“Are you sure you don’t want to come?”
“Yeah. I’m kind of tired. I might be coming down with something.” I avoided Analeigh’s gaze by snuggling into my bed and rolling toward the wall. I’d shoved the chip back in my wrist while I’d been in the bathroom, the sound of running water covering my muffled groan.
I needed to grab some clear, adhesive bandages from the infirmary so the wound wouldn’t get infected in between travels. Some healing salve wouldn’t hurt, either.
Analeigh paused for a moment in my bedroom doorway, looking torn between giving me space and being terrified I’d disappear like Jonah had if she let me out of her sight. Finally, she sighed softly and flipped the lights off on her way out of the suite.
The shower had given me time to think and for the first time in days, a boy other than Caesarion filled my thoughts. My mind turned over Oz’s secret comings and goings, and no rational explanation came to mind. If Oz had gone rogue, traveling alone and observing without authorization, someone had to stop him. Someone should stop me, too, because I didn’t have the willpower to cease and desist on my own, but since no one had, that left me free to follow Oz.
The halves of me—the one in love with my calling as a Historian, and the one connected to Caesarion—were at war, but if Oz was taking chances that could affect us all, the Elders needed to know.
First, I needed proof. The suspicions I had, based on his bio info reflecting odd times and places, wouldn’t be enough. He would claim a system error, and I could end up drawing attention where it would be potentially disastrous—onto myself. His father being an Elder, they would believe Oz in a game of He Said, She Said between the two of us.
With everyone out at Stars for the next hour or two, I could travel back and follow him to England earlier tonight. Try to get answers. Traveling alone twice in the same day counted as reckless, but I had to know what he was up to. If he could help me.
I didn’t want to waste time figuring out clothes, so I ran to the wardrobe closet and grabbed a generic black trench coat that fell to my knees, knotting it securely around my waist. My leggings and black flats showed, but with my glasses and hair twisted into a knot under a kerchief, no one in 1714 England would spare me a second glance.
The air lock registered a different certified Historian’s name this time when I swiped my wrist. The tech must have been programmed to switch it up, which eased my anxiety further.
The laws of physics prevented Historians from crossing paths on different trips in the same past—like, we didn’t see the previous groups of apprentices observing Caesar’s death or the Triangle Fire. There was some intricate set of principles that made it impossible, but I didn’t need to understand them to work as a Historian. Those worries belonged to the Science Academy. Essentially, the only way to watch Oz was to go with him, so I’d have to travel back in Sanchi to when he’d left, then leave from there. I set the dials on Jonah’s travel cuff for ten minutes before Oz’s departure, then whispered “Air lock, Historian Academy, Sanchi,” into the tiny speaker.
I disappeared and reappeared in the same place, just about an hour and a half ago. I reset the dials and requested a trip to “Norwich, England, Outskirts,” hoping the vague instructions worked.
*
Norwich, England, Earth Before–1714 CE (Common Era)
The soft landing in the middle of nowhere pleased me. Beautiful, rugged coastline stretched out for miles, all green and browns, trees giving way to waist-high grasses before easing into sand and rock that took a beating from the crashing surf. There wasn’t time to admire it, and a quick request for the route into town brought up a map on the lenses in front of my eyes. The hike into town took the better part of an hour and sweat trickled down my back, partly from the exercise and partly fear that I would miss Oz’s arrival.
The town of Norwich yawned in front of me, paved with quaint cobblestone streets and pretty, sturdily crafted storefronts, row houses, and churches. A gazebo sat in the middle of the town square. The market bustled with people out shopping for bread or cheese or new clothes for the squalling children they towed through the streets behind them. There were women in full skirts chattering around a round marble fountain that burbled and twinkled in the morning sun, and men in suits walked with purpose into money changers’ offices or held heated discussions, pipes dangling from their lips.
The brain stem tat returned Oz’s location in response to my query, but his wardrobe blended so well it almost fooled me. The fact that he looked super handsome caused me to do a double take. He strode purposefully down the main street, clad in expensive gray silk, knee-length breeches and a matching waistcoat, paired with off-white stockings and a linen shirt. A darker gray frock coat and a bicorn hat on his head finished off the look, though if my bio-tat hadn’t been working overtime spewing information, the details would have escaped me.
It all fit him perfectly, stretched across his broad shoulders and accentuating things on the rear end of Oz I’d never considered assets before today. I must be off my nut, checking out Oz’s ass in broad daylight.
My idle admirations screeched to a halt, every muscle in my body tensing, when I noticed the Gavreau strapped in the belt at his waist. The sight dropped a leaden ball into my stomach.
There was no good reason to bring a sonic waver on an observation.
Oz whipped around, as though sensing my eyes or my steps dogging his. I turned my face away at the same moment I registered how the gray coat brought out his eyes, and ducked behind a group of women waiting in line to buy fresh bread. The smell of it cooking filled the air, and brought back the sharp memory of sharing a snack with Caesarion. My heart pounded so hard my ribs hurt.