The Time Tutor: A Penguin Special from Plume

by Ridgway, Bee

Alva watched her mentor stroke her pet. Was it love that she felt for Hannelore? She tried to remember what love had felt like to her old self, the Swedish peasant girl. Mother, father, sisters, priest. Her friend, Camma, and Camma’s brother Egil . . . had she really loved them? Not even a year after Alva had jumped, the black death had come to Sweden. The plague. Carried north, Hannelore had told her, not by demons or miasmas, but by fleas. A memory rose up: her mother, pressing a hand to her face as she laughed, the big joint of her elbow pointing at Alva. And the other hand scratching, scratching at a fleabite on her leg, using the rough wool of her dress to rub the itchy place. A daily occurrence. An hourly one, on a farm in the summertime. Just thinking about it made Alva’s gorge rise, made tears press against her eyes.

  “Alva.” Hannelore spoke softly. “Control yourself. Remember. You mustn’t grope through the bad memories.”

  “Yes. Yes.” Alva smiled the feeling away. “Please. Tell me more about this Ofan infiltrator. I want to catch him before Bertrand does.”

  “Ah. Bertrand.” Hannelore pushed her cat aside. He gave way with good grace, standing beside his mistress on the settee and stretching, his mouth wide in a yawn and his tongue curling up, dainty as a spring leaf. “It was about Bertrand that I wanted to talk to you.” Hannelore looked into Alva’s face long enough for Alva to feel uncomfortable. When the old woman spoke, her voice was crisp. “I regret to say it, but there is a distinct possibility that Bertrand is the spy.”

  • • •

  “Well, damn you to hell, then.” Lord Dar drained his glass and slammed it down on the tabletop. “You ungrateful bastard.”

  The ungrateful bastard in question looked unabashed.

  The seconds ticked by. Dar glowered, enraged that he felt so terrible, so betrayed.

  Someone in the pub must have fed 10p into the jukebox, because out of the silence their ears were assaulted by tinny piano chords, followed by a swell of strings, and Glen Campbell’s chewy baritone, singing this month’s hit: I’ve been walkin’ these streets so long, singin’ the same old song . . .

  “That’s you, you know, Dar,” Bertrand said, picking up the saltcellar. “You’re a rhinestone cowboy. With your big dreams of fighting the Guild all alone, with no plan whatsoever.” He shook some salt onto the tabletop.

  “You were my plan,” Dar said.

  Bertrand rolled his eyes at that. “Some plan,” he said. “Just the two of us up against the Guild, you outside, me inside, backed up by nothing more than a ragtag group of your Ofan students, most of whom would rather be wenching. Meanwhile, the Guild is busy getting work done.”

  “The work of destroying the world. Of slowly choking it of freedom.”

  Bertrand shrugged. “I’m not even sure anymore.” He began trying to balance the shaker on its edge in the little pile of salt. “You told me the Guild were the bad guys and I believed you. But now I’m embedded, and I have to say, Hannelore is charming, and the Favorites seem harmless. I’ve been there for well over a year now, and aside from their belligerent secrecy about the talent, I’ve found next to nothing to hold against them. I’m not so sure anymore that I want to give up my life to your fight.”

  Dar spoke softly. “My fight? You think I’m some sort of crazy crank? This isn’t my fight. It’s the mission of the Ofan, has been and always will be. Just because the Ofan are at low ebb doesn’t mean we don’t have a job to do. Are you telling me you’re a turncoat?”

  Bertrand fiddled with the saltcellar, his brow furrowed. “No. I know that the Guild’s glitter and shine is a distraction and that their business is dispossession. I’m with you, politically. But . . . I’m in love.” He managed the trick, and the saltcellar stood on its edge, a tiny miracle.

  Hell’s bells, ringing in the daytime. Love? Dar didn’t believe it, didn’t believe Bertrand could really be this serious about a woman, not yet, but he also knew that there was no talking a man as young as Bertrand out of an infatuation. “With whom have you fallen in love?”

  “A girl.”

  “Ofan? Or a Natural? Jesus, Bertrand, don’t tell me you’ve fallen in love with a Guild girl. I didn’t even think there were Guild girls. I thought all the other Favorites were at least forty.”

  Bertrand smiled. “Yes, she’s Guild. I didn’t tell you about her because . . . because I wanted something to myself. She is the most beautiful—”

  Dar cut him off. He didn’t want to hear one single word more. “When I worked so hard to embed you in the Guild, I didn’t mean that you should actually bed a Guild doxy. You’re in love and so you’re going to count the world well lost, is that it? This isn’t a game, Arthur.” He used Bertrand’s secret name, the one no one knew but Dar.

  “Don’t call me that.”

  Dar leaned back, letting his lip curl. “You sure as hell aren’t worthy of that name anymore. You’ve become a petty pen pusher for the Guild. Not only that, but you like it. And you’re hiding that fact behind a woman. You’re a coward.”

  The young man flushed. “Go fuck yourself.”

  “Now you’re sounding like me, sonny.” Dar laughed bitterly. “They won’t let you talk like that in the Guild. No swear words and they’ll weed all the Ofan anachronisms out of you. Time must flow in its allotted course, blah blah blah.”

  “Just shut the hell up!”

  Riding out on a horse in a star-spangled rodeo . . .

  The song unwound through the smoky pub. Dar wasn’t a patient man, and he didn’t suffer fools gladly, especially not fools in love, especially not traitorous fools. But this fool was Bertrand, whom he’d raised almost from an egg. He’d taught him everything about those uptight bastards in the Guild, taught him to hate them and their smug, self-satisfied, pseudo-aristocratic posturing. He’d introduced him to the rollicking brotherhood of the Ofan. He’d dragged him up and down the River, showing him the highs and lows—all right, mostly the lows—of human behavior. He’d taught the little shit how to be a man. And now he’d helped him infiltrate the Guild, where he might actually do something worthy of his namesake, something historic.

  And instead, there he sat, pissed off as only a self-righteous twenty-year-old can be. In love, as ditto. All ready to forget the Ofan, forget the joy of free travel on the River. Plain old Bertrand Penture, family man. A cog in the wheel of the Guild. Upholding right and might for the sake of what?

  With a subway token and a dollar tucked inside my shoe . . .

  Bertrand even had that glow, goddammit, that lovelorn light in his weird green eyes. The two of them were dressed to blend in, in 1975, in a seedy Peckham pub. Blow-dried hair and wide-lapelled polyester shirts. Bertrand’s shirt was printed all over with castles. It was the ugliest thing Dar had ever seen, but Bertrand still managed to look like a prince out of a fairy tale, fired with the noble spirit of chivalric, smarmy-assed true love.

  It made Dar want to spit.

  So he did spit, onto the floor.

  “Must you?” Bertrand made a face.

  “That’s torn it.” Dar pushed his chair back and got to his feet. “You’re going to throw it all away, throw the Ofan under the bus, throw me under a double-decker bus. It’s always the same. It’s always a woman.” He crooked a finger under the collar of the brown leather jacket he’d slung over the back of his chair, and glanced down at Bertrand as he shrugged himself into it. “Good-bye, kid.”

  “Wait,” Bertrand said. “Just sit the fuck down, OK? I know you feel let down by me, but I need your help.”

  “I don’t owe you a single thing.”

  Bertrand’s face shifted, from boy to man, from soft to almost cruel in its autocratic beauty. He placed his hands on either side of the balanced saltcellar and half-raised himself. “Sit down, Lord Dar.”

  Dar narrowed his eyes. “Oh, so that’s the game we’re playing? Do you want me to kiss your hand?”

  “Sit.”

 
He found himself back in his chair. But he let his long legs sprawl under the table. “Five minutes,” he said.

  Bertrand’s face softened back into its familiar planes. “Fine.”

  “And I shall spit whenever I like.”

  “Yes, yes, just listen.”

  “I’m listening, dammit. I said I’d listen and I’m listening.”

  Bertrand touched the saltcellar with the lightest brush of his fingertip and watched it drop back onto its base. “I’m not joining the Guild, so you can cool down about that. I haven’t abandoned the Ofan. Still—I can’t go through with the double-agent plan. Hannelore knows there’s an Ofan spy in the Guild.”

  Dar heard the words, but the meaning didn’t hit him for a few heartbeats. Then, when it did, he felt the bottom drop out of all his plans. “She knows? You haven’t even done anything yet.”

  “I have no idea why she suspects. But here’s the thing. She doesn’t think it’s me.”

  And the bottom rebuilt itself. Dar drew in a deep breath, nodding. “All right, all right, that’s not so bad. She doesn’t think it’s you.” He grinned. “Actually that’s fine news. The old bat is finally losing her edge. We’re in like good old Errol Flynn! Let her chase after this spy, meanwhile you’re digging ever deeper into her affections. Who does she think it is?”

  “Alva.”

  “Who’s that?”

  But Dar knew the answer immediately, just by looking at Bertrand’s face.

  “Why does Hannelore think your little dolly-mop is a big bad Ofan spy?”

  “I have no idea. And she’s not a dolly-mop, Dar. She’s intelligent and beautiful and—”

  “Yes, yes, I know. She’s Aprho-fucking-dite. Just tell me why Hannelore’s on the wrong scent.”

  “She called me into her parlor this morning. She sat me down and said she was sorry to have to tell me this, but that she thinks Alva is Ofan. She instructed me to keep an eye on her and find the proof of it.”

  Dar raised his eyebrows. “I wonder what the girl did to raise Hannelore’s suspicions.”

  “Hannelore is obsessed with disloyalty. But still, it’s very strange. Alva is the biggest cheerleader for the Guild. She loves it. She owes everything to them, and Hannelore shows her incredible favor.”

  Dar sucked in his cheeks. “She’s dedicated, you say. True blue Guild. But if Hannelore thinks Alva is a spy . . .”

  “She’ll kill her,” Bertrand said.

  Dar let out a long sigh. “You’re not wrong there. Lord knows there have been plenty of other Favorites who have disappeared.”

  “That’s why I need your help. I need to cut it off with the Ofan and marry Alva. If the two of us could dedicate ourselves to the Guild, live on the straight and narrow, maybe it would all be all right. You can always find another spy if you’re intent on sticking to your crazy plans. I’m in love, really and truly, and you can’t ask me to give that up.”

  The song on the jukebox faded out. All the men leaning on the bar were quiet, sucking on their cigarettes or staring into their beers. The only sound came from the traffic in the street outside. Then the door opened and the string of bells jingled, and someone stood up and went over and put a coin in the only one-armed bandit that didn’t have a BROKEN sign on it, and the moment passed.

  “Marriage isn’t the answer,” Dar said. “If Hannelore suspects your girlfriend, that’s it. She’ll never trust her again. That ship has already sailed. Marriage to you isn’t going to change that. In fact, it will make Hannelore suspect you, too.”

  “But I want to marry her.”

  Those clear, pale eyes. Bertrand looked happier than Dar had ever seen him. “You’re an idiot,” Dar said, but there was affection in his voice.

  “It’s all politics with you, isn’t it?”

  Dar levered himself up again. “Someday you’ll realize it’s all politics with everyone.”

  Bertrand drew a line through the salt on the table with his finger. “You wouldn’t know,” he said. “Your heart is—”

  “Moldy with disuse? Yes, yes it is. But take courage, Prince Valiant. It sounds to me like we have a little while. Hannelore’s testing you by having you spy on Alva. You’ll continue to do just that, and I’ll think of a way to save your girlfriend. How’s that for generosity?”

  Bertrand smiled. “Thank you.”

  “There’s only one thing I want in return.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Your word, Arthur. When you do decide to betray the Ofan, I want you to come to me and formally dissolve your connection. Until then, I shall trust that you are still embedded in the Guild on Ofan work. I don’t want to doubt you or distrust you until you come to me and tell me to my face.”

  Bertrand stood, his hand folded into a fist on the table. A ring set with a purple stone glinted on his finger. “Did I not bring my doubts to you today, and ask your counsel?”

  Dar bowed. “That you did, like a man.”

  “Then, so long as you understand that I have never once broken my word to you or to the Ofan, I swear.”

  Dar glanced around the bar, but no one seemed to have noticed their slip back into antique behaviors. He turned and walked toward the door. “Keep doing what you’ve been doing,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll take care of the girl.”

  Bertrand called after him. “You’ll see when you meet her. She’s perfect. I know you’ll think so!”

  But Dar was already gone, out of the pub and out of the twentieth century.

  He had a plan for that Guild girl, and Bertrand wasn’t going to like it.

  • • •

  The card was on the tray beside her morning cup of hot chocolate. Alva picked it up and peered at the engraving that took up most of the surface. A naked angel standing over the sphere of the Earth, his long, white beard flowing down over his chest and covering his groin, his wings tattered. In one hand he held a scythe, and in the other, an hourglass. Beneath the image, in flowing letters with much scrolling, a name and address: Ignatz Vogelstein, At The Sign of the Angel, Over-Against Middle Row, Holborn, London. Then at the very bottom, in bold, unadorned lettering: TIME TUTOR.

  She was about to reach out and pull the bell rope to ask Susan, her maid, about the card, when something compelled her to turn it over. Scrawled across the back, in blood-red ink, two lines of verse:

  Do not run and tell your Mother

  Come to the Angel under Cover

  She raised her eyebrows. Then—because red ink was often scented with rose—she raised the card to her nose and sniffed. And sniffed again. The ink had a sweet smell, yes, but it was spicy. She searched her memory: cardamom.

  She committed the address to memory, swung her legs from her bed, walked over to the fire, and tossed the card onto the coals. She watched as the paper darkened and then burst into flames.

  • • •

  Three days, and the wretched girl still hadn’t taken the bait. Dar sat hour after hour in the dark storefront he’d rented, dressed in rusty old clothes, with a bothersome horsehair wig on his head and spectacles teetering on his nose. He toasted his toes by the fire, trying not to dream of jumping to an era that had central heating. At least there was brandy. He poured himself another couple of fingers.

  Maybe she wasn’t coming. Maybe she’d told Hannelore, or Bertrand, about the card he’d sent. But he’d seen Bertrand over dinner last night—in the eighteenth century this time—and he hadn’t said a word about it. Dar had spent the first few courses listening to Bertrand’s conviction that sending the girl endless mimsy-pimsy love notes was the way to win her heart. “No woman worth wanting wants to be wanted that relentlessly,” Dar had finally said. But Bertrand hadn’t been interested in pearls of jaded wisdom. He’d retorted that it was quite obvious that Dar did not know the difference between taking a woman to bed and taking her into his heart. “That, my
friend, is the only true word you have spoken this evening.” Dar had raised his glass. “May it ever be so!” Bertrand had refused to raise his glass in return, and the dinner ended on a sour note.

  Just as well, Dar thought, staring at the door that never opened, never proffered his prey. Let Bertrand get used to not liking him.

  In the normal course of things, Dar taught the essentials of time travel to newly hatched Ofan simply by being, himself, a passionate believer in knowledge for knowledge’s sake. A fiery-eyed hater of the Guild and their obfuscations of the talent. An eloquent discourser on the shoals and shallows, the currents and eddies of the River of Time. A damn good teacher, plain and simple.

  But today’s tutorial wouldn’t be in the service of training Ofan. Today’s tutorial was a trap. Dar knew the weakness in the life that the Guild offered. Hannelore wasn’t teaching her Favorites to jump in time, and that was her big mistake. She plied them with jewels and parties and her own endless wit, but he could give them what they all really wanted, whether they admitted it or not: knowledge. The power to use and understand their talent. The ability to travel through time. It was too intoxicating a desire to quash forever. How could you sever that part of yourself—that most amazing part—and sell it for a poxy life of locked-away partying? Dar could show them the world. And if he could get this particularly troublesome young lady to take his arm, trustingly, in the belief that she was about to learn what Hannelore wouldn’t teach her, then he could whisk her away to somewhere and sometime that the Guild didn’t care about. Marrakesh in the sixteenth century. Saxony at any time. Settle her in, maybe find her a man . . . then leave her there, without teaching her how to get back. In comfort, of course. But safely out of Bertrand Penture’s lovelorn reach.

  How long was the confounded girl going to take?

  She came at sundown. Dar had just gotten to his feet and gone behind the counter to get more candles, when the shop door finally opened and a cloaked figure entered. She stepped forward, pushing her hood back with one hand. “Ignatz Vogelstein? I believe you sent me an invitation.”

  It was dark in the shop but he could tell that the girl was very pretty. Her eyes were enormous, and in the shadows they looked as if they might actually be purple, which was surely impossible. He couldn’t tell how old she was, but it was some variation on young. He sighed, and prepared himself to be bored. Time to begin his performance.