Chapter XLI:
The Dictum

SANDY MY HUSBAND became a far better man than Sandy my GM, Sandy my personal assistant, or even Sandy my lover ever had been. He mellowed considerably, much to his colleagues’ relief. While he still took very seriously his role as my protector, his methods became refined to a sharp reprimand or a withering glare, rather than instigating an all-out brawl. Frankly, I missed the brawls: muscles pumping, limbs flailing, throats growling, sweat spraying, blood spattering, all working in concert toward the inevitable conclusion. But since the rest of the front-office denizens were happier with the new and improved Sandy Carter, I remained silent on the matter.

It was only fair that I allowed Sandy to transform me into a better woman.

We decided not to have children for several reasons, not the least of which being that we both were extremely busy. Yes, we could have shunted the child off to nannies and tutors and, eventually, to that grand invention for the rich and parentally challenged, boarding school; but that is no life for a child. I remain very proud of the fact that I had raised my son of a different lifetime, Uwaine, through the bulk of his formative years with very little help from servants, save when my duties as queen demanded my attention elsewhere. Let the record attest that Uwaine grew to become one of Arthur’s most trusted knights, certainly more trustworthy than his own son Mordred had proved to be.

The level of parenting I had lavished upon Uwaine, however, is nothing short of exhausting. The constant teaching and correcting, punctuated by illnesses and injuries that call for round-the-clock bedside vigils… I harbored no wish to dive into that turbulent sea once again.

Then there was the matter of my eventual leaving—that is to say, returning to that place in time wherein the day of Sandy’s birth would be centuries upon centuries in the dawning. It was the one thing about which we never spoke, and yet he knew it as surely as if I walked about with the news emblazoned across my forehead. I did not want to leave him, and he knew that, too. But I never belonged in this time, never intended to stay here—certainly never for as many years as I had already done—and he was man enough to allow me the choice. If for no other reason than that, I shall always love him and shall never forget my once and future love.

Sandy and I were discussing team matters in my office when Amanda entered to announce:

“Ambrose Josiah Hinton to see you, madame.”

I locked gazes with Sandy; my intuition blared its warning. Ambrose’s visit had not been expected—but he was not unexpected, either. In that one long moment, I drank in all Sandy’s beloved features one last time, engraving them in the corridors of my memory, as he was drinking in mine.

Sandy said in an endearingly hopeful way, “Do you want me to stay?”

I wish he had not phrased it that way; of course I wanted him to stay! Of a sudden I had never wanted anything more acutely in my life. But sometimes wants have nothing to do with the way things must be. I said as gently as I knew how:

“If Ambrose has come all this way to speak with me, then I suspect he would prefer a private audience. Do not worry, my love, I shall be fine.” I conveyed my further assurances with a kiss that I hoped was more convincing to Sandy than I felt.

“I’ll wait on the other side of the door. If there’s a problem, just give a shout, and I’ll be here in an instant.”

Our second—and final—kiss felt deeper and sweeter than all its numberless predecessors combined. It took my full exertion of will to keep the tears from slipping free. At last we parted. He rose, stooped to brush his lips across the top of my head, and left my office.

Sandy is—was—will be—such a daisy.

Ambrose swaggered in, and my unshed tears evaporated as if they had never been. Before the door swung to, I noticed he had not arrived alone. Dan Dowley, Douglas Blacklance, and several other ex-Congressfolk had shoved their way into the antechamber only to be held at bay by Sandy and Amanda. The unemployed politicians were not wearing their advertising devices, and their demeanors and bearings suggested the radiation had not done its work on them, either. A cold rage began smoldering within my breast, even as I feigned cordiality toward my “guest.”

As he approached my desk, eschewing my offer of a seat, I noticed he held in his hand a larger version of the time-folding device I had researched. I could not resist taunting him:

“What are you going to do, Ambrose, send me back in time an entire hour?” Suspecting he would not have made the trek if this was all the power his device contained, I slipped my hand into my open desk drawer, withdrew the bound sheaf that was this chronicle, and surreptitiously transferred it to my lap.

His chuckle was an ugly sound, merciless and menacing. “A bit farther than that, I think. But first we have some things to discuss, you and I.”

“Indeed. Whatever could I possibly wish to discuss with you?”

“Have you never wondered why your time-manipulation spell misfired by two centuries?”

Constantly, but I refused to grant him that satisfaction. “Pray, do tell.”

He held the device aloft. “On the day you arrived here, I activated its cousin, intending to bring forward King Arthur to be an adviser for my wife’s re-election campaign. Your magic disrupted the technology, and I retrieved you instead.”

I trilled a laugh. “Please, my dear Ambrose. Lies do not become you—though they drip ever so easily from your tongue. You never intended for Arthur to advise your wife. You planned to consult with him regarding how you might make yourself king.”

His steady gray gaze carried a measure of grudging respect. “I see your nickname of ‘The Wise’ is well earned, Morgan le Fay. It took my lab far too many years to engineer this version from its predecessor. Perhaps if even one of my scientists had been just half as clever as you…” Knuckles braced on the desktop like a great gray ape, he leaned toward me, grinning maliciously. “No matter. Now that you have made Malory for all intents and purposes queen, it will be child’s play to make myself king in her stead… once I have rid myself of you.”

He slapped the time-folding device onto the back of my hand. A little red light that I had not noticed before was blinking madly, and I could feel the device heating and bonding to my skin. Rather than waste precious futile seconds trying to pull it off, cat-quick I grasped Ambrose’s wrist. Wielding a sword during countless knighthood ceremonies has gifted me with a passing strong grip. Never have I seen any man’s eyes widen so far or bulge with so much fear. With my other hand I clutched the chronicle.

“No! Let me go!”

It was my turn to grin at him, even though the heat radiating from the device was becoming unbearable. If with my last ounce of strength I could shield Malory Beckham Hinton from her husband’s murderous intentions, I would count the pain well worthwhile.

In the blinding flash that followed, I fancied I could make out the image of Sandy bursting into the room, ever my protector even unto the last. What he witnessed I shall never know… but if his sorrow is—was—will be—as profound as the sorrow that consumed me in that final instant, then Sandy Carter and I are—were—will be—well matched indeed.