The sun beat down on his unkempt silver hair, and he had to shade his eyes with a fixed salute. She knelt at his side in the middle of the street and handed him her pith helmet.
“Thank you.” He pointed to his toolbox. “Would you hand me a five-eighths spanner from the rack?”
She did so. But the labyrinthine design of his Harrison clock didn’t make a lick of sense to her. Every tiny cog and shaft from its brass innards was spread on the blanket before them. Nothing individually, these were nonetheless the components of a bona fide miracle.
A miracle. But what had Reardon really tapped into with time travel? The mysterious spider’s web was beyond science, Miss Polperro had said, beyond even the professor’s understanding. Was there actually a divine force at work here, or was Briory’s godless theory correct and the temporal explosion had simply misfired somehow, copying that web pattern in its most efficient geometric form-perfection?
Either explanation opened a can of worms. If it was divine, why hadn’t God intervened further and saved dozens of lives? Why leave only a cryptic clue of His presence? And why had He guided them to the Cretaceous? More questions than answers.
If this was all a trick of science, what undiscovered forces had conspired to deliberately reshape the web that way? Nothing infinitesimally perfect could be an accident. Even she knew that. So why couldn’t she subscribe to Miss Polperro’s doom-mongering? The machine was dangerous, not just to the camp but to space and time itself. Should she ban Reardon from using it again, or, as someone else had suggested, destroy the infernal thing once and for all?
While kneeling beside him, watching him reassemble complex mirror arrays and energy conductors as though he were piecing together a jigsaw already complete in his mind, she began to see the conundrum from Reardon’s point of view.
If one can travel through time, fate needn’t be absolute.
An illicit spark blazed through the fog of her memory and, for one breathless moment, Bernie was alive and well somewhere in the world…in 1908. By dint of Verity’s temporal intervention, Bernie could avoid the fire in Benguela and live on to a ripe old age. Fate be damned! The idea left her shivery, excited and craving more…
I could bring Amyn back, as well! My beautiful fiance…have our wedding after all. And then Captain Naismith. I could bring them all to England, keep them out of harm’s way. By God, Reardon’s right! To not try would be the real folly.
“Professor, I think I’ve made my decision.” She sat up straight.
He grunted in reply, without looking up.
Verity went on excitedly, “If you can get a handle on navigating through time, sir. If you manage to solve this great puzzle of when-and-why, I am with you. These iniquities in fate’s design deserve to be undone. To hell with the consequences! Our first duty is to those we love, to safeguard their lives against all malign forces, even death. The way I see it, God has allowed you to invent this great unraveller. Ergo, the laws of fate are not sacrosanct. I’d say using it for love is more than justifiable.”
“Indeed.” He snatched a glimpse of her while wiping his brow, then resumed his work. “Everything within our power. We’ll never be complete if we don’t try. Let God stop it if He must.” Reardon sounded like he was reciting a mantra. “I’m glad you’re seeing it my way, Verity. If only the others had your vision.”
Not likely. The crescent line of chairs in the middle of the road, where Parliament Street intersected Bridge Street, was almost empty. Polperro’s posse was not enjoying the sunshine this afternoon. A group of six or seven men in shirtsleeves was busy extracting useable furniture and perishables from the northernmost damaged houses before the structures collapsed altogether. Miss Polperro had summoned her top minions-as Embrey called them- including Carswell, Delaney and four of her Leviacrum retinue for an animated powwow in the shade of the gentlemen’s club. The discussion could very well be harmless and confined to the day-to-day running of the camp, but Verity didn’t like the constant glances in her direction or the schoolmarm’s angry finger-wagging at her colleagues.
Thank God Djimon and the others are here.
Her aeronauts were playing cards on the sun-baked kerb. In the centre of them, Embrey appeared out of place in his white vest and expensive trousers. His blond hair seemed to bleach more with each afternoon. Soon he would look almost albino. A dashing, infuriating, prehistoric albino…who blew at gin rummy.
“Why don’t you take a walk with him? It would serve our cause immensely if you two could cease hostilities.” Reardon’s impertinence poured out so matter-of-factly, she almost called to Embrey there and then. “Come now,” he said, “you cannot play counterparts forever. Sooner or later, clockwork requires each piece to accept its nature or break. Hearts are no different.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Pass me that glass polisher?” The professor winked and then whistled a tune to himself.
The downright cheek. If only to escape his weirdness, Verity snatched her helmet from him and left. But rather than head back to the Empress, she veered toward the card game and, after fanning her hot flush, looked away and blurted out, “Care to take a walk, Embrey?”
She cringed and vowed to undo those words with all the other wrongs she’d get to right with the machine “Absolutely.” Ignoring boos and taunts from the mirthful aeronauts, Embrey leapt to his feet and offered her the way. “Ladies first.”
This is a mistake already. “We need to get a few things straight-” she waited until they were out of earshot of her men, “-and I’ve something crucial to ask you.”
“Likewise. It’s time we cleared the air, Miss Champlain.”
A cold, distant remark. “Yes it is…Lord Embrey.” Ugh. Despite what she wanted to ask him about his father, a sore part of her couldn’t swallow that barbed surname. Not now. Not ever.
They headed northwest, by the steam car wreckage and the crumbling terrace Miss Polperro’s men had just finished looting. Sections of the quagmire beyond, where the Thames water had drained into the soil, were now brick dry, a kind of murky green-grey colour. The top of the tree-line fidgeted, and she thought she heard crowing noises coming from the forest.
“So what would you like to ask?” Embrey’s well-defined upper body muscles were glazed with perspiration, while a tuft of blond chest hair teased her from beneath the low neck of his vest. A scar ran across his right pectoral muscle and down toward his ribs. Painful. And if she wasn’t mistaken, an animal’s claw had inflicted that injury. A number of her comrades had succumbed to wildlife attacks in Africa over the years.
“A polo souvenir?” She immediately regretted the jibe.
He eyed her quizzically, but seemed more amused than insulted. “Colca Canyon, Peru.”
“Peru? That’s the other side of the world. What on earth were you doing there?”
“Exploring with my uncle and a few of my old Oxford chums. We found an ancient trail to a derelict settlement-not one of our more prodigious finds, if I’m perfectly honest.” He snorted a laugh. “You look at me as though I’d be lost outside the drawing room without a compass.”
Verity smiled. “The thought had occurred to me. So how exactly were you wounded?”
“I had a slight culinary disagreement with a giant condor.”
“Disagreement?”
“Yes. He tried to steal my supper. His manners needed mending.”
“And what happened?”
“He mended mine instead.” Embrey ran his finger down his scar, all the way from collar to hip. “So you can see why I don’t much care for anything that flies. Present company accepted, of course.”
Interesting. He’s more adventurous than I thought.
“My sister visited South America once-Brazil, I think-with the bluecoats. The Amazon scared the life out of her. Insects as big as kites. Apparently some parts of the river are so wide it’s more like crossing a sea.”
“Very true. This place seems like Kew Gardens and its duck pond in comparison.” He paused, cleared his throat. “Miss Champlain, I’d just like to say, I’m very sorry for your loss. The Benguela attack was despicable, and I can assure you, despite what you might have heard, that neither my family nor myself had anything to do with it.”
“Oh.” So he wanted to exonerate himself once and for all while she was in a pliable mood, did he? Well, in that case he had some fancy talking to do. He’d answered her question, but it would take a lot more than that-the evidence against his father and uncle had been damning. “Tangeni said you’d try to convince me sooner or later.” Embrey’s brow stitched, as if her tone had been too harsh and she’d wounded him. “He also said I should listen,”
