Authors: Anne Kelleher
“So you can send us back. You know how it works.”
“Well.” He put his hands on his hips and nodded once. “I have a good idea how it works.”
“Just a good idea?”
“It took us a hundred years to perfect it. This.” He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the window. “This maze is as rough and crude as they come—no offense, man,” he said, addressing Geoffrey. “It’s built of hedge. Have you any idea of the thousands of nooks and crannies within that hedge? And this is the first time it’s ever worked.”
“Yeah, why?” asked Alison. “How come it worked for us and not for Geoffrey?”
“There are several reasons. One of them involves mass. The two of you together—you and your friend—reached the critical mass level that is necessary to trigger the primitive mechanism of this maze, if you will. That’s not exactly how it works, but it’s the clearest illustration I can think to give you. And the other reason is part of the reason I’m here. It only works in reverse. You can go back in time, and then forward, but you can’t go forward and then backward.”
“Why not?” Alison asked.
“We don’t know,” Dee answered. “We just don’t know.”
Alison looked at Geoffrey. “Are you okay?”
“I haven’t begun to babble yet.” He looked up at her and then at Dee. “All this time…”
“Geoffrey, I do hope you can understand why.”
“I suppose I can.” Geoffrey sat back with folded arms.
His initial shock had subsided in a kind of quiet daze. “But now what?”
“Well, we need to determine when the next time the door, so to speak, will open. It’s a seesaw sort of thing, constantly in motion. Not that it actually moves—”
“It’s all right.” Alison interrupted. “You can explain it more to us later. Is there something we can do to help you?”
Dee gazed into space. “Yes,” he said finally. “The two of you get out there and begin to measure every possible angle of that maze. Even a slight variation in degree could be the answer. And in the meantime, I’ll cast the horoscopes—so to speak. That’s not exactly what I’m going to do, but it’s what my sixteenth-century alter ego would say. You must give me the exact time of day, young woman, as close to the minute as you can remember—” He broke off when the look on Alison’s face made it clear what her answer would be. “Ah.” He sighed. “Do your best. We’ll make it work.”
“Well.” she said uncertainly. “I can tell you this much. There was an eclipse.”
“An eclipse!” He looked up eagerly. “Solar or lunar?”
“Uh, solar. I guess. They told us not to look at the sun.” For a moment, she was confused by the sudden demand. “Yes, of course it was a solar eclipse.” She glanced at Geoffrey, who avoided meeting her eyes. Inwardly she sighed. Last night had been a mistake, after all, she realized. She watched Geoffrey for a moment as he gathered up the surveying equipment, parchment, and pens, then turned her attention back to Dee. “You didn’t know that?”
“No,” Dee replied. “I don’t because you don’t.”
“But I do know.”
“You know about the eclipse. But you don’t know exactly how or why that fits into the equation, so to speak.” He paused, clearly searching for how best to explain it. “Can I explain it later?”
Alison gave a short laugh. “I’m sorry. I said that, didn’t I?” She glanced over at Geoffrey, who was watching this exchange with an inscrutable expression on his face.
“Will you come with me?” he asked.
“Of course.” She glanced at Dr. Dee, but he was absorbed in his ephemeris, a huge book of astrological positions.
When they reached the maze, Geoffrey set the equipment on the grassy path. “I suppose we should start at the beginning.”
“Geoffrey,” Alison began. He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Can we talk?”
He drew a deep breath and looked at her with a troubled expression. “All right.” He nodded over his shoulder. “Shall we walk?”
“Through the maze? Aren’t you afraid we might come out in another time?”
He appeared to smile in spite of himself. “Not really,” he answered ruefully.
They started off in silence. The sun was warm between the tall green hedges, and the short grass tickled her bare ankles beneath the long skirts. Fortunately, an Elizabethan woman wasn’t expected to wear quite so many layers around the house as Olivia wore for traveling. “Listen,” she said at last, after several twists and turns had taken them deeper into the maze, out of earshot of any who might linger on the periphery, “about last night—”
“I beg your forgiveness,” he burst out. He swung around to face her, and she was startled by his look of agonized contrition. “I’m so sorry—it won’t happen again—it must not happen again—I cannot tell you—”
“Geoffrey, why are you so upset?” She stared at him, tempted to take his chin in her hand and force him to look at her. “Don’t you think I wanted it to happen, too?”
“Alison, don’t talk like that—” He broke off in obvious frustration, turned away, and shook his head. “Nicholas will see me hanged.” He swore softly beneath his breath.
“What is it?” she asked softly.
He shook his head again, his back still to her. She could see the tension in his shoulders. “What if there’s a child?”
For a moment she was puzzled, and then remembered. No birth control. No messy lotions, no convenient pills. No condoms. She’d been at the beginning of her last packet of pills when they’d arrived in the future. Sooner or later she’d have a period if they stayed much longer. Which opened up a whole other set of problems, but she wasn’t going into all that now. “Listen,” she said. “It’s fine. There’s not going to be a child, at least not because of last night. I can promise you that. You’re right, you know—we got carried away, and it shouldn’t have happened, maybe, but—”
“Maybe? Don’t you realize the risk?”
“Of a pregnancy? Sure I do—I do this all the time—” She broke off as he looked shocked. “Not
that—damn
it, Geoffrey. Look, I can see you’re really upset about what happened, and I’m terribly sorry that you’re so upset, but I’m not going to apologize for wanting what we did. I loved making love with you last night. It was…” she hesitated, then plunged in. “Wonderful. And I’m not sorry at all.” He had turned to face her, and the expression on his face was so nearly comical, she almost laughed aloud. But she read the expression in his light brown eyes, and suddenly she only felt sorry for him. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re afraid of?”
He drew a deep breath. “I am afraid,” he said slowly. “You’re right, you know? I’m afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Of—of so many things, really.” He looked like a little boy, despite the dark haze of beard on his cheeks, and the fact that their eyes were nearly even. “If you can’t return, and we continued to—” He broke off. “If there were a child, you’d be ruined here. Unless I married you, and Nicholas—I’m not saying I wouldn’t want to do that, but Nicholas—” He broke off again and shook his head. “You just can’t imagine.”
“Oh, I can imagine, all right.” She held out her hand.
“Look, Geoffrey. First of all, I
must
go back. Now that Dee’s here—well, obviously he knows how it works.
“There’s absolutely no doubt in my mind that Olivia and I are returning to my own time. I don’t belong here and we both know that. As far as you marrying me and Nicholas being angry—well, that sort of presumes I would consent to marry you, doesn’t it?”
“What choice would you have?”
It was her turn to take a deep breath. “We always have choices, Geoffrey. In my time, there’re ways to prevent conception—reliable ways. I’m perfectly safe right now. If I stay here much longer, I won’t be, but for right now it’s fine. There’s really nothing to worry about. Last night doesn’t have to happen again. Don’t you realize that?”
“Of course I do,” he said. He dragged his toe through the grass. “But that’s not what I want.”
Unbidden, Mick Jagger’s raspy voice ran through her mind.
You can’t always get what you want—
With a sigh, she pushed the words away. Geoffrey might be ready for a world of computers, electricity, and flush toilets, but the cynicism of rock and roll was probably still beyond him. “It’s not what I want, either” was all she said. She gestured back over her shoulder. “I think we should get to work, don’t you?”
“Yes,” he said. He took her hand and gave it a slight squeeze before releasing it. “I think so, too.”
HE WAS WAITING beneath the arch where the statue of the Blessed Virgin smiled so serenely down on the rows of lighted candles. The afternoon breeze was cool and blew through the open doors. The candle flames flickered in unison. Olivia tugged at her bodice. The girl, Aliza, was not so accomplished as either the maid, Molly, in Dover, nor old Janet. She made up in good temper what she lacked in experience, though, even if her heavily accented English was doubly difficult for Olivia to understand. Now she pulled at her top garment, and wished she’d had the foresight to ask Nicholas to help her before they’d left the inn. She shifted anxiously on the prie-dieu, her knees aching, despite the bulky petticoats, and tried to twist around as surreptitiously as possible. Nicholas knelt beside her, his hands clasped as though in prayer, eyes closed.
“Eyes front, good wife,” he murmured.
Olivia made a little noise of protest but did as he said, settling her bulky skirts more comfortably beneath her knees. She bent her head in what she hoped appeared to be a posture of devout prayer.
Footsteps rang on the stone floor of the little church, echoing in the empty gloom. Olivia’s heart beat faster, and beside her, she felt Nicholas tense. The footsteps came closer, the swift of boot heels on the stone. She kept her eyes lowered to her hands, laced tightly.
A dark-haired monk slipped beside Nicholas and knelt, crossing himself as he lit a candle before the statue. “Master Stephen Steele?”
Nicholas nodded.
“Would you care to see the roses blooming in the churchyard, Master Stephen? I understand you have a strong interest in horticulture.”
Nicholas smiled tightly. “Indeed I do, Father. How astute of you to notice.”
“The eye of God sees all.” The monk crossed himself once more and rose, this time including Olivia in his gaze. She glanced down, just in time to see polished boots beneath his black habit. He linked his hands beneath his wide black sleeves. “And you, Senora Steele. Will you walk with us?”
Olivia rose to her feet, smiling shyly. Her heart pounded so hard she was amazed no one could hear it. She followed the two men out the side door, and into a walled cloister, where vines of late-blooming roses covered the walls so closely that it seemed almost impossible that they could be in the middle of a city.
“We may enjoy a fair measure of privacy here.” the Spaniard said.
“You are Don Iago?”
The Spaniard bowed and smiled. “At your service.”
‘The plans?”
The Spaniard coughed discreetly and placed a hand beside his mouth. “You English are so impetuous. We will discuss the plans, as soon as I’ve talked to your wife.”
Olivia raised her head and exchanged a startled glance with Nicholas, hoping that her face retained its smooth mask. Suddenly, she felt very sure the Spaniard was armed beneath his black clerical garb. She forced herself to smile. “With me, my lord?”
“Sí,
Senora Steele. My master craves the story as you alone can tell it. Tell me, in as much detail as you desire, of the last days of Queen Mary.”
Olivia lowered her eyes, frozen to the spot. Her mouth went dry, and suddenly she understood with awful clarity that Nicholas had been sent, unknowing and unprepared, into a trap. And suddenly she knew, too, that the information he’d been given was woefully incomplete. The English could not have wrung the full truth from the captured spy. Whoever he was, he’d gone to his death sure in the knowledge that the plans would never fall into the wrong hands. But he’d reckoned without one thing—one ultimately improbable thing.
She raised her face and smiled sweetly at the Spaniard. “It will be my pleasure, Don Iago.” She indicated a stone bench and sank down. “If you will excuse me?”
“But of course, Señora. Forgive my churlishness—it was but my eagerness to hear your story that makes me so heedless of your comfort.”
Nicholas stood as rigid as the stone pillars surrounding the cloister. His face had blanched white when the Spaniard turned to Olivia, and his jaw was clenched. He stared at her with an intensity like a high-beam light.
It’s all right,
she wanted to cry.
Mary, Queen of Scots, was a passion of mine when I was fourteen.
But all she could do was smile at him over the Spaniard’s head, willing him to relax.
The color gradually returned to his cheeks as she began to speak, reciting from memory every shred of fact she could recall of Mary’s last months. Several times, the Spaniard asked a question so probing she knew he knew far more than he admitted, but each time, she managed to recall enough detail that he seemed satisfied with her response.
“And on that final morning—it was Mistress Curle who bound the Queen’s eyes, no?”
“Jane Kennedy had that honor, my lord.” Olivia dared a glance at Nicholas. His shoulders were still tense, but his color was completely normal, and although his eyes were wary, his
mouth
was no longer a thin white line.
“And noon, I think we heard? High noon—the very stroke of twelve?”
“No. It was about ten o’clock in the morning.” She sat back, silent, and folded her hands in her lap.
There was a brief pause. The Spaniard turned to Nicholas. “Your lady-wife tells a remarkable tale, good sir.”
“Aye,” said Nicholas shortly. His eyes met Olivia’s and she knew that he too had realized the trap that had very nearly been sprung.
The Spaniard glanced back at Olivia and gave a brief nod, as if satisfied. “The
Merry Harry
sails again upon the tide tomorrow at noon. I will come to your inn at ten o’clock in the morning to deliver the plans.”
“As you say, Don Iago.” Nicholas exchanged a quick glance with Olivia. She had no way of knowing if this was what he’d been led to expect, but then, it was very clear that whatever information he’d been given was incomplete—woefully incomplete. Neither of them had expected the questioning on Mary Stuart. A chill went down her spine as she realized that without her presence, Nicholas would never have been able to acquire the plans. And what repercussions did that have on her own present?