London
August 28, 1933 CE
Nathan slouched on the Louis XIV settee and glared at the fire blazing in the ginormous, ornate fireplace. The same thought ran round and round his brain, like a hamster in on a wheel. I'm a prisoner. Again. Fourteen foot gilded ceilings, lush Persian carpets, and baroque, silkscreened wall coverings didn't change things. The locked doors to his suite still meant he was in a jail, no matter how posh. He jumped to his feet and paced, halting to stare out the windows at the overcast skies, drizzling rain, and the endless, landscaped gardens surrounding the estate. Cliveden, that woman Magwitch had called it, as if that should mean something to him.
A key rattled in the door, and Nathan pivoted away from the windows. Agatha entered, followed by an elderly, livery-clad butler clone of Lemony Snicket who carried a silver tea service. She darted to one side and stuck her hand in the pocket of her jacket, where the snout of her needlegun jutted against the fabric. "Just you relax, now, mate. Mr. Thistlewaite here is a gentleman, he is. He said ya's a guest of the Viscountess and as such, ya gets served tea and biscuits." She waggled the gun hidden in her pocket. "I'm here to be sure ya stay a guest and treat him with the respect he's due. Whyn't ya just have a seat, now, let him pour ya a cuppa?" She nodded to the settee that Nathan had just vacated.
He glowered at her and then turned to Thislewaite, who was arranging the tea service on the marble-topped serving table in front of the fireplace. It couldn't hurt to be polite, so Nathan said, "Thank, you, sir. I appreciate your consideration." He stuck out his hand. "My name's Nathan."
Thistlewaite arched an eyebrow at him, took the proffered hand between his thumb and forefinger, and bowed. "Very good, Mr. Nathan. Shall I pour for you and Mrs. Magwitch?"
"Sure, thanks. And I'm not 'Mr. Nathan.' I'm just Nathan. Please use my first name."
Thistlewaite stiffened and his mouth turned down, but his eyes twinkled. "Oh, I could never do that, Mr. Nathan." He poured two precise cups of tea and then faced Agatha. "Will there be anything else, madam?"
"We'll ring if we need ya. Send Mr. Becquerel in when he gets here, if ya would be so kind."
"Certainly, madam." Thistlewaite cast a fish eye at Nathan, bowed, and departed.
Nathan settled onto the couch, plopped four sugar cubes into his tea, and used the tiny, silver spoon to stir it. "How much longer you going to keep me cooped up in here?"
Agatha circled the couch and wound up perching on an adjoining chair, her diminutive legs dangling and not quite reaching the floor. She pulled out the needle gun and rested it on her lap. "The Resident'll decide that. He's bringin' a couple of big-brain scientists with him to the estate. Yanks, like you. Reg'lar plonkers, they are." She snatched a cookie off the tray and munched it, dribbling crumbs onto her rumpled jacket.
Nathan ignored the needle gun and blew on his tea. Screw her. Whatever "plonkers" meant, it didn't sound like a compliment. "Yanks? You said one was named Wilson?" Surely it wasn't his old professor from back in 2018 Iowa. The jerk-face.
"Yeah, and another named Havisham. That Wilson and the Resident, they be uphill gardeners, if ya catch my drift." She reached for another cookie. "Have a biscuit. Mr. Thistlewaite'll have his scuppers in a tizzy if ya don't."
Nathan deduced that "biscuit" meant "cookie," but he had no idea what scuppers or an uphill gardener was. "How does one garden uphill? I don't understand the meaning."
She rolled her eyes. "Can't ya understand plain English? Ya must be an eejit, or ya don't have no lingual implant. They's nancies. They put their plonkers where the good Lord don't intend for 'em to go."
Well, that was clear enough. "What's that got to do with anything?"
"Ya mean besides bein' skanky?" She stuffed another cookie in her mouth and spoke around the crumbs. "Nothin', of course, 'cept they don't take no care to hide it, and in this era no less." She waggled her needlegun. "I don't go wavin' this about where temporals can see it. They should be the same with their ways. They act like the rules don't apply to them."
The door creaked open, and Thistlewaite reappeared, bowed, and announced, "Monsieur Becquerel, Professor Havisham, and Professor Wilson."
Nathan remembered to close his mouth. Claude had been noticeably older the last time he'd seen him, but this version looked like he was at least seventy. He'd put on more weight, too, enough to make Nathan think of a geriatric sumo wrestler. Wilson was pretty much the same bespeckled, droopy-dog he'd remembered. Havisham was the real surprise. She was a sleek, tall bombshell, with Fay Wray good looks and waves of flowing, blonde hair cascading to her shoulders. She even wore a slinky black shift, as if King Kong waited off stage to pluck off her writhing form from a skyscraper.
Claude dashed up to Nathan, tugged him to his feet and embraced him. "Nathan, darling. I thought you were dead. I've missed you so." His lips brushed against Nathan's cheek, but then he pushed away and his expression turned stern. "You left the lodge after I specifically told you not to. When you disappeared, I feared the worst—that some beast had eaten you."
Nathan shoved him away. A slobbery kiss wasn't going to convince him that this fat-ass relic hadn't planned to betray him all along, exactly as Corbett claimed. "No such luck. I'm still kicking." He used his thumb to swipe his cheek where Claude's lips had touched him. "You came back for me, you say? Took you long enough. I was there for days, wondering what was going on."
"How did you—"
Havisham interrupted. "Enough of this. We have business to transact, and not much time before Herr Ribbentrop arrives." Her voice was sweet velvet. She took an imperious seat in one of the antique chairs and waited for everyone to settle.
Thistlewaite hovered nearby and asked Havisham, "Will there be anything else, madam?"
"That will be all, thank you. I know you're busy preparing for tonight's reception."
"You're most gracious, madam." Thistlewaite bowed himself out the door, but Nathan could have sworn he surreptitiously inspected the room before he left. What was he looking for? A misplaced crumpet?
Havisham smoothed her skirt and turned a seductive smile Nathan's way. "So, young man, I understand you've experimental evidence of closed, time-like curves?"
Nathan gaped at her for a moment, glanced at Wilson's impassive face, and then switched gears. "That's right. My experiment conclusively demonstrated photons traversing a curve in local space-time and arriving before they left the transmitter."
She toyed with a strand of her hair using a perfectly manicured fingernail. "Doesn't that violate general relativity? Are you sure it's not an observational error?"
"Of course it doesn't violate relativity. That's been known since Gödel discovered his metric." Nathan hesitated, trying to remember when that result appeared.
Wilson said, "He hasn't written that paper yet, Nathan. But back in Chicago, in this very year, Dr. Havisham's already constructed her own metric that permits local, closed, time-like curves." He leaned forward, and his face glowed with enthusiasm. "She's laid the theoretical basis for time travel. She's even shown that space-time can't be both local and counterfactual definite, blowing away the Einstein-Podorsky paradox two years before they even think of it. It's incredible work, decades ahead of its time."
Nathan wanted to ask why he'd never heard of her if she did all this in the 1930s, but she waved a shushing hand. She nailed him with icy blue eyes. "You didn't answer my other question. How do you know your results weren't just measurement error?"
This time a sly smile bent Nathan's lips. "The photons arrived ten minutes before they were sent. It's impossible for that to be a measurement error."
She nodded. "And do you think you could reproduce this experiment above the Planck scale?"
"You mean, like move atoms or molecules back in time? No way. The energy budget alone…"
She held up a hand, palm forward, and shook her head. "I wasn't thinking of something so prosaic as atoms. I was thinking more along the lines of, say, a cat."
That made Nathan blink. "A cat?" Was she on crack?
"A cat." She leaned back and smirked at him. "My earlier self—the one in Chicago—should introduce you to her cat Schrodinger. Last month he traveled three weeks backward in time."
Nathan just stared at her. "Your...earlier self?" He thought he'd gotten used to this time travel stuff, but loops within loops were still tripping him up.
Agatha chose this moment to pipe up. "Blimey." Her gaze stabbed at Havisham. "Can we just get to the point without all this codswallop, ma'am, if ya don't mind me askin'?"
Havisham said, "Patience, my dear." She turned her attention back to Nathan. "Yes, my earlier self. You see, I got one of the first WPA grants and used it to extend my basic research into the nature of time. By 1937, Duane and I will have built a real, working Timepiece, the first one." She reached out and squeezed Wilson's hand. The jerk's chest swelled up like a puffer fish. Probably just as poisonous, too.
"But..." Nathan's head was spinning. What was she saying? "Dr. Wilson's here. Besides, he's from 2018."
Duane said, "That's right, lad. But I'm going to join Dr. Haversham's project in Wisconsin next month. I know enough modern engineering to really bootstrap the design and production process. It's her theoretical bombshells and my technical expertise that will make Timekeepers possible."
None of this made sense. "So...what are you doing here? And what do you want with me? I thought I was going to the Academy and learn how to be a Timekeeper. Like Haakon."
Havisham frowned. "Where did you get such a silly idea? You're far too valuable as a scientist to waste in field operations. We'd like you to join the research team back in Wisconsin. Agatha here did excellent work bringing you to our attention."
Agatha's face tensed and turned white. She rolled her eyes and said, "Thanks, ma'am. Good to know us worthless field agents did somethin' ya big brains think's useful."
Claude spoke up. "Nathan, this is a great honor for you. It's a huge opportunity to get in on the ground floor. You can be one of the founding members of the whole organization."
That did it. If Claude thought it was a good idea, then it was the last thing Nathan wanted to do. Besides, wouldn't they already know whether he was a founding member? Something didn't add up, that was for sure. He decided to stick with his strengths and be stubborn. "Charlotte told me I could be a Timekeeper. I want to be like Haakon. That's what I came here for, and it's what I want to do."
Wilson's mouth turned down, and his voice became scornful. He faced Havisham and said, "I told you this was a waste of time. We should just drop this pretense and prepare for our meeting with Ribbentrop and Quilp this evening. Between the two of them and Lady Astor, we'll have the financing we need for US and European operations. Once the Fuhrer consolidates the Reich, the world will be ours. We don't need this arrogant little twerp for anything."
Havisham leaned forward, interest gleaming in her eyes. "Who did you say promised to make you a Timekeeper? It wouldn't be Charlotte Corbett, would it?"
Nathan wanted to punch Wilson for calling him a twerp, but swallowed his anger. "That's the one." He narrowed his eyes and leaned forward for emphasis. "She took the time to rescue me from the Pleistocene, which is more than I can say for this ass-wipe." He jerked his head at Claude. "She sent me here to join the Timekeeper Academy. She promised."
Havisham's perfect eyebrows crawled up her forehead. "Really? Agent Corbett is responsible for bringing you here? That changes everything." She stood and smoothed her skirt. "Dr. Wilson, I believe you are correct. We have much to do before Herr Ribbentrop and that idiot Texan Quilp arrive. Claude, I'm sure this person knows more than he's saying." She nodded toward Nathan. "No one could be that clueless. Since we didn't attract him with honey, perhaps it's time to see if some vinegar will extract what he knows." A tight smile bent her perfect lips, and her eyes gleamed.
Claude's mouth formed a grim line, and his gaze avoided Nathan. "Yes, ma'am. I've got just the agent to handle that. We'll take him to the docks after sunset and have what you need by dawn."
Agatha started to speak, but Claude waved her quiet and interrupted. "Not now. This isn't the time for any of your moral dithering."
Havisham shrugged. "Just take care of it." She looked over Nathan with hooded eyes and mused, "You might make a photographic record for me to enjoy later—he is a cute one. Pity." She stood and became all business again. "See to it that you don't disturb our dinner his evening." With a glance, she gathered up her two companions and they swept from the room with Agatha trailing after.
The click of the door closing snapped Nathan out of his state of shock. What the hell just happened? To be certain, he checked the door, and sure enough it was locked again. He returned to the windows, but decades of paint and lacquer had glued them shut. Even if he broke the glass, it was a thirty foot sheer drop to the ground. Still, anything was better than sitting here waiting for Claude or some thug to "handle" him. He'd had more than enough. A knee-high ceramic urn squatting on a table next to the entry looked hefty enough to break a window.
He'd just picked it up when a voice from behind made him whirl around.
"Stop, for the love of God." Thistlewaite stood before the fireplace. A dark opening that hadn't been there moments ago had appeared in the paneling. Agatha emerged from the interior, her needlegun in hand. Behind her, a door-size panel stood open, revealing a dusty corridor and a stone staircase leading down.
The butler bustled across the room and snatched the jar from Nathan's hands. "Thank you, sir. That's a Ming dynasty vase. The Viscountess would be most vexed if it were broken."
Nathan gaped at him and then at the fireplace. What was that? A fucking secret passage?
Agatha tugged at his forearm. "Come on, laddie. Time to get ya outa here 'fore the Resident sends in one of his goons."
This was all happening too fast. Nathan jerked his arm free and said, "Wait. Why should I go with you?" She'd turned him over to Claude. Didn't that make her one of the bad guys?
Agatha's diminutive body quivered. She tilted her face up to his, and her intense eyes skewered him. "Surely ya watch American gangster movies, bein' a Yank and all. Ya know what they plans for ya, and it ain't pretty."
Thistlewaite said, "I believe the vernacular is that he's to arrange a 'hit' after a spot of torture." The butler fussed over the vase, placing it just so on its table. "Of course, we'd never permit anything so bourgeois. Capitalists can be so destructive, don't you know." He made another tiny adjustment to the urn. "I was listening from the passage. You mentioned wanting to be like your companion Haakon. We propose to take you to him."
Relief flooded Nathan's gut like cool water. "Haakon? I knew it. He is alive after all, and these assholes were lying to me."
Thistlewaite brushed invisible dust from the urn and said, "Indeed, he's quite alive. Our tovarishchi"—he paused for a discrete cough—"I mean, our comrades have him in a safe place."
Agatha tugged his arm again. "None of you will be alive if we don't get outa here. Now stop flappin' your jaw and get a move on, laddie."
Nathan didn't hesitate. Haakon would know what to do. He was sure of it. He followed Thistlewaite and Agatha into the darkness.