The Chronicles of the Tempus

by K. A. S. Quinn

  K. A. S. Quinn was born and raised in California and studied History and English at Vassar. For ten years she was the publisher of the Spectator. She has written for The Times, the Telegraph, the Independent and the Wall Street Journal, as well as appearing on Any Questions, A Good Read, Famous Lives and Broadcasting House for the BBC. An enthusiast of the Victorians, she enjoys speaking at schools on this topic, and the trials and joys of writing. She and her husband live in London with their two boys.

  Also by K. A. S. Quinn

  The Queen Must Die

  The Queen at War

  The Queen Alone

  Published in e-book in Great Britain in 2014 by Corvus,

  an imprint of Atlantic Books.

  Copyright © K. A. S. Quinn, 2010, 2013, 2014

  The moral right of K. A. S. Quinn to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  These novels are entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in them are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  E-book ISBN: 978 1 78239 723 6

  Printed in Great Britain.

  Corvus

  An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

  Ormond House

  26–27 Boswell Street

  London

  WC1N 3JZ

  www.corvus-books.co.uk

  Contents

  The Queen Must Die

  The Queen at War

  The Queen Alone

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue: The Visions

  Chapter One: Under the Bed

  Chapter Two: Who Are You?

  Chapter Three: Bernardo DuQuelle

  Chapter Four: The Cloaked Intruders

  Chapter Five: Prince Albert

  Chapter Six: MacKenzie’s Cupboard

  Chapter Seven: The Crystal Palace

  Chapter Eight: Amongst the Girders

  Chapter Nine: Lucia and Belzen

  Chapter Ten: The Three Time Travellers

  Chapter Eleven: The Cricket Match

  Chapter Twelve: What’s To Be Done?

  Chapter Thirteen: To Open Time

  Chapter Fourteen: The Queen Must Die

  Chapter Fifteen: God Save the Queen

  Chapter Sixteen: Half Moon Street

  Chapter Seventeen: The Verus and the Malum

  Chapter Eighteen: Katie Finds Her Voice

  To Stephen, William and Lorcan Quinn

  Prologue

  The Visions

  Was she going insane? The visions were appearing with greater clarity and ever more frequency. Just yesterday, Katie had turned the corner to find a tall man in a black silk top hat. He seemed to be searching for someone amid the chaos of the 86th Street subway station. He was deathly pale, with creased, almost dusty skin – his pallor emphasized by his strange close-fitting black garments. The only colour about him was his eyes. They glittered green in the sun as he reeled around and strode towards Katie, raising his walking stick as if to strike her. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Instead, the word ‘SEEK’ formed in the air before him, floating above his head like the message of a sky-writer. And then he was gone – disappearing through the steam of the subway.

  He wasn’t the first. There was the girl with the grey eyes and serious face. Katie had thought she might just be some new neighbour. But then Katie had noticed the long starched skirts, the high, buttoned leather boots and the ridiculous fur muff. She too spoke in these silent smoke signals. ‘I will serve,’ she declared, looking so kind and grave that Katie longed to hear her voice. Afterwards came a series of children. The one in rags, the tiny urchin girl, so pretty and so timid – ‘I will sacrifice’ hung over her like a pall. Such a frightened child, but Katie could never quite reach her. And then there was the small smug boy in velvet shorts and a ruffled shirt. Katie recoiled from his message: ‘I will slay.’ These children, these visions, whatever they were, they weren’t just in the wrong neighbourhood; they seemed to be in the wrong time. They had something to say, but Katie didn’t know what, or why. She tried to shake it off, shrug her shoulders and ignore it all, the way New Yorkers blank the freaks and weirdos of life. But today’s episode had changed everything.

  Walking home from school, she’d come face to face with a small plump woman in fancy dress – pink satin swept off the shoulders with six inches of silver lace and an abundance of diamonds. The little lady’s pigeon eyes twinkled with pleasure as she talked and laughed with someone directly behind Katie. But when Katie turned around all she could see was a businessman talking on a cellphone. ‘Not another vision,’ Katie thought, her stomach lurching upwards. ‘There must be a rational explanation for this. Was it performance art? A carnival? A commercial?’ Katie scanned the streets for a camera.

  Suddenly the little woman’s eyes bulged. Her mouth opened in a silent scream as she backed away and slid down the side of the building. Katie ran towards her, and then took a step back. A bright crimson stain was spreading over the bodice of the small woman’s pink dress. The woman held her arms out, as if pleading for aid, and then her eyes rolled back in her head. She slumped; lifeless in a heap of satin and blood. ‘Help,’ Katie cried, ‘help!’ The passers-by looked briefly at Katie and, deciding she was just another crazy person in the street, turned away. They kept walking, talking, drinking coffee out of paper cups and looking at their watches. One man, reading the newspaper, actually stepped through the woman and the growing pool of blood. And then the woman was gone, the sidewalk clean where there had been gore. Katie’s legs buckled, she’d have to sit down – right there on the sidewalk. She wiped her forehead. This habit of seeing things. This was not good. She’d have to tell someone, but who?

  Chapter One

  Under the Bed

  It was filthy, sitting in the gutter, and the old Greek guy in the shoe repair shop was giving Katie suspicious looks. She got up and wiped the muck from the skirt of her school uniform. If Katie had been part of a normal family, she’d have rushed home to tell her parents. But Katie’s family wasn’t normal. Could she really tell her mother Mimi? Katie doubted it. Mimi was far too busy with her latest boyfriend to care about her daughter’s visions.

  Katie Berger-Jones-Burg’s mother liked to get married. Katie had accustomed herself to this. It only really got to her on the first day of school. Calling attendance, the teacher ploughed through Alcott, Allen, Applebaum, Bayle… The class held their breath as the teacher paused, trying to string Katie’s names together in the correct order. In year two Miss Grant had got it spectacularly wrong and christened her ‘Boogerberg’. It had stuck for years. ‘Why doesn’t Mimi just live with them?’ Katie wondered. ‘Why do they all have to marry her? And adopt me?’ It had to do with morals, family values, Mimi had explained. And then she’d wept, embraced Katie tenderly, exclaiming at the great wonder of having a daughter, more like a sister, that she could always talk to. ‘Yeah, talk about yourself,’ Katie thought. But in her role as listener and number one fan, it wasn’t part of her job to actually say anything.

  Katie’s mother had once been quite famous as a member of an all-girl pop group – Youth ’n Asia. They�
��d worn long black Chinese braids down their backs, and no one over the age of twenty was allowed into their concerts. Mimi was used to being the centre of attention and wasn’t about to give up this position. Katie thought about the meal Mimi would make of the visions: the visits to new age ‘doctors’, the consultations with therapists, the interview with the Pop Times. Perhaps most frustrating of all, it would stop being Katie’s problem and start being Mimi’s problem. Katie could just hear Mimi wailing away to some glossy magazine. ‘Had she failed Katie as a mother? As a friend? Perhaps the visions were visions of Mimi, in her different roles in Katie’s life?’

  ‘No,’ Katie sighed. ‘I just can’t bear the Mimi factor in this. I’ll talk to Dad next time I see him.’

  Dad was the ‘Berger’ in ‘Berger-Jones-Burg’. Danny Berger had been her mother’s high school sweetheart. ‘We married young, very young,’ said Mimi, showing Katie a photograph of the two of them at a rock festival: Danny staring adoringly at Mimi, while Mimi stared adoringly at the camera. Katie thought her mother looked about the same – a bit thinner now and a lot less happy, but about the same – blonde hair, white toothy smile, turned-up nose. But the Danny Berger of Katie’s childhood looked nothing like the one in the photograph. The humorously thin young man with curly black hair had put on weight and lost his hair. He now looked old enough to be – not just Katie’s father, but Mimi’s father as well. ‘It’s because of the huge amount of money I have to pay to keep you in your posh private school,’ he griped. Katie sighed again. Now that Dad was remarried and had a new young family, he was tired all the time. Cranky, too. She’d have to keep the visions to herself for now.

  The Greek guy in the shoe repair shop was now tapping on his window, so Katie moved on towards home. Mimi liked to keep her busy, as this kept Katie out of her way, but for once Katie didn’t have ballet lessons, tennis lessons, yoga or t’ai chi. She ducked under the awning of her apartment building, nodded to the doorman and punched the elevator button for the eleventh floor. As she turned the key in the lock, the sound of a Spanish soap opera greeted her, loudly. Mimi couldn’t possibly be home, if Dolores had the sound up that high. ‘Hey, Dolores,’ she called to their long-time housekeeper ‘Qué pasa? No Mimi?’ Dolores had set the ironing board up in the kitchen. In front of her was a small television, making big amounts of noise. On the screen was a young woman with a serious hairdo and lots of eye shadow. She was crying and screaming as two solid, expressionless policemen led her away. ‘What’s the crime?’ Katie asked. ‘Did she rob a bank? Or murder her boyfriend?’

  ‘This show is not for you,’ Dolores said, without taking her eyes off the screen. ‘It’s for grown-up people who know about these things. And don’t go saying “hey” to me. Hay is for horses. Mimi says you’re way too slangy.’

  Katie looked in the refrigerator: macrobiotic crackers, Swedish seagrass yogurt, freeze-dried salt cod, and a jar of Mimi’s face cream. Turning from the fridge, she rummaged through Dolores’s handbag and found a Snickers bar.

  ‘Mimi’s not here,’ Dolores added.

  ‘That’s obvious,’ said Katie, ‘we’re both having way too much fun. So where is she?’

  ‘Well, baby,’ Dolores said. This was not a good sign. Dolores only called Katie ‘baby’ when she felt sorry for her. ‘Mimi’s gone.’

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘To Acapulco. You know that therapist she’s been seeing, Dr Fishberg? You know how she’s been saying, at last here’s a man who understands her? Well they seem to have become real good friends, and…’

  Suddenly the Snickers bar didn’t taste that great. ‘Oh Dolores, she can’t run off to Acapulco and get married again!’ Then something even worse dawned on her. Katie Berger-Jones-Burg-Fishberg. Picking up her rucksack of books she fled to her bedroom. This one she could never live down.

  Katie’s room looked nothing like Katie. While Katie was tall and awkward with her father’s bushy black curls, this was a room designed for a very different child: a small, delicate golden-haired child – the child of Mimi’s imagination. ‘Think pink!’ had been Mimi’s motto when briefing the decorator. The carpet, the lampshades, the curtains, the cushions spanned the hues from candy-floss pink to sunset rose – or, as Katie saw it, from pale vomit to inflamed sunburn. Katie could have lived with it, except for the wallpaper. Hundreds, but hundreds of whimsical fairies fluttered across Katie’s walls. These fairies were very busy indeed: waving their little sparkling wands, hovering over large (pink) flower blossoms, standing on tippy-toe and giving each other big wet kisses. Katie had spent endless hours, throwing a baseball against the wall, attempting to knock out the fairies one by one. While many of them sported a black eye or a broken wing, Katie had barely made a dent in their sweet little world. She looked at the carpet. It might be pink, but at least it didn’t have a bunch of fairies kissing on it.

  ‘Now, this Dr Fishberg,’ Dolores was yelling from the kitchen, ‘he doesn’t seem half bad. At least he’s not that yoga instructor she was mooning over last year. Breathing. All he ever talked about was breathing. As if we didn’t know how to breathe. We wouldn’t be alive if we didn’t know how to breathe.’

  Dolores was right. Mimi’s men were as wide-ranging and temporary as the rest of Mimi’s enthusiasms. There had been the tennis pro, the enema expert, the guy with the flotation tank and then the professor upstairs – the one who went on and on about parallel being and the temporal psyche of history. But still – Fishberg!

  Katie crawled under her bed, massively high, with a canopy, netting and the inevitable pink ribbons. Katie thought it was almost as bad as the fairies, but what was underneath her bed made everything else in the room – and her life – bearable. Because of its height, there was lots of room underneath. She called it ‘The Library’ and it was the only place in the whole apartment she could call her own. Mimi knew nothing about it, and Dolores left it alone – she wasn’t much interested in cleaning, aside from ironing in front of the television. The Library consisted, along with a great many dustballs, of a Peter Rabbit lamp left over from Katie’s baby nursery, a flashlight (just in case), her diary, a cardboard box filled with her treasures, a pillow and a crochet blanket from her grandmother – now dead. And, of course, the books – it couldn’t be a library without books. There were stacks and stacks of them, lining three sides of the bed. It was getting pretty cramped down there, but Katie couldn’t bear to part with even one of them.

  Katie’s books were carefully organized: fiction, nonfiction, topic, author – and then that special category, importance to Katie. She didn’t share this interest with any of her friends. Dolores was told as little as possible. Mimi didn’t ask. Weak as her social antennae might be, Katie knew her book obsession was about as riveting to others as those boys at school who could tell you the exact subway route to get anywhere – yes, anywhere – in New York City. This was not the hobby of a popular girl.

  And it got worse. It didn’t really matter what the books were about: Catcher in the Rye, The History of the Bee, Harry Potter, The Essays of Emerson, The Life of Jim Morrison, The Letters of Queen Victoria, Putt Your Way to Golf Perfection. Katie would read anything. ‘Why?’ her father had once asked her, years ago. ‘Reading’s a great thing, Katie-kid, but why so many books?’

  Katie struggled to explain. ‘It’s like, like a trip away,’ she said slowly. ‘It’s like I’m really going someplace, I’m flying in my head, a journey, just me, my own mind. It belongs to me – I make it happen. And I get to make new friends – not just the people in the book, but the person who writes the book too, and the story, and…’ And then the phone rang. Her father left the room. When he returned, he’d forgotten what they were talking about.

  Despite the books under the bed, Katie wasn’t really that much of a student. Her interests and that of her school just weren’t the same. The Neuman Hubris Progressive School was modern and cutting edge, with a vegetarian, anti-toxin cafeteria and interpretive dance during recess. They didn’t do a l
ot of books. Mostly it was internet stuff – downloading, Googling. When they did get assigned an old bulky, tree-destroying book, it had to contain some very current message. Neuman Hubris was all about the here and now. Dusty classics? Faded history? Face it – that was the past. Racist, sexist, Imperialist drivel. She pulled her satchel underneath the bed and took out her assigned reading. There on the cover was little Mashaka. His village had no water and he had to walk seven miles, barefoot, to school. Inadequacy flooded through Katie. How selfish was she? Here she was, with everything in the world she could possibly want, and she couldn’t even take the time to read about little Mashaka. Katie was not an uncaring person, and Mimi had drilled charity into her. She brought tinned goods to school on ‘Stop Poverty Now’ day. Her discarded toys and clothes went to charity shops. Mimi had once made an appeal on television with Youth ’n Asia:

  Hold ’em

  Feed ’em

  Show ’em that you need ’em

  You gotta adore

  the poor…

  Mimi had sung, tears welling in her luminous blue eyes. Katie hadn’t known whether to laugh or cry. She wanted to stop poverty too; she just didn’t see stopping poverty as a leisure activity.

  She put the book back in her rucksack. Mashaka would probably get water and a ride to school by the end of the book. (Katie’s teachers were all for edgy realism, as long as it had a happy ending.) Instead she took out her own diary. Katie had been reporting on her life since she could string a sentence together in wobbly capital letters. There were half a dozen volumes of ‘The Life of Katie Berger-Jones-Burg’ under the bed already – dog-eared notebooks filled with the victories, defeats, joys and sorrows that made up her fairly average life. She flipped back several months, just as a kind of monitor to see how things had been going.