TUESDAY
Alfie materialized on a paved walkway, facing manicured gardens that embraced a large fountain. His stiff leather shoes gave just the slightest tap as he dropped a centimeter or two to the flagstones.
He ran his fingers through short-cropped hair that verged on too short for his guise as a Victorian teenager in the city of Oxford. His tats and epicanthic folds were hidden by Redi-flesh, and the technician had also lightened his skin. Not perfect, but it would have to do—he was only here for a few days, just long enough to prime the target then carry out the snatch.
"What are you doing here!"
The angry voice came from the direction of the huge manor a dozen meters behind him. Alfie pulled the fine mesh blanket off his shoulders and scrunched it into one hand, then straightened the collar on his heavy coat. Trouble already on his first time travel assignment—Dad wasn't going to like that.
The late afternoon sun shone through open French doors, illuminating three people in agitated discussion amid a tangle of furniture. None of them were looking at Alfie.
He used his jaw implant to mumble a request to his phone. It couldn't connect back home to the mid-21st century, but he'd stored a large database on it. The phone confirmed the date as May 12, 1887 and tagged the woman emerging from the large box in the middle of the room as Violet Wardle, Alfie's target. The older man—the one who had shouted—was Violet's husband, Edmund. The third person, a servant in striped pants clutching a long, sharp tool of some kind, had not been named in any of the newspaper records, bible entries, and diaries on Alfie's phone.
When his dad had assigned Alfie this mission, Alfie had read Violet's diary several times but skipped reading the database and other resources. It had been an easy choice to slack off. Dad wouldn't give him an important mission, not a life-or-death one, not after what he'd done.
It hadn't been his fault. He'd only wanted to let some more light into his bedroom window. "If you'd only read the manual, prepared a bit, thought ahead at all," Dad had said, looking at the fallen tree, the smashed car, and the chainsaw dangling from Alfie's hand.
But that was all ancient history, or, rather, it was a long way Uptime from here. Alfie grinned and tucked the mesh into his carpet bag. He'd just wing it. First he'd reconnoiter, then make contact with the target.
His phone, upon request, displayed the mansion's floor plan. The room in front of him, the largest in the manor, was called a drawing room. It was crammed with furniture: side tables crowded against every wall. Stacks of books teetered everywhere. A big wooden cabinet squatted in one corner, next to a table littered with glassware and colored powders. The phone stated the mess was more than the usual Victorian clutter.
Edmund, a grey-haired man in a well-cut suit, slammed the door on the big cabinet. It looked like a large single-user VR booth, although Alfie was pretty sure those hadn't been invented yet. Edmund spoke again, apparently scolding Violet. She edged past him and sat down on an ornately carved wooden chair next to the impassive butler, long skirts billowing about her. Violet in person was as beautiful she appeared in the water-stained 2D photo that Dad's Uptime researchers had found tucked into her 140-year-old diary.
"Had the experiment worked, Violet, you would not still be here!" Edmund shouted, his gruff voice carrying out into the garden. "Transportation of oneself under the influence of the enabling light is quite possible. Even a woman should be able to do it."
Violet's voice was fainter but firm. "I am so sorry, my dear, that my feeble attempts result in nothing but failure. It must be my lack of understanding of the process required. Please do forgive me."
Alfie grinned at her sarcasm. You tell him, Vi. Her strength of character had shone through her diary entries.
Edmund strode to a table full of glassware and grabbed a drinking glass about one-third full. "Violet, my calculations indicate that if one were to drink all of this elixir under the enabling lamp, one could achieve the proper mental state." He swirled the cloudy, white liquid. Milk, maybe.
These people did cool things. Alfie was going to have fun here Downtime. He must have made an involuntary movement because Violet brought a hand to her mouth and exclaimed, "Edmund, behind you in the garden! A very tall man!"
The butler reached Alfie first, swallowtail coat flapping behind him, a lethal-looking hand drill dangling from his hand. His narrow face and scowling eyebrows reminded Alfie of the gang leader back at his high school. He grasped Alfie's sleeve. "You rapscallion, how did you come to be in the garden?"
Uh oh. Time to bluff. Dad had shown him several times how to control a situation with confidence alone. Of course, Dad always made it look easy.
"Thank you, my man," Alfie said. He raised an eyebrow and held out his carpet bag.
The butler hesitated, let go of Alfie's arm, and took the bag. Alfie began to relax.
Edmund, red-faced, puffed air through his cheeks. When Dad did that, he was ready to blow. The best defense was always to speak first. Alfie started into the only lines he'd rehearsed. "Beg pardon, sir," he said. "My name is Alfred Bentley. I'm the nephew of your second cousin, William, and just arrived from Canada. You should have received a letter in the post several days ago regarding my impending visit to your fine abode." He'd written the script himself, referencing several dictionaries and British phrasing algorithms.
There had been no such letter, but Alfie already knew from Violet's surviving diaries that Edmund hated to admit error, forgetfulness, or mismanagement. Alfie waited. One beat, two beats, then he stepped forward, hand outstretched. "And you must be my Aunt Violet, as lovely as your namesake vegetation." She held up a hand but let it fall before looking uncertainly at Edmund.
Edmund had made up his mind. "Eh? Third cousin, once removed? And a strapping young fellow, too. Well, I can always use another assistant!"
Alfie pumped Edmund's hand rapidly, hoping that showed enthusiasm.
Somewhere deep in the house, a clock chimed six times.
Edmund grunted, then said, "Time for a brief supper, a small reward for our labors and your travels, then we will recommence our scientific research."
"I am eager to hear all about your famed experiments, sir," Alfie said. Famed in Violet's diaries and a soon-to-be-created report to Dad, anyway. "And I am quite hungry." Back home, it was just about lunchtime.
"Hrmph." Edmund turned to the butler. "Brooks, show this boy to the blue room." His voice deepened. "And, Violet, you may go dress for dinner."
Alfie followed the butler toward the door. When the butler stood to one side and gave a slight bow, Alfie hesitated in confusion. No time to check the phone, but since Brooks' function seemed to be like a domestic bot, Alfie started through the doorway. Edmund grasped his shoulder, digging in.
"Young sir! No manners in the colonies?"
Huh? The phone took a moment, but managed to interpret that as a request to allow Violet to go first. Victorians protocols seemed to involve a lot of gender-specific rules. Damn! First I hesitate, then I mutter. I must look crazy. Alfie moved to one side and said, "My blooming Aunt Violet, I hold you to the highest regard. Please accept my apologetic utterances." Not quite right maybe, but Dad always said the way to get good at a foreign language was to practice it.
Violet smiled shyly and swished by in a waft of lemony perfume. Did the old man think he should go next? Alfie waved him through, too, just in case. Edmund glared as he passed, his tufts of hair and round glasses making him look like an angry owl.
Well, convincing Violet to go up the Timeline would be easy, but the next few days would be no thrill ride.
It was going to be a long week.
Edmund warmed to his topic as he sawed at his roast beef. "I've progressed in my search as no other Englishman has been able to do. I've taken that most modern of inventions, the light bulb, and improved the filament, thereby giving it enhanced spectral properties."
Alfie swallowed his huge mouthful of mashed potatoes hastily. "Edmund, I mean, Uncle Edmund, that is indeed an impressive achievement of much, um, impressiveness." Speaking in such a convoluted way was tiring.
"An odd turn of phrase," Edmund said with a chuckle. Rural Ontario had been a good choice for Alfie's supposed upbringing: it explained any social errors and his apparently horrible accent.
Edmund continued, "Evidence, boy, there is clear and undeniable evidence that there are beings that cannot be seen by mere mortals. You see, I've invented a glass treated with witherite and several other elements that I am not at liberty to say. Pending patent application, don't you know. One places a treated glass in front of an electric lamp containing my special wolfram-filamented bulb and, in doing so, changes the chemical properties of the solution that Violet ingests. I've not been able to increase the range of the lamp's powers to any great degree but the spirit cabinet is wonderfully concentrating. Quit mumbling, boy, it doesn't become a gentleman."
Alfie stopped subvocalizing into the phone. Wolfram, also called tungsten, wasn't documented for use in filaments for a few years yet. Witherite was a phosphorescent mineral used to make a purpled glass. Cool! Edmund had discovered ultra-violet and invented blacklight at the same time. The guy was a genius, even if he was all caught up in ghosts and other woo-woo things.
"And from what arose such interest in the world of ethereal, um, stuff?" Alfie asked, around a large forkful of beef.
Edmund wiped gravy from his mustache. "Glad you asked, young man. As a lad of tender years, I wandered out one night into a marsh next to my parents' country home. And there, I witnessed a miracle, a vision, a glowing light. I followed it for hours. Shimmering beings, just beyond my reach. Ah, the wonder! After an immeasurable time, they returned from whence they came. A land of hope and beauty, one presumes. I never forgot it, boy, never forgot." His eyes glowed and he thumped the table with a fist, making all the silverware jump. "Been trying to get there ever since."
The phone indicated that rotting organic material sometimes produced methane and phosphine: the "will o' the wisp" phenomenon. Alfie shoved some boiled onion in his mouth so he wouldn't blurt out this little fact.
"—so when my wife is placed in the cabinet, I say, are you listening, boy? Violet absorbs the luminous rays arising from the solution and, almost effortlessly, can transfer herself to the Other Kingdom." The capital letters were evident in Edmund's speech. "A bit more perseverance and we'll have it."
Alfie sipped his wine and managed not to grimace at the strong taste. "Indeed, sir. When will you start clinical trials?"
The butler immediately refilled his wine glass, then returned to the sideboard near the maid. Both people stared straight ahead like sentry bots. This culture was insane.
"Puzzling figure of speech. Perhaps you refer to my little gathering, my little event that shall take place upon Saturday soonest in front of a select group of individuals. I have every confidence Violet will have fully acquired the necessary abilities to travel to the Other Kingdom before that time."
"And why would you yourself, not enter the box and experience the wonders of this, um, spooky land?" Alfie asked. Violet's diary entries had been kind when she wrote about Edmund's panic attacks the one time he had shut himself in the spirit cabinet a month ago. Claustrophobia wouldn't be a publically admitted condition for a few more years. But Alfie needed to hear it from the source. Part of his assignment included a psychological assessment of Edmund. Dad wanted him to ask the man lots of uncomfortable questions yet still snatch the target. Sometimes it was tough to be the child of an accomplished businessperson.
Edmund's owl-eyes shifted sideways and his mouth tightened. "Don't be absurd. I am a scientist, above all else, an objective observer. Violet possesses more the temperament for such things."
Brooks gave a small snort and busied himself at the buffet.
Violet smiled weakly at Edmund and ate a bit of potato, exposing discolored gums and greyish teeth. Her hand shook as she laid down her fork.
"It's all a matter of focus," Violet said into the silence. "Edmund has explained it to me marvelously. If only I can apply my powers of concentration to receive the ethers internally, the outcome will be as he desires." She put a hand on her abdomen then returned it to her lap. The large glass of dull white liquid, carried in from the drawing room by the butler, sat next to her plate, untouched. It sure wasn't milk.
"You can't be serious," Alfie said. The diaries had mentioned, rather vaguely, that Edmund dabbled in spiritualism and scientific investigation beyond Violet's educational level. That level was one of the first things that would be corrected once he took her home, away from this hellish century.
Edmund pushed the maid's hand away as she tried to take his plate. "She is quite serious, young man. As am I."
"If people were able to do that, don't you think we would all be travelling back and forth from other worlds all the time?" Alfie shook his head. Come on. It only took us until the 21st century to perfect time travel.
"Oh, ye of little faith!" Edmund slapped the table so hard his fork fell to the floor. "Come to the drawing room, sirrah! And, Violet, bring your glass of elixir, if you please."
Violet reached for the sludgy white stuff. What could it be? Only one way to find out. Alfie stood so fast his chair tipped backwards and hit the wall. He leaned over and tipped the glass. Viscous, white liquid flowed over the tablecloth and dripped slowly on the floor. He touched a finger to the puddle and casually put his hand in his pocket. "Oh, sorry. I bumped the table. What's it made of, anyway?"
"Sir, you are a guest in my home! How dare you!" Edmund was sputtering. "That was a careful concoction of luminescent powders produced with the greatest of difficulty." He wrenched out his chair and rose to his feet.
The phone finished analyzing the drop on his fingertip: lead, quinine, gypsum, and a dozen other substances, almost all of them toxic. The lead, in particular, led to gastrointestinal and neurological effects. Violet's hands were shaking from more than stress.
The roast beef in Alfie's stomach turned over. His mission was life-and-death! Dad must have known, or at least guessed, that Violet was being poisoned. If Alfie couldn't convince her to travel Uptime in the next four days, she'd waste away, living in constant pain.
Edmund was still talking. "And cease muttering! Most unseemly. Fortunately for you, young man, I have more elixir in my chambers, an entire crockful." He straightened his dinner jacket. "We shall attempt another session forthwith. No, we don't want any pudding." This last was to the maid who was setting down a steaming serving dish next to the flowery centerpiece. Alfie inhaled the scent of raisins and spices and felt even more ill.
As they all trouped into the drawing room, Alfie could now see the cabinet in greater detail. It had been expertly handmade out of dark polished wood and brass hinges.
Alfie debated grabbing Violet and rushing out to the gardens. But the mesh blanket, able to transport two people, wouldn't work until Saturday at three p.m.; the technician had told him that several times. And it had to be used in the vicinity of the house. Maybe if he punched Edmund, knocked him out for four days? He clenched a fist, then sank into a nearby chair. The last time someone had messed really badly with the Timeline—killing some country's nasty King—millions had died, disappeared from the world in an awful instant. It was one history lesson Alfie had paid attention to, with horrid fascination.
Edmund folded his arms. "Now, our doubting Thomas here must examine the spirit cabinet for any trickery he imagines."
Edmund must be referring to him. He got up. He might as well play along. Maybe there was a secret escape hatch in the cabinet. Maybe he could sneak Violet out that way. He dutifully thumped all sides of the cabinet, including the person-sized door. The interior contained nothing but Violet's little chair and a small shelf which held the purple-shaded lamp. Wires led out freshly drilled holes to a complicated-looking mechanism on a side table.
He gritted his teeth. "I don't see any secret compartments or hidden panels. And what wonderful workmanship, sir," He sat back down. "You are a spectacular carpenter." Compliments might defuse the situation; besides he couldn't have done any better with his laser Fun-kit back home.
Edmund harrumphed, the butler moved his feet nervously, and Violet gave one of her sad smiles. Oh. The butler had been the one holding the drill earlier. Brooks had built the cabinet, not Edmund.
Violet mounted the small step into the box. She sat in the chair, looking small and tired, her hands entwined in her skirts. Alfie's heart went out to her. Soon, Violet, soon you will be away from all this.
Brooks went to the side table and threw a large switch. The purple glass gave off its ghostly ultra-violet glow.
"Close the cabinet door, my good man," Edmund said and Brooks swung it closed, flipping over a small latch, locking Violet in. A small horizontal slit in the door glowed with the purple light. Hopefully, enough air could get in. Alfie crossed his arms, hoping it would be over soon.
"Concentrate, my dear, concentrate," Edmund called from his own chair.
Brooks stood by the wall, a pinstriped statue.
Alfie fidgeted. Five minutes passed, then five more. He wondered how they were supposed to know if she had left the cabinet. He wondered if he should intervene but, hesitated, indecisive.
Finally, Edmund rose and jerked open the door.
Violet sat in the same position but her shoulders were less rounded and, for once, her smile reached her eyes.
Edmund's face fell. "Another failure! The elixir would have helped, certainly," he said and glared at Alfie, "but I had hoped for some small progress."
She held her hand out. "On the contrary, dear Edmund." A small creature, like a butterfly, rested on her palm, blue wings glowing eerily. "I have reached my hand through to the Other Realm and retrieved a pixie for your examination." She stepped down out of the box, the creature perched on her hand. "Unfortunately, the exertions of travel have caused the delicate creature to solidify and lose its animation."
Violet was crazy, trying to trick her husband with such crap. She must have had the toy hidden in her skirts when she entered.
Alfie stood and moved closer to her. If her husband got angry, Alfie would just have to intervene, no matter what the time travel rules said. Up close and away from the blacklit lamp, the little object looked greasy, the blue much less vibrant. The wings were thick, the body clunky; like a toy made by a child's first crude 3-D printer. There was no way the thing would ever fool anyone.
"My God in Heaven," Edmund said. "A living pixie." He clasped his hands to his chest and smiled right up into his muttonchops. "My dear, my wonderful, wonderful wife. That is quite magnificent." He grabbed her other hand and kissed it.
"You'd best return the pixie to the Other Side without delay," Brooks said.
Edmund shot him an irritated glance. "Ma'am," Brooks added hastily. Some kind of undercurrent was at play, but damned if Alfie knew what it was.
"Brooks is correct, Edmund." Violet's voice grew louder and more confident. "The pixie must not be disturbed from her slumber. I shall return her immediately." She whirled and strode back to the cabinet, thumping it shut behind her.
Edmund beamed. "A marvelous achievement. If we increase the dosage of elixir, I do believe Violet may be able to transport herself. Indeed, with practice, she may travel to and fro between the worlds with the swiftness of Hermes." He began to pace with his hands behind his back, murmuring to himself as if he held a 21st century phone.
Alfie's stomach tightened and he wrapped his arms around himself. Did Dad really hate him that much? Sending him to a ridiculous culture, expecting him to speak an almost-foreign language and rescue a poisoned woman from a madman. How was he supposed to know what to do next?
He could almost hear Dad's voice in his head: preparation, son, preparation.
If only he knew what to prepare.
WEDNESDAY
Alfie sat up, disoriented by the sun streaming in the window. He'd read on his phone until well after midnight, learning more about mesmerism, spiritualism, and strange 19th century beliefs than he ever wanted to. Shouts came from Edmund and Violet's suite, and Alfie realized that's what had woken him. He unwound himself from the many bedclothes, hurried down the hall, and thumped on their door.
"I would caution you against that, young sir." Where had Brooks appeared from?
"Edmund needs to knock it off or I'll knock him out." Alfie pounded again. The old fart must have realized the pixie figure was a fake and he was taking it out on Violet.
But, no, it wasn't anger. "Drink it, dear! Success is at hand." Edmund's exuberant voice rang clear through the door.
"He's poisoning her!" Alfie tried the handle. It was locked.
Brooks merely raised an eyebrow. "I have my reservations about the elixir, as well, Master Alfred. However it is every man's right and privilege to instruct a wife as he sees fit. We cannot interfere. I suggest you distance yourself. Perhaps you would care to go strolling or angling. Or tour our stables of fine horseflesh?"
Violet's voice held firm, coming clear through the wood paneled door. "Edmund, calm down, dear. I will drink it whilst in the cabinet, with the enabling lamp enhancing its powers. Not just now. Come along, have breakfast in the morning room, and we shall talk about the pixies."
Edmund murmured something, Violet's soothing voice replied, and there was the sound of clothing rustling. Nicely done, Violet, but how long can you delay? Her last diary entry had been dated Friday night. No one knew why the entries had stopped, but they did know her date of death—two months from now.
Alfie sighed. One step at a time. After Violet finished breakfast with Edmund, he'd talk to her about Uptime. Meanwhile, he still needed to interview Brooks for his report—if he was lucky, he'd get bonus marks from Dad. Visiting smelly, poorly trained animals with large teeth? Or getting soaked in a scum-filled pond? The choice was easy.
As they walked to the creek, Brooks gave several odd glances at the men working near the barn, especially one chatting to the others in an Irish accent. Why not just call hello?
After they reached a small footbridge above a sparkling creek, Alfie stripped off his uncomfortable jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves. As the sun warmed his back, his stomach began to settle down even further. He dangled his feet over the bridge while Brooks lay his own jacket neatly on a stone and rolled up his own shirtsleeves much more methodically.
"Brooks, I have something to share with you," Alfie began, after the butler had seated himself. Something had occurred to him on the walk here. He'd learned last night that the First World War would do a good job of crumbling the Victorian class system thirty years from now, but perhaps he could speed that up using the small amount of elasticity that Time allowed. Surely, it couldn't do any harm to improve the worldview of a butler who had no recorded history.
Of all the primitive behaviors he was seeing here, the servile attitudes were the worst. Six servants to serve a household of two. A highly skilled man like Brooks ironing newspapers to improve Sir Edmund's morning reading experience. Crazy!
He raised himself on one elbow. "Can you forget your status as a servant for a minute?"
"Why, no, sir, I don't believe I can," Brooks said, and finished tying the hook on Alfie's line. He cut the end of the silk thread with a wicked-looking knife that he tucked back into a leather sheath at his waist. Then he matter-of-factly shoved an incredibly dirty live worm onto the hook.
Alfie swallowed bile and took the pole, careful to keep his distance from the poor creature. He clumsily copied Brooks' cast into the lazy creek, landing six feet to the left alongside some lily pads. Dirt swirled away from the tormented worm, and it wriggled obscenely. What a curious activity this was.
"Take a wider perspective, Brooks. What if you had been born into the upper class? Just by luck, say."
"But I wasn't, sir. I was born to a farm hand and scullery maid at a manor just down the road. It is by God's will that I was allowed to have tutelage with Sir Perdue's son, to keep him company." He rewound his line.
"How did you get here, then?"
"Orphaned in my late youth, sir, and placed in the gardens here. My upper class manner of speech led me to be promoted up to the house when the previous butler died unexpectedly not two years ago. I should be shoveling muck on the rose beds without that fortuitous accident." He dropped his line back in the water with a plop. That explained the lack of records.
"If you and Uncle Edmund worked together," Alfie tried again, "your carpentry skills and design acumen coupled with his chemistry and biological understanding would be amazing. That cabinet you made: it's a work of art. And the lamp he invented—excellent! Your logic can clean up his unwarranted beliefs in ghosts and demons and—"
"Sir! That's not my place!"
Alfie continued to talk—about liberty, freedom, and personal rights. He dredged up everything he could ever recall his civics teacher saying. He really got into it, giving Uptime examples, quoting famous speeches, pleased he could remember so much about such an important topic. How had he ever thought it boring?
Brooks remained as blank-faced as ever.
Finally, Alfie pulled up his line, its empty hook dangling forlornly. Fishing was a futile, useless hobby, and educating people who didn't want to learn was impossible. "Brooks, one more thing." He used his voice-of-command, lowering the pitch and keeping the tone even. Dad would have been proud.
Brooks rose to his feet and wound up his reel. "Sir?"
"Protect Violet from my uncle, as much as you can."
"Sir, now I believe you are forgetting your own place. Mistress Wardle is Sir Edmund's wife and property." He took Alfie's pole and continued more softly, as though speaking to a child. "A wider perspective, as you say, young master. Sir Edmund is a decent man, a good man, unlike his brother at Wardle Hall. That gentleman beat his wife into the grave."
This culture only got more primitive, the more he learned. Alfie grabbed his jacket and struck out for the manor house. After a few steps, he heard a splash as if a small object—about the size of a certain pixie figurine, say—had been tossed in the water, and then Brooks caught up to him, expressionless as always.
THURSDAY
The sun woke Alfie this time, forcing its way through a gap in the curtains and across his face. Only two more days to go. He dressed quickly; he was running out of time to catch Violet alone and present his case. He'd missed her yesterday—she'd been kept in the drawing room by Edmund all day then had gone to bed early with a "digestive complaint." Alfie had been incensed—the damned elixir was doing damage to her internal organs, but he couldn't see a choice to make. He threw on his tight jacket and knotted the tangling shoelaces. He'd have to wait the two days until the technician activated the mesh.
After a late breakfast by himself, he headed down the main hall past the big grandfather clock, determined to find Violet. His map overlay seemed to be completely accurate except the sensor on his phone detected an abandoned priest hole in the sub-basement, covered by a thin layer of wattle. He made a brief note as he hunted for his target.
She was alone in the garden, making fluid strokes on a canvas. Dad had said something about her talent: about how her strong reds and blues made a surreal shimmer; far more bold and expressive than the pale watercolors painted by most Victorian women. The few paintings that had survived to Alfie's Time were priceless. Part of his assignment was to find out how she mixed her oils. Mass spectrometry showed each hue consisted of dozens of chemicals but the methodology was unclear.
"Good morning, Alfred. I do so like the morning light," she said. "It works well for en plein air." At his blank look, she clarified, "Painting out of doors. Edmund so dislikes the smell of the oils and the mess of all the powders that Brooks is teaching me to grind and mix."
Brooks. Of course. One question answered. More importantly, though, was how much she believed in Edmund's goals. He drew in a breath, aware his next question might piss her off. "Am I correct in my understanding? Edmund is expecting you to simply think yourself out of the cabinet into another world?"
"I have the utmost faith that if Edmund says I can, then I can." She picked up a slender, stiff-looking brush, barely touched it to a strong blue on her palette, and made a few precise additions to the canvas, bracing her trembling wrist with her left hand. She had the prettiest eyes.
"And if you can't?"
She arched an eyebrow at him. Yep, he was pissing her off.
Soon it wouldn't matter. On Saturday, he'd violate the rules and simply throw the mesh over both of them. She could spend the rest of her life Uptime painting oils and ignoring him. At least, she'd be safe.
If she didn't die from poisoning first.
"And you have faith in the white liquid, the awful elixir?" Alfie said, waving an arm in frustration. His elbow banged the easel and he grabbed it just in time.
"I do wish it didn't taste so wretched nor cause such awful internal discomfort." Her mouth twisted.
Oh, Violet. Maybe she wouldn't last until Saturday. Maybe today's elixir would be the fatal overdose. Maybe Edmund had forged the next two days of diary entries as a cover-up.
"Listen to me! Please!" He clutched her shoulder. "Don't drink it!"
"Sir! You forget yourself!" She twisted away, surprisingly strong. A stray hair clung to her shoulder and he grabbed it and stuffed it his pants pocket, nestling it against the phone's sensor. If her lead poisoning was too severe, her lifespan too short, then her value as an artist in his Time was limited. The phone informed him that her condition was reversible for kidney and intestinal damage and "probably" for neurological damage. The government might not have approved her as a target if they knew that. They might even pull Dad's time travel license if she lost her special skill too quickly.
Over decades, the time travel rules had been honed by the government down to four criteria. First, targets had to be of a unique and demonstrated artistic skill. They also needed to have a fatal tragedy occurring near the time of the snatch to prevent any Timeline disruption. And they needed to be childless. Violet had been chosen on the strength of those three. It was up to Alfie to arrange for the fourth criteria: a willingness to go Uptime.
He rubbed his stomach. "I do apologize, Aunt Violet. But, what if you could get away? What if you could travel to another place? You could sell your paintings, you could teach painting, you could start again."
"What, leave my husband and hearth and home? Sell my art like a common hawker?" She smiled indulgently, put down her brush, and cocked her head at the painting. "Silly boy."
Just before Alfie had stepped onto the platform and wrapped himself in the mesh, Dad had drawn him aside. "Son, that fourth point. The target's must give informed consent. It's important. You can't just kidnap the target. I almost lost my license a few times, trying to save lives." He'd cited examples: an Etruscan musician snatched unconscious during a house fire; a Roman poet grabbed just as she was about to be swept away in a flood. "I don't do that anymore. You'll have to make some tough choices. If you return without the snatch, I won't blame you." He'd hugged Alfie then.
As Alfie had wrapped himself in the mesh and watched the technician tap a screen, he'd wanted to shout back at Dad. The choice didn't seem all that tough. How could you leave someone behind, if you were certain they were about to die?
He had to keep trying. How to give her the information she needed for informed consent? He could show her the mesh but keeping it secret had been Dad's strictest instruction. And it wasn't impressive-looking anyway. He reached into his baggy pants, pulled out his pouch of Uptime possessions, and dug into it. "This is my phone. It does, um, a lot of things." Showing it to her violated Dad's second strictest instruction.
Violet glanced over. "Is it a timepiece, perhaps?"
"Um, yes, it can tell time." He clicked a few buttons. "And it's a, um, phonograph, too. I'll play a song." He maximized the volume on his favorite NanoBoys song, Dekin' Out, and held it up to Violet's ear, careful not to touch her finely styled hair. What a great beat!
"A curious buzz, as if angry bees. And elements of a thunderstorm. Quite amusing, young Alfred."
He'd smuggled a few toys past the tech. Maybe he should show her the night vision goggles next. Or, yeah, the Gone-zo canister.
"Watch this, Aunt Vi." He sprayed Gone-zo on his fingers and watched his thumb disappear. It was so cool. The latest thing on the market, Uptime.
"Saints have mercy!" Violet put a hand up to her throat.
"It's just a really fine powder. Watch," he said as he wiped it off on his shirt, leaving a faint grey smear. "I've just redistributed the reflective molecules and it's now like any sort of dust." He held up the little silver container. "No magic, just pure science."
"Science? Indeed? The wonder of it all."
Oh, Violet. The things you would learn when you get to the twenty-first century. Alfie smiled. This must be how a parent feels when he sees his child take their first wobbly step.
Violet glanced at the sun and picked up her palette, immersed in her canvas again.
Choose your battles, Dad always said, and now Alfie understood what he meant. The hell with gaining her consent. Violet was coming with him, whether she agreed to or not.
FRIDAY
"Thank you for the book, young master." Brooks closed Alfie's bedroom door behind him. His hair was slightly mussed and he had bags under his eyes. He pulled the slim volume of John Stuart Mill's 'On Liberty' from beneath his shirt and laid it on the night table. "Most illuminating. The tyranny of the upper classes is quite apparent upon proper and close examination. The concept of the individual's sovereignty over body and mind was especially intriguing."
"You finished it already?" Alfie was glad he'd managed to have it delivered to the house by post yesterday without Edmund knowing. "Way to read fast. I know you were busy with a visitor last night, you sly dog. I heard those noises from your room again."
"I have absolutely no idea what you're on about. I couldna sleep so I read until dawn." Brooks looked more alarmed than Alfie's small joke warranted, and his accent was less refined than usual.
Alfie lay back on the feather pillows. The moon was just rising, spilling light across his covers. Brooks wasn't the only one who was exhausted. Edmund had spent the entire day proclaiming himself an authority on the supernatural world, everything from faeries to psychics. Alfie had almost bitten through his tongue. At dinner, over rubbery eels in a slimy sauce, Edmund stated that Violet would need to drink an additional glass of elixir each day until she could enter the Other Kingdom at will.
Violet had retired to her chambers right after the cheese course, and Alfie had heard her weeping for quite a while. He didn't know how she was going to make it until tomorrow afternoon. Brook's handcrafted pixie had worked against her.
Brooks cleared his throat. "May I be excused, sir? The cook has asked me to—"
"Who was that last night? Who's the lucky person?" Alfie smiled, picturing stuffy old Brooks getting laid two nights in a row.
"Good sir. Please. You are most mistaken." Brooks stopped fixing his shirt and put a hand on the wall as if he might fall over.
"Aw, you're upset. I thought I heard some unhappy voices last night too. Did you break up with whoever it was?" Alfie gave him a sympathetic look. If he could, he'd take Brooks, Brooks' lover, the other stable workers, and the horses too, but the mesh could only transport two people. Something to do with mass calibration, the technician had said.
Suddenly it stuck him that the second voice last night had had an Irish lilt. "I bet I know who he is. The horse groom, O'Malley, right? You poor guy. Sorry I laughed. Breakups are hard."
Sweat beaded on Brooks' forehead and he reached for the doorknob. "I know you are young, Master Alfred, but please don't be cruel. My livelihood and liberty are at—"
The knock on the door was low and hesitant.
"Young Alfred? Is Brooks with you? I need him for a moment, if you please." The voice was Violet's.
"Come on in," Alfie said, sitting up.
Violet opened the door a few centimeters. "Oh, no, that would be unseemly. However, I do need Brooks ever so much..." Tendrils of hair clung to her damp cheeks.
Brooks stood stock still, his jaw clenched. "Mistress Wardle," he said, with a slight bow, loose shirttail forgotten.
"Um, okay, I'll leave. You two use my room to chat." Alfie climbed down from the high bed and past Violet into the hall. Violet hesitated and then entered, closing his door behind her. He laid his ear against the door and listened, telling himself it was in the interests of his report.
Brooks' voice was indistinct but some words carried through the door. "Wax figurine...cobalt blue...threw it in the creek...can make you a larger one..."
Violet's voice was sharp with despair. "...Other Kingdom tomorrow...not possible...don't know what to do!"
Edmund's footsteps clunked on the stairs and Alfie jumped.
"Violet, where are you? We need to practice. Time and tide, you know."
"She's with Brooks, Uncle Edmund, in my room, just having a chat." Alfie swung open his bedroom door as Edmund entered the hallway.
"What, in your rooms!" Edmund marched past, eyes hard.
Alfie followed, suddenly feeling underdressed in only pajamas.
Brooks was tucking in his shirt and Violet's hands shook in her disheveled hair.
"God in Heaven! Brooks! What's the meaning of this!" Fists clenched, Edmund turned bright red.
"An error in judgment, Edmund, I do apologize," Violet said, squaring her shoulders.
"Bleeding Hell, woman!"
"I can explain, sir—," Brooks began, then faltered.
"They were just talking, Uncle Edmund. No harm done. Aunt Violet's a bit upset about tomorrow's gig and Brooks is consoling her. That's all." Alfie patted Edmund's shoulder. "They weren't having sex or anything." From the look on all three faces, maybe he shouldn't have said that last bit. Victorians seemed to have weird ideas about normal activities.
"Restrain your mouth, boy. Violet, to our chambers."
"No, really, Uncle Edmund. You don't have to worry about ol' Brooks, here. He's gay. Um, homosexual?" A quick subvocalization and his phone provided more appropriate phrases. "'Comradely love', you know? 'The love that dares not speak its name?'" Whoops, that wouldn't be common phrasing for another seven years. Good thing small anachronisms didn't impact the Timeline.
"Brooks, do you admit to this filth?"
"No, sir, I swear!"
The false note in Brooks' voice must have been clear to everyone. Violet put a hand over her mouth as Edmund sputtered into his beard. "Confine yourself to your room. I shall call the constable."
Brooks bowed then stumbled down the hall.
"Edmund, dear, no need to be so extreme. Brooks is so very necessary to your scientific work. I think, if you reconsider, you may see the situation in a different light." Violet's new-found confidence was apparent in her speech and the way she held Edmund's elbow, guiding him out. You go, girl!
Edmund allowed himself to be led, but over his shoulder, he said to Alfie, "Young sir, I think you had best shorten your stay here and return to the bosom of your family."
Why had they all reacted so strongly to Brooks' nighttime romps? Alfie closed the door behind him, then asked the phone to dig deeper into Victorian morals.
After a moment, he fell back on the bed. He'd effectively just killed someone. His phone screen leered up at him with statistics about men convicted of "gross indecency." Most didn't survive the two-year sentence at Newgate Prison, dying of inmate beatings within the first week.
Wild plans careened through his mind. What if he left Violet behind on Saturday to protect Brooks, as well as herself? No, Violet was to die of lead poisoning anyway in a month or two. And what if Brooks then killed Edmund to protect his lover? The phone assured him that the premature death of such a locally important man would rattle the Timeline enough to cause hundreds of deaths.
Alfie forced himself to consider other possibilities: If he killed Edmund, which he really doubted he could bring himself to do, the phone predicted that Edmund's brother, the wife beater, would inherit. Violet would be forced to live with him. If Alfie then killed the brother as well—even the thought of it brought back his nausea—he'd endanger the Timeline even further. Neither of the men's obituaries had been written for several decades from now.
The moon glinted on the angles and corners of the bedroom's hard furniture. He flipped himself over and pressed his face in the pillows. Time was not elastic enough to return ever again to this place and time, even if the government permitted it.
No matter what he did next, someone was going to die.
SATURDAY
Alfie entered the tidied-up drawing room, unnoticed by the dozen or so people gathered there. Edmund had spent the morning dashing around in the room instructing the gardener how to rearrange chairs and chesterfields to suit the performance. Now the room had a party vibe, Victorian-style: all polite comments, cheery greetings, and genteel laughter.
Brooks had been locked in his room all night, Edmund had announced at breakfast, reassuring everyone that the deranged lunatic would not escape. The police would be called right after the gathering this afternoon.
Alfie yawned and slumped into a chair at end of a row, one with a good view of the cabinet. He hadn't slept much putting his plan into action, trying to circumvent every outcome but the one he wanted. Dad had been right about something else—making decisions without full information was stomach-hurtingly awful.
A grimly smiling Violet worked her way across the room. When she passed him, he breathed in her special lemon perfume. There wouldn't be any of that, Uptime.
Their whispered conversation, in the hallway after breakfast, had ended in an arms-length sort of hug. Surprisingly, Violet had seemed to understand the deal he offered her and the things he requested she do. She'd even agreed to throw away today's glass of elixir. He shouldn't have underestimated the intelligence of people in this era.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we are delighted that you are here to witness the taming of the spirit realm, the mastery of mankind over the natural and supernatural worlds." Edmund spread his arms wide as he spoke and his eyes shone. Showmanship, yeah, that was part of it for Edmund, the schmuck, but it seemed that he really did believe in a ghost world. Alfie's report would have to include something about the complexity of the male Victorian gentleman.
"Using inventions of my own devising, we shall be the first to witness my dear Violet explore the Other World and return unharmed to our fair land."
The audience laughed nervously and murmured to themselves.
Alfie folded his arms. This was going to be good.
Edmund asked a burly man in a herringbone suit to investigate the cabinet and rap his knuckles firmly on each side. "Solid as the Queen's throne," the man declared as he reseated himself on his chair, its slender legs creaking.
"Violet, my dear, come forward."
Chin held high, Violet entered the box. She sat on the bench next to the purple lamp and a full glass of the elixir and smoothed her skirts under her. It seemed like Alfie watched her do that a hundred times. The chainsaw incident last week—why hadn't he read the manual first?—and even last Monday, the day he'd arrived here without preparation, seemed a lifetime ago. He tried to fix her image in his mind.
Edmund directed the gardener to draw the heavy velvet curtains. He spoke a few more words in a dramatic tone and switched on the lamp. The audience gave appreciative sighs as the lamp and glass of elixir glowed eerily beside Violet's pale face.
The thump as the cabinet door closed made several audience members jump. Edmund's voice rang a bit too loudly. "Listen, listen carefully, my friends. Perhaps we shall hear Violet enter the Other Realm."
Alfie cocked his head obediently but heard nothing but a lark out in the garden and a discreet cough by a woman in a black mourning dress.
His stomach gurgled and he massaged it before reluctantly tiptoeing out into the hall. Seeing Edmund's face, when he realized the cabinet was empty, would be hugely fun but it was almost three o'clock.
The front hallway was deserted. Even the upstairs maid was at the gathering, her feather duster leaning now against the grandfather clock.
In their hurried conversation, Violet had promised Alfie she would hide her future completed canvases in the priest hole. In turn, Alfie had promised to retrieve them and display them to his Time's art lovers. Violet was a bit confused by that but seemed pleased that she would bring joy to others.
Just as he reached the rear staircase, the shouts and cries of the audience filled the hallway. It had worked! Violet had disappeared! And with the amount of Gone-zo dust in the tiny canister, she could turn invisible hundreds of times, simply brushing it off when she wanted to reappear.
Alfie hoped (and the phone seemed to agree) that Edmund would be so charmed with her magical abilities, he would treat her like a queen for the rest of her life. The elixir wouldn't be necessary since she could apparently "go to the Other Realm" at will.
Violet was as safe as Alfie could make her. As a "mere woman", her modified date of death was too insignificant to affect the Timeline. She could happily keep painting another few decades, living fully as long as this barbaric time usually allowed.
And Edmund could live until his slated time to die. It all seemed to hang together, no lives lost, as long as the next step worked out.
Alfie squared his shoulders and bounded down the stairs to the servants' level.
Brooks' door was closed. The phone said there was a low probability that he'd run off last night, and Alfie, with his new-found knowledge about these people—Hell, about people everywhere, and everywhen—had felt the same. But maybe he was wrong.
He knocked gently. "Brooks?"
The butler opened it from the inside, and Alfie almost laughed. Brooks was as expert at lock picking as he was at chemistry and woodworking. No question, Brooks was an amazingly skilled artist. And, the second criteria fit too: the man was certainly doomed. And the third: no paper trail. As for the fourth, well, Alfie still had a few minutes.
Brooks' fists were up like a boxer's.
Alfie drew the mesh from his pouch. "You know what we talked about? Freedom from persecution and all that?"
Brooks raised his fists higher. "I got nothin' to lose now by beating ya to a pulp, ya little shit."
Alfie glanced at his phone. One minute left to get Brook's informed consent. Not enough time for the full speech he'd prepared last night. He bit his lip. "How'd you like to go there, to that wondrous land of which I have spoken of?"
"Go there? Like they'd want the likes of me!"
"They would, Brooks, they would. And I've given a...valuable object to your Irish buddy. He'll be able to sell it for enough cash to make a new life somewhere else. You can't be together ever again and I'm sorry, but you don't have to worry about him." He'd skinned both knees stumbling back from the stablehands' quarters last night in the pitch black, but giving O'Malley the night vision goggles hadn't been a difficult choice.
Brooks lowered a fist. "O'Malley will be all right? And Canada? They'd take me?"
"The world won't be what you're used to, not at all, but you'll be able to make a living, be your own person." He shook out the mesh. "What do you say? Are you willing to make a decision without full information? Will you come?"
Brooks nodded.
Alfie had done his best. He drew the mesh over Brooks' shoulders then his own.
Upstairs, the clock chimed three.