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

by Cidney Swanson

  “At least, not for more than fifteen minutes at a time,” she concluded. She willed him to meet her eyes, but for a handful of seconds, he stared into the heavens, lost deep in his thoughts.

  When he turned back to her, his expression was somber.

  “Lady, it is my dearest wish to remain evermore with thee, and thou wilt have it so.”

  Halley cupped a hand around his face. “I will have it so,” she replied. And then she laughed and placed her other hand at Edmund’s waist, pulling him closer, closer, closer, as if to keep even the dawn from coming between them.

  73

  • HALLEY •

  Halley walked toward one of the empty tables in the back of ¡Dulce!, DaVinci’s favorite bakery. DaVinci was nowhere to be seen. Jillian smiled apologetically from where she sat, like a bird on a perch.

  “DaVinci said she’d be here,” murmured Jillian, looking uncomfortable.

  The two didn’t hug. Halley felt the winter’s chill between them and for the thousandth time regretted her decision to set up the booth. It had all become so clear when she was tied to a piece of lab equipment in the professor’s basement: her friends were her family. Cousins and sisters and aunties all rolled into one. Halley had been a fool, crying for the moon when she had the sunshine of her friends’ love right in front of her.

  Or, rather, she had had it. Now she wasn’t sure. Edmund had advised Halley to meet her friends alone, and Halley had agreed, but now she wished he were here at her side, a warm hand in hers to counter Jillian’s coolness.

  “I’m so sorry,” began Halley.

  “There she is,” said Jillian, speaking over Halley. She stood to catch DaVinci’s attention.

  DaVinci didn’t look cool or aloof. She looked angry.

  “I’m so sorry,” Halley said again, this time to both of them. “I’m not asking you to forgive me, but I needed to tell you I know what I did was . . . horrible.” Her throat swelled.

  “Edmund said it was something to do with seeing your father,” DaVinci said. Her tone was grudging.

  “It doesn’t matter why I did it,” said Halley. “It was wrong and I—”

  “It matters to me,” said DaVinci, her tone still angry. “So you’d better explain what was so important that you ditched me on the most important day of my life.”

  Halley blinked rapidly, and then, while she shredded a paper napkin with “¡Dulce!” embossed on both sides, Halley explained everything. Her secrets. Her dreams. Her mother’s revelation. Moving out. Everything.

  “And then last night,” Halley said, concluding, “when I thought I was going to die, the worst part was thinking I’d never get a chance to apologize.”

  Jillian’s brows flew up.

  “Last night when you what?” demanded DaVinci.

  “Oh.” Halley chewed on her lower lip. “So . . . Right. A few things happened last night when Edmund and I went to Professor Khan’s.”

  Long before she’d finished explaining the near-death experience, Jillian was crying and holding Halley’s hand while DaVinci growled (at Khan) and hugged Halley from the other side. Halley tried to dry her eyes using the shredded ¡Dulce! napkin until Jillian pulled tissues from her new Irina Tran purse.

  “Can we please still be friends?” whispered Halley, drying her eyes. “I don’t know what I’d do without you both.”

  DaVinci hugged her even more tightly. “Of course,” she said. “Of course.”

  Jillian murmured her agreement.

  Then DaVinci grunted out a deep belly laugh. “Almost getting murdered or mummified or whatever totally gets you a pass, you know, for pretty much any stupid choices.”

  Halley winced and was about to apologize again, but DaVinci held up her hand.

  “I said you had a pass. Now, can we please talk about something nice for a change? Your hot earl maybe? When is he going to model for me?”

  Jillian ordered a lavish assortment of pan dulce and donuts, accompanied by a steaming French press of dark coffee, and the three gradually slipped back inside their decade-long friendship, closer for the knowledge of what could have been lost.

  ~ ~ ~

  The Applegates’ post-Fiesta bash that afternoon started at four, which gave Halley and Edmund time to sunburn on Butterfly Beach for several hours after Halley left her friends.

  Halley’s phone, which had been returned to her by one of the firemen, woke Edmund and Halley with an alarm set for 3:15.

  “Uh-oh,” said Halley, rolling over on the beach blanket.

  “What is’t?” asked Edmund.

  Halley was frowning at a patch of bright pink skin. After they’d left ¡Dulce!, she’d spent an astonishing eighty dollars on a new bikini top, which Jillian had talked her into and even tried to pay for, but Halley had said no. The new bikini top, unfortunately, had exposed new skin to the sun.

  “That’s gonna hurt later,” Halley said, tapping her chest. “In fact,” she said, “I’m not wearing this at the pool party after all. How’s that for irony?”

  Edmund stared at her blankly.

  “It’s silly,” she said, “but three days ago I thought getting a new swim top for Jillian’s pool party was a pretty big deal.” She laughed, and Edmund joined in, even though he clearly had no idea what she was laughing about.

  Half an hour later, the two were dressed and driving in Halley’s truck to the Applegates’. Halley had rummaged through her two duffel bags of clothes and found a strapless black beach cover-up that could pull double duty as a strapless black dress in a pinch. Edmund was outfitted in sandals, below-the-knee shorts, and an ivy-green button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Jillian had picked out and paid for the outfit at the same exclusive Coast Village Road boutique where she’d tried to pay for Halley’s bikini top.

  Halley had to agree, the color of Edmund’s shirt did something amazing for his already-amazing eyes. Everyone at the party was going to want to get close to him, and Halley was very glad Edmund had agreed to whisper “laryngitis” to strangers who tried to engage him in conversation.

  After they pulled through the Applegates’ entrance and stopped by the cluster of valets, Edmund cleared his throat. “Lady?”

  “Hmm?” asked Halley, handing her truck keys to a smiling valet.

  Edmund waited until they were both out of the truck.

  “Your cell phone was not the only thing recovered from the basement last night.” He looked troubled. “It would seem . . . That is . . .” He shook his head and reached inside his shorts pocket, removing what looked like several strands of pearls. Then, as if he’d made up his mind to something, he took Halley’s hand in his and strode rapidly to a small stone bench in front of an enormous cluster of bird-of-paradise.

  “What is that?” Halley asked.

  “This carcanet was my mother’s.”

  He held the strands apart so that Halley could see it. It was an exquisite Elizabethan necklace, hung with a jeweled pendant.

  “My mother gave the pendant to my brother the selfsame morning thou and I met. He was to sell it and buy rings,” said Edmund. “It would appear my brother parted with it at any rate. Or perhaps the professor stole it.”

  “How did you—where did you find it?”

  “After the mage—that is, the professor—attacked us, I saw it on a table. I retrieved it late last night, after the firemen departed.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  In the center of the pendant there was a ruby, cut square, surrounded by goldwork and hexagonal blue stones. A narrow row of small pearls bordered the pendant, which hung from the twin strands of larger pearls forming the necklace. It was lovely. Lovely and vaguely . . . familiar.

  And then Halley’s eyes grew wide. She knew where she’d seen this necklace before. When she’d looked up Edmund’s Wikipedia page, Edmund’s . . . wife, Maria Lavenham, had been wearing this very necklace in her portrait.

  Halley exhaled slowly. Somehow, even though Khan had bought (or stolen) the pendant from Edmund’s bro
ther, the version of it remaining in 1598 must have been recovered by the family.

  Before she changed her mind, Halley blurted out several things she’d been dying to tell Edmund.

  “I promise I’m not going to go all soothsayer on you every time you bring up your past,” she said, “but you should know a few things. Your estate recovers from debt. Your brother becomes a Puritan. Your mom lives a long life with, uh, the other you, and she’s adored by all the kids from your, well, your wife, who wears this pendant in a portrait. I’ve seen the portrait with my own eyes in a . . . historical record.”

  “Indeed?” Edmund looked puzzled. He said nothing for several minutes. At last he turned to Halley. “I am much relieved to hear of the history of . . . my second self.” Then, his amber-colored eyes softening, he added, “Whatever its odd history, wouldst thou consider wearing the pendant for my sake this day?”

  Halley touched her chest self-consciously. She’d taken off the chain with the jade ring. She hadn’t gotten rid of the ring, just in case she felt differently someday, but she’d decided she didn’t want to wear it for now.

  But how did she feel about wearing a necklace that Edmund had (apparently) given to his wife in the past? It gave her pause. She turned slightly away. And then, she smiled. She smiled because she was being ridiculous. Her Edmund hadn’t given this to his wife. Her Edmund hadn’t offered this necklace to anyone—except her.

  “I should be much honored,” added Edmund, holding the necklace out.

  “Edmund,” she said, meeting his eyes, “I’m the one who would be much honored.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Much later that evening, after Halley had despaired of meeting Ethyl Meier, the great woman herself strode over to where Halley was sitting in a quiet corner with Edmund, DaVinci, and Jillian.

  “That piece is stunning,” said Ms. Meier, pointing to Halley’s necklace. She then held out her hand. “Ethyl,” said Ms. Meier.

  Halley shook hands. “Halley,” she said. “It’s a family heirloom from the late Elizabethan period. And I know who you are. I applied for an internship in your costume shop—”

  Ms. Meier held her hand up. “Internship’s already been assigned for the fall.”

  “Oh,” said Halley. “Oh.” Her heart sank.

  “But I’m hiring hand stitchers. Do you hand-sew or embroider?”

  “Yes.” Halley felt a giggle rising in her throat. And bake and brew, too, she wanted to say. Corralling her runaway thoughts, she added, “I can do several kinds of hem stitches, tent stitch, and other embroidery, and I can sew on a hook and eye so tight it will never come loose.”

  “Pad stitching?” asked Ms. Meier. “Blackwork? Keyhole-style buttonholes?”

  Halley was silent. She didn’t know what any of these things were.

  “I can learn,” she asserted, her heart pounding against her ribs.

  Ms. Meier reached inside an elaborately beaded purse. “Here’s my card. Come by the costume shop tomorrow. If Josefina approves your needlework, you’re hired.” She stared at the necklace again. “Lovely. Truly lovely. Would you mind?” Ms. Meier held up her phone, indicating she wanted a picture of the necklace.

  “Go right ahead,” said Halley. By the time her eyes recovered from the bright flash, Ms. Meier was gone. “Um, guys? I think I just got a job!”

  “Yay, you!” said Jillian, clapping her hands together.

  Edmund was beaming at Halley. She wanted to kiss him very badly.

  DaVinci, who’d been sketching Edmund all evening, suddenly asked, “So you say you’ve got a brother?”

  “I have a brother,” replied Edmund, turning to DaVinci.

  “Don’t go there,” Halley said to DaVinci. “Besides, his brother grows up to argue against Art as a worldly vanity.”

  DaVinci frowned disapprovingly. “That’s just wrong,” she said. “Although, it’s a lot more wrong you’ve got an Edmund and I don’t.” She pouted.

  “The time machine’s still in working order,” said Jillian, repeating something Halley had told them earlier.

  “Huh-uh,” said DaVinci, shaking her head vehemently. “I don’t want some creepy photocopied boyfriend.”

  “Never say never,” said Jillian, smiling.

  DaVinci, rolling her eyes, grabbed Jillian’s arm. “Come on. Let’s go get some of that insane apple pie. Maybe the caterer will give you the recipe. Or just sell you the bakery.”

  “I want to frost the cakes, not own the bakery,” replied Jillian.

  “And right now,” DaVinci said with a pointed look, “you want to give these two some privacy.”

  After the two girls had gone, Edmund looked puzzled.

  “Wherefore should they desire to give us privacy?”

  “So I can do this,” said Halley, pulling him closer. Just before their lips met, Halley whispered, “I’m no soothsayer, but I see a lot of this in your future.”

  And they kissed, across the table, across the continents, across four hundred years.

  THE END

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  Acknowledgments

  Writing A Thief in Time has been a stretch for me. I’ve left the familiar worlds of invisibility genes and Mars colonies for . . . research! While I’ve always loved reading time-travel adventures, I was frankly terrified about the research that would be involved in writing one of my own. I owe a debt of gratitude to some writer friends who have said through the years that the research is the fun part. Really? They must have said it often enough, because they managed to convince me to give it a whirl. Monique Martin and Sarah Woodbury: hats off to you both!

  Beyond convincing me to try it, I am further indebted to Sarah and Monique, as well as to Melissa F. Miller, for beta reading. Each of you made the story stronger by telling me what you liked and what wasn’t quite working. Thank you!

  Next, there’s my longsuffering husband, who patiently explained the theory of special relativity and the theory of general relativity and also gave me the math to explain that in my world, the farther back in history you travel, the more quickly you get shoved back home again. Thank you, Dr. Science.

  With this new Kindle Press edition, I am delighted to add a round of thanks to the Kindle Press team at Amazon. I’m deeply grateful for all the things you’ve done to make the words sparkle!

  Lastly, to my readers, you are a terrific reason to get up and write every single day, and I am grateful for you every single day!

  Enjoy a sneak peek of Cidney Swanson’s next book in the Thief in Time Series, A Flight in Time.

  Prologue

  • KHAN •

  Santa Barbara, California, 2001

  Someday, thought Jules Khan, he would be the person standing for accolades rather than being the person stuck standing behind the registration table. He’d organized the conference almost singlehandedly, but as Dr. Llewelyn Jones’s youngest postdoc, he received none of the credit and was forced to do things like hand out packets to PhDs. PhDs who couldn’t remember the spelling of their last names, judging by the number of them yesterday who’d stood in the shortest line rather than the clearly delineated A–G, H–Q, and R–Z lines.

  Yesterday’s talks, too, had been disappointing. Why bother to present at a conference dedicated to the understanding of space–time if you didn’t have anything constructive to add to the field? It had been the same old tired arguments: why the manipulation of space–time was impossible, why the Special Theory of Relativity was inadequate although it was damn well the best anyone would ever come up with, and even one paper on why the exploration of the space–time continuum was immoral. It was the twenty-first century, not the Victorian age. One didn’t attend physics conferences in the year 2001 to be preached at, thank you
very much.

  Khan flipped through yesterday’s notes. Simms’s paper on parallel universe theory had been intriguing, but the man didn’t believe in it himself, not really, judging by the number of times he used the phrase “wishful thinking” in his concluding remarks. Dr. Arthur Littlewood’s paper had been the only paper to do anything like break new ground, and Littlewood was out on a yacht today, drinking California sparkling wine and visiting the Channel Islands. It was going to be a long, dull day.

  Khan sighed.

  As to the question of why anyone bothered coming, that was easily answered: free booze and conference add-ons such as the optional excursions to the nearby Getty Museum, the Channel Islands, and even some pretentious winery in the Santa Ynez Valley, of all places. Khan scowled. Someday he would be in charge of more than the grunt work. His only contribution of actual significance to the conference this time had been suggesting a name change, from “Existential Problems in Space-Time Theory” to “2001: A Space-Time Odyssey”—a title that had actually drawn attention to itself. A title that had drawn the likes of Doctors Arthur Littlewood and Sathya Simms.

  Flipping through the day’s schedule, Khan was relieved to see Simms would be presenting again, this time on a study done by one of his more promising graduate students. At least Simms credited his underlings, which was more than Dr. Jones ever did. Khan had been refused so much as a byline on the last submission to Physical Review D journal. What was he doing here, really? Waiting around for Jones to throw him a bone? He should start looking for a real job. Something in industry rather than academia. Somewhere he could make a mark and be paid what he was worth.

  He finished the last of his coffee—cold and burned-tasting—and headed for the keynote address, small though his interest was in hearing Dr. Rogers’s squeaking tones amplified by a microphone with feedback issues. If only Khan had had the money to sign up for the excursion to the Channel Islands. He might have introduced himself to Littlewood and picked his brain on one or two topics.