The Debate

 

Ringo dried his hands carefully. “You need green medicine.” He nodded, wincing slightly. I got up to retrieve a tin of the salve and Ringo held his hands out for me to apply it. He rarely ever let me take care of him, and I tried to put myself in his place while I did.

“You don’t trust Tom,” I said.

Ringo’s gaze met mine. “‘E ‘ates ye.”

“Hates? That’s kind of extreme, don’t you think?” I was startled. I knew he was angry as a general state of being, but I hadn’t thought it was directed any place specific except maybe at himself.

“‘E carries too much pain to bear it alone, and ‘e won’t let anyone love ‘im to share the burden of it. Blamin’ ye, that’s an easy way to make someone else responsible.”

“I think we need him though,” I said. “To change things in 1944, we need him.”

Ringo flexed his fingers carefully. The skin was red, but didn’t look like it would blister too badly. He studied his hands for a moment, then finally nodded and looked at me. “I’ll be at yer back.”

I hadn’t realized it was even a question for Ringo, and it shook me to think he could have chosen otherwise. But we were in his native time, and he could step off my ride whenever he wanted to.

This was Ringo’s native time.

I looked at him more closely. “You’ve aged since we’ve been here.”

He grimaced. “Fightin’ with ye will do that to a man.”

“No, I mean, you’ve actually gotten older, all at once. I think you’re affected by being outside your native time the same way Clockers are.” I studied the beginnings of scruff on his face. Whiskers that I hadn’t seen before dotted his jaw, and he was taller than he’d been the last time I noticed his height.

My scrutiny seemed to make him uncomfortable, because he scratched his face and turned a little pink. “What’re ye goin’ to do about young Tom?”

I grimaced. “Go find him I guess.” I looked out the window at the dark night sky. “Will you come with me?”

Ringo rolled his eyes. “As if I’d let ye go out in my town without me.”

I kissed Ringo quickly on the cheek. He blushed pink again and I laughed, then made a show of rubbing the kiss off. He batted my hand away and scowled, but I felt lighter with relief that he wasn’t still angry. That Ringo had gotten angry at all was remarkable enough, and the fact that his anger had bothered me so much shouldn’t have been a surprise. But I was shaken by both, and I realized I wanted to get out of this time. It felt like we were treading water here, and I was ready to jump in the deep end – to do whatever we had to do to get back to Archer.

“Where should we look for him?” I asked as we headed out.

“I doubt we’ll need to,” said Ringo.

“Huh? Why?”

“Because we are the only plan ‘e ‘as.” We stepped out into the dark alley behind the building and someone moved forward from the shadows. I was startled, but Ringo nodded at him and spoke as though he’d been expecting nothing less. “Tom,” he said in careful greeting.

“I apologize for my outburst, and for damaging the radiator. I will replace or repair anything I need to,” Tom said.

“It’s fixed,” Ringo answered. I was impressed that he managed to keep his tone neutral.

“Are you up for a run?” I asked Tom.

“I’m not really a freerunner, Saira,” he answered cautiously.

“I know, but you’re stronger now, right?”

“Evidently.”

I turned to Ringo. “Show us something new.”

Ringo thought for a moment, then nodded. “Right. Keep up if ye can. The neighbor’ood’s not the best, but it’s worth it.”

He took off down the alley and turned left, which took us away from the river. Ringo was holding back just enough to make sure Tom stayed with us, but not so much that it was obvious. He kept the showy flips to a minimum too, more like a straight parkour run. Tom’s expression was one of grim determination. This wasn’t fun for him, but he didn’t complain, even as we passed Holborn. We were heading straight back into the jewelry district, except all the shops were closed for business. Ringo finally stopped outside an ornate gothic church, which was only visible from the street when we were standing right in front of it.

He smiled at the confusion on both our faces. “Not goin’ to burn up inside, are ye?” he said to Tom. Surprisingly, Tom smirked back.

“Haven’t yet.”

“There’s still time,” Ringo answered with enough snark in his tone to get a raised eyebrow from me. The big front door was unlocked, and Ringo slipped inside. I went next, and Tom closed the door quietly behind us.

“What is this place?” I whispered to Ringo.

“St. Etheldreda’s Church.”

We were in a long hallway that ran the length of the building that seemed fairly small for a church, but had the cold stone smell of someplace very old. A man was speaking in the room next to the hall. We couldn’t see him, but his speech was cultured and educated, and his accent was slightly Irish.

“Father Lock’art usually ‘as writers or poets readin’ their work ‘ere until midnight. I’ve ‘eard some very interestin’ stories inside these walls, let me tell ye.”

I stared at Ringo. “Do you come here often?”

“Well, not anymore, obviously. But yeah, a few times a week. It’s a Catholic church, one of the oldest in England, but all kinds ‘ave worshipped ‘ere.” We walked down the long hallway, lit only by a lantern at the far end of the room. Laughter came from the other room, and it sounded like there were maybe twenty people listening to the writer read his work. “And all kinds ‘ave read ‘ere, too.”

We had reached the door to the other room, but I was hesitant to enter. It was lit by several shielded candles, and the light flickered as warmly as the voice that filled the room. I just wanted to linger by the door and listen without a picture of the speaker to influence the way his words landed in my ears. Ringo stepped inside the room and leaned against the back wall. After a moment of hesitation, Tom entered the room too. I had the sense that Ringo’s company was preferred over mine.

The speaker’s voice was melodic and deep, and I closed my eyes as he began another passage.

“Life is a question of nerves, and fibres, and slowly built-up cells in which thought hides itself and passion has its dreams. You may fancy yourself safe and think yourself strong. But a chance tone of colour in a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that brings subtle memories with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had ceased to play … I tell you, that it is on things like these that our lives depend.”

I recognized the words. Whoever this author was, I’d read his work, and I stepped into the room next to Ringo and Tom. The assembled group was mostly standing, although there were some people sitting on wooden pews nearest the speaker. He faced the group to the right of the door, so I only caught him in profile, but I could see he was tall and well-dressed, and probably somewhere in his mid-thirties. There was a spectacular stained-glass window behind him, and the candlelight glinting on the colored glass gave the odd impression that the man was standing inside a kaleidoscope.

“Well, my dears, that is all I shall read for tonight. The story isn’t finished, though it soon will be, and you’ll be able to purchase your own copy to see how it all turns out for poor Dorian. Until then, thank you to Father Lockhart for looking the other way. I hope to prevail upon his good-natured oblivion another time.” The audience laughed as the man finished his speech. “I wish you all a good night, and I leave you with the words of my Dorian: The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.”

Laughter erupted, and it was lovely to hear Ringo and Tom chuckling next to me. When the speaker finally turned to face our side of the room, I realized why I knew his words. It was Oscar Wilde, younger than most of the images I’d seen of him, but definitely him.

I wanted to meet him. Sometimes I actually loved being a Clocker.

Tom made a move to push off the wall and leave, but I grabbed his arm. “Wait,” I said quietly. Tom pulled his arm out of my hand, and I turned in surprise to find him scowling at me. He quickly schooled his expression to something more neutral, but I’d seen that Ringo was absolutely right in his assessment of Tom’s feelings. I caught his eye and didn’t let go until he looked away, kind of like an alpha would with her pack. And then I smiled, just because I wanted to growl.

“That’s Oscar Wilde,” I said under my breath.

Tom looked over at the man in surprise. “How do you know?”

“He was reading from The Picture of Dorian Gray. I read it my sophomore year.”

I moved forward past some of the people who were leaving, and Tom fell into step behind me. I studied Wilde as people shook his hand and said a few words to him. He looked tired and vaguely bored, and I didn’t think he was quite famous enough yet to have the disdain that comes with celebrity, which probably just meant he thought most people were idiots. I was beginning to regret my impulse to meet the man.

Interestingly, every person to whom he spoke came away with a happy smile on their face, as if they’d just had their socks charmed off. The last of the people shook Wilde’s hand and left, and then a person who must have been Father Lockhart came up, exchanged a few words with him, and began shooing the stragglers toward a door at the back of the room.

Oscar Wilde had gathered his papers from the lectern before he finally noticed us. His eyes landed on me first, maybe because I was tallest, then Tom, then Ringo, who had joined us. And then he smiled.

“Well, aren’t you three pretty,” he said, his eyes brushing each of us again before landing on Tom.

I stepped forward and held out my hand to shake his. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Wilde.”

His eyes widened in surprise. He must have thought I was male until he heard my voice. “And quite unexpected to meet you, Miss …”

“Saira. Saira Elian,” I said as I shook his hand. He held my hand longer than a standard handshake and studied me.

“Very unexpected, Miss Elian. A rare pleasure, I believe, considering your Family’s propensity for losing themselves.” His eyes were sparkling, and I narrowed my eyes at him teasingly.

“Of course, you can See.”

He met my smirk with one of his own. “Only people, my dear. It is perhaps why I am so cynical. Although, according to my father, a cynic is a man who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing, so perhaps the word doesn’t apply.”

I laughed and shook my head. “You, sir, are trouble.”

“Of the most interesting kind.” His eyes flicked back to Tom, though he still held my hand. “Introduce me to your friends, my dear. I find I’m suddenly in need of new acquaintances.”

For the first time in a long time, I felt like teasing. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Mr. Wilde—”

“Oh, Oscar, please. Mr. Wilde is my father. And it’s an excellent idea.”

I bit back the smile. “Your reputation precedes you. You might have to make do with only my acquaintance.”

Oscar laughed and lifted the back of my hand to his lips. “My dear, for you I shall endeavor to be on my best behavior so as not to offend any whose constitution isn’t on par with your wit.”

Ringo’s expression was openly intrigued, similar to the look he got when he discovered a new bit of technology. Tom was guardedly fascinated, and some of the hostility had slipped from his face.

“Then I will introduce you. Oscar Wilde, this is Ringo, and this is Tom.”

He finally released my hand to shake Ringo’s first, which he did with an open smile, and then Tom’s, which he held longer than necessary as he studied his face. Tom didn’t flinch under the scrutiny, and I was glad to see him study Oscar right back.

The men still hadn’t broken eye contact when Oscar finally spoke a little breathlessly, “I do believe I’ve found my Dorian.”