ceremoniously placed the paper-wrapped bundle on the desk before his host. “I am happy to pass this to your care.”
Thomas made no move to pick it up, but sat with his hands folded before him, regarding it quizzically. “Do you know what is inside the wrapping?”
“No, sir, I do not,” replied Kit. “I was not told. Do you?”
“In part.” Thomas raised his eyes to Kit and then returned to his survey of the parcel. “If it is what I think it is…”
Kit waited. The archaeologist neither altered his gaze nor made any move to pick up the packet. He simply sat staring at the string-bound square.
“Dr. Young?” said Kit after a moment. “Is anything the matter?”
“If this is what has been promised, history will change.” He raised his eyes once more, his round glasses glinting in the soft light of the tent. “You know that, do you not? The world will change.”
“Right.” Kit nodded. He could wait a little longer for that.
Outside, the braying of a donkey echoed across the ruins. As if in response to the sound, the doctor drew a sharp intake of breath and pulled the package closer. He lifted it, diffidently balanced between his hands-the very picture of a man trying to delay an action he might well regret. Kit could sympathise. Who could guess what Wilhelmina had put in that parcel?
“The thing must be done, I suppose,” Thomas said and, with trembling fingers, untied the string and peeled open the paper wrapping to reveal a curious assortment of objects: an old shilling coin, a letter, a newspaper clipping, and several printed pages that appeared to have been torn from a book-more or less what might be found in the average scrapbook-nothing that appeared likely to be of much importance, let alone world-shattering consequence.
Kit watched as his host examined the coin, then put it aside and lifted the letter, scrutinising it front and back. The letter was in Mina’s hand and addressed to Christopher “Kit” Livingstone in the care of Dr. Thomas Young. The white envelope was sealed and stamped, but the stamp had not been cancelled. Thomas placed the letter before him on the desk. “This alone would have been enough,” he murmured.
“Sir?” wondered Kit.
“See here,” Thomas said, pointing to the stamp-a simple black postage stamp with an engraved silhouette of a young Queen Victoria with the words one penny beneath-a fairly unremarkable example, to Kit’s eye.
“The stamp, yes?”
“This stamp as you call it”-Thomas touched it lightly with a fingertip-“has never been seen before-at least not by me.”
“May I?” said Kit, picking up the letter. “I see the letter is addressed to me.”
“By all means,” said the doctor. “You must open it at once.”
Kit slid his finger under the flap and drew out a single piece of plain white paper that read: Kit-If you are reading this, you have met Dr. Thomas Young-the last man in the world who knows everything. Trust him with your life. Ever yours, Mina. And that was all.
Thomas, in the meantime, had picked up the coin and now held it between his thumb and forefinger, turning it over and over with a look of bewilderment on his face-an expression Kit guessed was highly unusual for the man. He passed the shilling piece to Kit for examination. The silver coin bore the profile of Victoria on one side and, on the other, a crown with the simple words one shilling beneath. Below Victoria’s disembodied head was the date: 1835.
“Have you ever seen the like?” asked Thomas.
“Yes, I have,” replied Kit, handing back the shilling. “Many times.”
The English gentleman simply nodded and laid the coin beside the letter. He picked up the newspaper clipping, glanced at it, and then looked at Kit. “Have you ever been to Kew Gardens?” he asked.
“Once or twice,” replied Kit. “It is a well-known attraction. People go there for picnics and a pleasant day out.”
The doctor set aside the clipping and, placing his hands flat on the printed pages torn from the book, he said, “This, I believe, will be the ultimate test.”
Kit could not think how to respond to this, so remained silent.
“Unless I am very much mistaken, our mutual friend will have provided me with undeniable proof that what she has claimed, outrageous though it seems, is in fact the naked truth.”
He then lifted the pages and, with a slightly trembling hand, offered them to Kit. “Would you read it to me, please?”
Taking the loose sheets, Kit scanned the top one quickly on both sides. It was merely the title page-torn hastily from the spine, it would seem, judging from the ragged edge; the reverse contained part of an acknowledgement by the author. “You want me to read this?”
“Please,” replied Thomas Young, removing his glasses and closing his eyes.
Kit cleared his throat and began: “A Course of Lectures on Natural Philosophy and the Mechanical Arts, by Thomas Young, MD. A new edition with references and notes by the Rev. P. Kelland, MA, FRS. London and Edinburgh. Printed for Taylor and Walton, Upper Gower Street. 1845.”
Kit glanced up at his audience. Young was sitting very still, his eyes closed. Kit turned the page over and continued reading: “Having undertaken to prepare a course of lectures on natural philosophy to be delivered in the theatre of the Royal Institution, I thought that the plan of the institution required something more than a mere compilation from the elementary works at present existing, and that it was my duty to digest into one system everything relating to the principles of the mechanical sciences that could tend to the improvement of the arts subservient to the conveniences of life.”
He paused for breath and waited. In a moment Thomas nodded, and Kit resumed: “I found also, in delivering the lectures, that it was most eligible to commit to writing, as nearly as possible, the whole that was required to be said on each subject, and that even when an experiment was to be performed it was best to describe that experiment uninterruptedly and to repeat the explanation during its exhibition. Hence it became necessary that the written lectures should be as clearly and copiously expressed and in a language as much adapted to the comprehension of a mixed audience as the nature of the investigations would allow…”
The doctor gave out a groan, and Kit broke off. Thomas Young sat still as a sphinx, eyes closed, outwardly composed. The only sign of an internal struggle was to be seen in his hands, which were clasped so tightly together the knuckles were white.
“Would you like me to continue?” asked Kit, his voice breaking into the intense reverie of the man behind the desk. “Is everything all right?”
“No,” breathed the physician. “Nothing is right.” He opened his eyes and looked at Kit with an expression of wonder and despair. “It is from a book- my book. That is what your Wilhelmina has brought me as proof of her assertions.”
“Yes, so I gather, but-”
“That is the trouble.” Thomas stretched a finger towards the page in Kit’s hand and gestured mutely at it as if at the certificate of his own death. “This book is not yet published. In fact, it is not even finished.”
Kit could imagine how that might be a problem. “Oh,” he said, trying to sound sympathetic. “I see.”
Thomas’ glance became sharp. “Do you?” he demanded. “I submit that you do not see the half, sir! This-” He snatched the page from Kit’s grasp. “This scrap of paper comes to me from another world and a future not my own, a world where all I have thought and done is already past-where I am dead and buried and the things I see before me, now worn with age, are yet to be.” The doctor shook his head again. “Do you see it yet? Time is out of joint, and reality merely a delusion. All I have believed about the world is a mirage, a chimera, a fantasy. My work, my science… worthless. How,” he asked, his voice falling to a lament, “how am I to live in light of that?”
PART THREE
Coming Forth by Day
