You didn’t reach for me; I grabbed you,” Halley said apologetically.

  “Nay, I held my arms out to you,” insisted Edmund.

  “Fine. Hands were held out. Bodies were reached for,” said DaVinci. “Can we please at least talk about the possibility of seeing a doctor?”

  “No,” said Jillian, standing and placing a hand gently on DaVinci’s shoulder. “At least, not yet. Halley’s right about one thing. Edmund seems genuinely convinced he’s not from . . . here.”

  “Well, maybe Halley’s right that they both had the same concussion,” said DaVinci. “Because there’s no way they were both in a time machine that just happens to be in someone’s basement in Montecito.”

  “There’s got to be a logical explanation,” replied Jillian. “What’s that Sherlock Holmes quote?” She turned to her cell, typing in a search phrase. “Here: ‘Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.’”

  “Uh, yeah,” replied DaVinci. “Once you, you know, eliminate the impossible.” She pulled out her own cell phone and then carefully spoke into it. “Is time travel possible?”

  A stilted voice responded with, “Here’s what I found on the web for ‘Is time travel possible?’”

  DaVinci stared at her screen. And stared some more. And finally grunted, “Huh. Okay.” She showed the screen to Jillian. “Not what I was expecting.”

  “They say it’s possible, don’t they?” asked Halley, her voice emptied of her earlier anger.

  “Well, yes, in theory. But it could be just a bunch of quacks,” said DaVinci.

  “If by ‘bunch of quacks’ you mean NASA physicists and MIT graduates,” murmured Jillian, now examining her own cell.

  “Okay, okay,” said DaVinci. “Let’s go at this another way. Edmund, you say you are from 1598. How old were you when Elizabeth the First took the throne?”

  Halley, understanding DaVinci meant to turn this into Twenty Questions, looked up hopefully.

  “Good mistress,” replied Edmund, “Her Majesty was already upon the throne at my birth.”

  “Hang on, hang on,” said DaVinci. Halley saw her swiping open a calculator. “How old are you?”

  “One and twenty,” replied Edmund.

  DaVinci tapped numbers into the calculator on her phone.

  “Fine. Whatever. That one doesn’t count. It was too easy. How about . . . um . . . How about, tell me what George Washington is famous for?”

  “I have not had the privilege of the gentleman’s acquaintance,” Edmund replied.

  “DaVinci,” murmured Jillian. “Don’t you think you’re being a little—”

  “No, let her,” said Halley. “Go ahead and try something really hard. Tell us how much a pint of ale would cost in 1598? No—wait. The questions should come from DaVinci so no one thinks I gave Edmund the answers ahead of time.” She glared at DaVinci.

  “How about a horse instead?” asked Jillian. “What would a horse cost in 1598?”

  “It would depend upon the horse, lady,” began Edmund, “But a goodly steed can be hired for the day at a shilling, or bought outright for six crowns.”

  “Hang on,” said DaVinci, scrolling on her phone screen. “This has it in pennies. How many pennies in six crowns?”

  “Why, three hundred and sixty,” replied Edmund, as if addressing someone of dubious intelligence.

  “Huh. He’s right,” said DaVinci.

  Halley, swallowing a laugh, turned to Edmund. “Don’t worry, DaVinci can add and multiply. It’s just that we don’t use shillings and crowns or whatever. We use dollars and cents.”

  Edmund bowed to DaVinci. “I pray you will forgive any unintended discourtesy, lady.”

  “How much would you tip a servant?” DaVinci asked, eyes fixed on her screen.

  “Three or four pennies, an’ the service they rendered was valuable,” replied Edmund.

  “Okay. So, how much would a, um, tankard of ale cost?”

  “Only a fool or a drunkard would pay more than a halfpenny.”

  “Loaf of bread?”

  “Tuppence.”

  “A chicken?”

  Edmund laughed. “I know not. Ask in my kitchens, if you would know the answer. But at an inn of repute, for a cooked bird I might give a penny.”

  “
He’s getting all these right,” murmured DaVinci. “How about a pound of cinnamon?”

  “DaVinci,” said Jillian.

  “Cinnamon was crazy expensive,” murmured DaVinci, still scrolling on her phone.

  “I think you’ve made your point,” murmured Jillian to DaVinci.

  “Anything you can ask, he can answer,” said Halley. “I guarantee it. We’re telling you the truth. Edmund came here from 1598.”

  “It seems theoretically possible,” ventured Jillian, still reading something on her phone.

  “If by ‘possible’ you mean ‘crazy,’ then yes,” said DaVinci.

  Halley gave her a sad half smile. “Yes. It’s crazy.”

  DaVinci shook her head slowly. “The cow is on the Nissan this time for sure, my friend.”

  Halley groaned. “‘Isen,’ not ‘Nissan.’” Turning to Edmund, she explained. “It’s a Danish saying: ‘Ko på isen.’ Literally, ‘the cow’s on the ice.’ It means—”

  Jillian emitted a small gasp.

  “What?” asked Halley and DaVinci at the same time.

  “There was an international symposium on space–time in 2001 at UC Santa Barbara,” said Jillian. She looked up from her phone. “Any guesses as to who organized it and presented a paper there on time travel?”

  “Professor Jules Khan,” said Halley, her voice as flat as the sea in a dead calm.

  30

  • KHAN •

  It was a tiny thing that disturbed the professor. It tickled away in the back of his brain during his financial transactions with Martin Nieman, purveyor of antique and estate jewelry. It troubled him as he sat in the parking lot outside the gallery, contemplating the sale of “three golden chains with pendants, sixteenth century, manufactured by N. Hilliard,” and tried to decide how he would sell a fourth valuable necklace, which Nieman had regrettably declined to purchase.

  Dr. Jules Khan was familiar with these odd ticklings, these just-out-of-reach inklings. They had led to his greatest breakthroughs in scientific discovery. As a postdoc with a freshly minted PhD, he had pursued these ticklings doggedly, attempting to corner and intimidate them. Eventually, he had learned this was a dead end, methodologically speaking. He learned that only when he exercised restraint would the ideas bloom, unfold, and reveal themselves. The trick was to keep one’s eyes averted. And then, voilà! A breakthrough. A revelation. An answer.