by Juliana Gray
“He’s lying!” I said, and the man yanked my head back by the hair.
“I am not f lying,” he said calmly. “Stand up. I said stand up.”
I rose slowly, mindful of the tension on my hair, and the cold, heavy weight of the pistol’s short barrel against the skin of my left temple. The man’s breath came hot and damp along my cheek, along my ear, along my neck.
“That’s a good girl,” he crooned. “Nice and easy. Nobody does anything dumb.”
I straightened myself against his body, which was flat and hard where it pressed along my spine and my head and the backs of my legs. He was not large, but his very leanness contained a tensile, ropelike strength that easily overpowered mine. Unsteady from shock and from sudden exertion, I might have toppled were it not for his arm binding my middle, like the steel cuff of a prisoner. The duke’s image wobbled before my eyes. His feet were planted square on the floorboards, his dressing gown parted, the muscles of his quadriceps bulging from the material of his pajamas. The handkerchief had slipped from his mouth. Behind his back, his hands worked at their bonds: the only movement along the length and breadth of his body. His gaze was trained not on the intruder’s face, but on mine.
“That’s right,” the man said. “That’s better. Let’s just figure this out, okay? We figure this out, and everybody gets what they want.”
The duke’s hands stilled at his back. “Very well. Lay down your pistol.”
The man’s hands tightened in my hair, making me gasp. “Now, see. That’s exactly what I’m not going to do. A gun gives you leverage, bro. Leverage. Means I get what I want first, you know what I’m saying? My name’s Hunter, by the way. Nice to meet you both.”
“Mr. Hunter—”
“Just Hunter. My first name. I ain’t telling you the last.”
“Hunter. I have only one request. Before we proceed at all, before we agree on a single point, you must release Miss Truelove.”
“Hell, no. Next point?”
The duke merely lifted his eyebrows.
“Okay, then. You want to play it that way.” Hunter yanked back my head and released the safety catch with a soft click. “See this girl here? She ain’t got what you got. I can’t kill you, ’cause you got the juice. Couldn’t kill you on Naxos, can’t kill you here. But Miss Truelove here, she’s got no juice. No special sauce. Ergo, I got no problem killing her, if you don’t do what I want you to do.”
“And what is that, exactly?”
“So, here we go. I’m going to have to explain a few things, okay? If we’re going to get anywhere tonight. Explain a few things I guess you might not know about yourself. About this thing you got.”
“The juice, I believe?” Max said dryly.
“Whatever you call it. Now, let’s start at the very beginning. A very good place to start.” He sang the last sentence, to a tune I didn’t know. “When you read, you begin with A-B-C. When you travel through time . . . ha ha. Look at your faces. Man, I kill myself. Okay. So . . . let me see. You know what you did on that island, right? When you brought that Greek brother—”
“Theseus,” I said.
“Whatever. Dude fell off a cliff three thousand years ago, and you, Mr. Duke-Man, you yourself catch him and f ing haul his ass into the twentieth century. That’s some juice, right?” Hunter whistled in my ear. “Some . . . f ing . . . juice.”
“And how did you come to know that story?” Max asked.
“Because you wrote a book about it, duke-man. That story and others like it.”
“I haven’t written any books. Not about what happened on Naxos, anyway. I haven’t told a soul.”
“Let me rephrase,” said Hunter. “You ain’t wrote it yet. Not in—what year is it, again?”
“What year is it?”
“You heard me. 1905 or some s ?”
“1906,” I said, because I was beginning to comprehend him. I was beginning to see a picture assimilate before me: a strange, wondrous, frightening, complicated picture, thick with possibility, thick with mystery.
“Fine. 1906. But this book? The Book of Time, it’s called? You wrote it in 1921, my man. Nineteen hundred and twenty-one.”
“I don’t understand. Then how—if I haven’t written this thing yet—how do you know I will?”
I cleared my throat. “I believe I can guess the answer to that. When were you born, Hunter?”
“Bingo!” Hunter said. “See? The lady gets it. Gold star to the lady. So listen up. You ready for this? To answer your question, Miss Truelove, I was born in good old nineteen hundred and eighty-five. 1985. How cool is that? And here I am, and the reason I’m here is because somebody sent me here, somebody with the juice, as I call it, and that somebody—”
An almighty BANG tore the air apart, and the instantaneous impact of a bullet into stone. Amid the shower of shrapnel, Hunter shouted something, released me, and I stumbled backward to the wall.
“Max!” I called.
Through the clearing smoke strode Mr. Magnusson, holding a cocked pistol in one hand, while Max launched himself forward to slam into Hunter’s body, knocking loose the gun.
“Stay where you are!” commanded Mr. Magnusson, and Hunter swore. He turned and bolted for the window; Mr. Magnusson fired again, and the window glass exploded into tiny shards. I ducked away from the shower, and when I turned back, Hunter had vanished.
“Where is he?” I demanded, but neither man answered. Instead they rushed for the open window and gazed down, down, where the midnight sea hurled itself against the cliff some fifty feet below.
“God save him,” whispered the duke.
• • •
We ran for the library door, following Mr. Magnusson, who knew the way. A succession of corridors fled past, then a long, spiraling journey down a turret staircase much like the one I had descended earlier, then more corridors, damp and dark and chill, like the catacombs of some ancient crypt. There was nothing to light our way except a curious electric torch Mr. Magnusson produced from his pocket, and this garish beam bounced along the walls at a frantic pace, bringing terrible, ragged, fleeting shadows to life, like monsters caught inside the stone. I felt them staring at me as we flew along: Magnusson first, then me, then the duke at my heels, his hands freed at last, our slippered feet thudding upon the bare floor, our breath panting in the ancient air. My lungs burned, my legs burned, but still I ran gamely in Magnusson’s wake, for I knew I should never find the way back from this maze if I allowed myself to fall behind.
Quite without warning, Magnusson flung open a thick wooden door, and a gust of briny air flooded over us. So chill was the atmosphere inside, the sea wind felt almost balmy against my cheek, but as I stepped outside to the narrow stone path, a fine mist of salt water leapt from below to sting my skin. I gasped for breath. A half-moon lingered in the sky, dimly revealing our position on the cliff, upon a tiny, silver path that wound its way around the headland, up and down, following the natural contours of the tall, jagged stone, and presently about a dozen feet above the lashing of the waves.
There was no sign of the ginger-haired man.
“My God,” said the duke, looking up. “I don’t see how he could have survived it.”
“He could not,” Magnusson said emphatically. He turned and pointed upward, where Thurso Castle rose from the top of the headland, coal-dark and impenetrable, about twenty feet above our heads. “The library window is right there, you see? Halfway up the castle walls. A drop of perhaps sixty or seventy feet at least. Into that.”
That was the foamy, roiling, opaque broth at our feet, slapping angrily against the sheer barrier of the cliff face. Here and there, a rock pushed up from the water, its dimensions marked by a simmer of phosphorescence. I imagined a body striking one of those rocks, a head perhaps careering against the rough, slick stone, and I shuddered. The duke’s hand found my shoulder. No doubt he w
as thinking of his lost love, left behind on Naxos in the arms of the ancient Greek warrior to whom her heart was bound. The sea, you know. That same infinity of water that connected us to every coast in the world.
“Who the devil was he?” asked Magnusson. “He sounded absolutely mad.”
“Quite mad,” said Max. “How did you discover us?”
“Why, I was headed upstairs to—to find a book, and I heard some commotion. Thought it best to find my pistol and see what the devil was going on.” He turned to face us, and his grinning mouth caught the silver of the moon. “Damned glad I did. Rather a tight spot, wouldn’t you say? Any idea what the chap wanted?”
The duke’s fingers tightened on my shoulder. “It seems he holds a grudge of some kind against me. I’m afraid I ruffled his feathers, back in the Med last spring.”
“I see. Well, he’s gone now, God rest his soul. I shall make a quick report to Father and inform the staff, in case the body washes ashore. Send for the constable, of course.” His gaze fastened on the duke’s face, eyebrows slightly ajar, as if that last sentence represented a question rather than a statement of intent.
Max said slowly, “A constable, of course. The local authorities should be informed of the incident.”
“I quite agree, quite agree.” Magnusson glanced at me, then back at the duke. “But . . . hmm. Not until the morning, perhaps? Nothing to be done until daylight, in any case.”
“Nothing at all, alas,” I said. “Besides, we should wake the entire house, even if a constable could be found at this hour.”
“Well said, Miss Truelove. Very well said. That’s it, then. Terrible night. I suggest the two of you pour yourselves a brandy and go to bed at once.”
From Magnusson’s familiar tone, and the knowing expression on his face, I could see he assumed that Max and I would do these comfortable things together. Max seemed to divine the suggestion as well. His hand slid away from my shoulder, and he stepped respectfully away. I became conscious of my dressing gown, flapping in the wind, and my nightgown that stuck to my skin, and my wet, ruined slippers. My trembling nerves. My unruly hair, which was coming undone from its braid.
Max turned to face me. “How are you faring, Miss Truelove? Shall I fetch you a glass of brandy?”
Yes, by God, my nerves screamed. I stuck my hands in the pocket of my dressing gown and said, “No, thank you.”
“Are you quite sure?” said Magnusson. “A shocking episode like that. I believe I shall drink the bottle away before I retire.”
“I am not fond of spirits, Mr. Magnusson.”
“Ah. No. Of course not.” He managed a chuckle and passed his fingers through his hair, casting a last glance toward the glittering sea. “Poor mad fellow. Happens more than you think, in these parts, though mostly in winter. Hardly ever on a fine, warm summer’s day as this. Curious. Well, then. Nothing more to be done, I believe.” He reached for the door and swore.
“What’s the matter?” said Max.
“I’m afraid it’s locked.”
• • •
By the time I reached my bed, I had changed my mind about the brandy. It was too late to ring for the maid, however, and I could hardly return downstairs, so I crawled under the covers and attempted sleep, without much success. Each time I closed my eyes, I heard the bang of Magnusson’s pistol, startling away what drowsiness had fallen upon me.
I stared into the canopy, counting the strikes of my pulse, and in the shadows I perceived Silverton’s face, beautiful and uncharacteristically grave, gazing down upon my prone body as if to reproach me, or else to communicate some urgent message. Once I thought I heard him speak, though I couldn’t make out the words, and I suppose I must have fallen asleep soon after, for I woke into a pale, chilly dawn, my heart beating violently.
A soft knock sounded on the door. It was the maid, bearing a load of coal and a telegram from the Dowager Duchess of Olympia, which informed me in staccato, capital sentences that Her Grace had not heard from the Marquess of Silverton since the day before last.
If I had any news of him, she begged me to relate it at once.
• • •
I lay in bed for some time, digesting this message and everything else that had occurred inside this most extraordinary forty-eight hours. During that time, I had slept little, and my fatigue was now extreme, and yet my brain would not rest. An electric wakefulness sang painfully inside my skull. My eyes ached with unshed tears. My stomach, my ribs, my limbs all clenched as if locked in mortal struggle.
He is gone, I thought. He is lost. Where do I begin to look for him?
The maid built the fire and left the room. I waited for something to appear, the vision of my father, the vision of my Queen, anything to keep vigil with me in this lonely hour. But none appeared. The room was small and warmed quickly. I rose from the bed and went to the window, where the new-risen sun was just visible to the east, filling the sky with promise. The sea washed the rocks below me, and I murmured a prayer for the ginger-haired man, who had plunged into those waters a few hours ago. Hunter, he called himself, and he claimed it was his Christian name. A strange address. Was this the sort of method by which boys were named, eighty years hence? Hunter? Did they name the girls Huntress?
Or had the man only spun us a bizarre fiction, a madness, a fairy tale?
The room contained no clock. I consulted my own watch, a plain one made of silver, given to me by the dowager duchess at Christmas three years ago. Half past six o’clock. Nobody would be about, except the servants.
I dressed myself swiftly and went downstairs.
• • •
In the Oriental library, the old wooden chest still sat on the giant table in the center of the room, apparently untouched, though the fallen chair had been put back in its rightful place and the glass swept up. The morning breeze fluttered through the open window, cool and damp and sea-scented.
Though I had come to this room with a single purpose, I found myself stepping past the table to the window. Upon the ledge, a few minute slivers of glass remained, stuck in the gaps and the hollows of the stone, glittering by the kiss of the early sun, but there was otherwise no sign of the drama that had occurred here last night. No sign that a man had plunged to his death through this window. The morning calm of the water appeared innocent of any crime. My fingers curled into the cold edge of the stone. This is shock, I assured myself. This activity in your guts, this roiling anxiety, this sickening foreboding—this is only the physical manifestation of shock.
“My dear girl. I hope you are not considering some drastic action.”
I whirled about to find my father at ease in the chair, the same one lately occupied by the Duke of Olympia. His legs were crossed, and his hands curled about the ends of the chair arms. He wore a suit I recognized, one of pale gray wool, the lightest suit he owned, when he was alive.
“Of course not,” I said.
“You are greatly distressed.”
“Naturally I’m distressed. You saw what occurred here last night, did you not?”
“A terrifying scene.”
I leaned back against the ledge and twisted my neck to glance back down at the gray sea. “Is it really possible? Was he really born in the year 1985?”
“I’m afraid you must determine that for yourself. I have no particular insight into the matter. If he was born at some future date, and made his way to this age through some strange curvature in the known laws of physics, it is beyond my own knowledge. What do you think?”
“It is possible,” I said. “I saw it happen last April with my own eyes, on the island of Skyros. You know that as well as I do. You know we have discussed the incident, over and over—”
“With the duke, you mean?”
“Yes. The duke. We discussed what had occurred, and how, and why.”
“And did you conclude any of these points?”
“No. But we could not doubt the fact of it. We could not doubt a man named Tadeas had somehow manifested from the empty air of the Skyros cliff, at the exact spot where an ancient king was supposed to have flung a warrior known to both myth and history as Theseus to his death. And we could not doubt that this man—speaking an ancient dialect, dressed in foreign clothes—came into being at the end of the Duke of Olympia’s outstretched arm.”
“Quite true. We have our knowledge of science, and we have the facts as we observe them, and if one does not agree with the other, why—I suppose we must decide which one is to be trusted most.”
I turned back to face my father, who sat in perfect tranquility. Easy enough for him, I thought bitterly. I crossed my arms and said, “But supposing Hunter’s story were true, and he really did hail from another time, who had brought him into this one, if not Max himself?”
“I cannot say.”
“How was it done? Why was it done? And Silverton—he has disappeared—and I am afraid, Father, terribly afraid that—” I felt a sob rising in my throat, and I bit off the end of the sentence rather than finish it.
My father said patiently, shaking his head, “This is for you to discover, my dear Emmeline, as human beings are called upon to investigate those things that mystify them.”
I opened my mouth to reply, but he had already disappeared, like the switching of a lamp.
I swore. I covered my face with my hands and made a noise of rage.
“Ah, Miss Truelove. I’m afraid I feel much the same way.”
I lifted my hands away and saw that the duke stood just inside the doorway, wearing a tweed Norfolk jacket and leather spats and an expression of deep concern. While I tried to think of a reply, he turned and closed the door behind him, locked it carefully, and walked toward me.
“I ought not to have used such a word,” I said.
He came to stand before me and took my hands in his own. His dark eyes were deeply shadowed, his face drawn with long, fatigued lines. “On the contrary, I believe you summed up the situation perfectly. Did you sleep at all?”
