Gritting my teeth, I moved out to the street. A quick glance at the smoggy sky didn’t help. I thought my path had taken me east of the market, but I couldn’t be sure.
The houses in this area loomed larger than those near Westminster. The streets were wider, cleaner. Here and there, solid-looking three-story buildings had been constructed of new stone, instead of straw-infused mud and wood. A squeak of ropes came from overhead, and I looked up to see a servant hauling in laundry from lines strung across the road, between upper floors.
“Hello,” I shouted. “Please? Can you help—”
A crack ricocheted through the empty street as the shutter slammed.
“. . . me.” I whispered to the empty air.
Loneliness crashed over me, and suddenly all I wanted was to go home. Not some rented hovel in this godforsaken place. Not my aunt’s spook-house of a manor. Home home.
Really? The voice inside me sneered. And what would you do there, huh? Stay with Mother Bea? Bow down and just take all her abuse until your dad and Stella come home? Then what? Could you face it? Waking up every morning of every day for the rest of your life knowing you could’ve saved your mom if you hadn’t been such a coward?
I knew there was only one answer to that question.
Straightening, I inhaled, filling my lungs with smoke-tinged air. My eyes closed instinctively as every map of medieval London I’d ever seen began to reel out from the files in my mind. My fingertips twitched as I discarded one after the other until the one Collum had been studying appeared. I blinked, the map now layered across my vision like a translucent film.
Mabray House. I pivoted to the left. That way. Steadier, I marched off down the muddy street. Then I heard the scream.
“I assume,” Lucinda had said over cups of strong, sugared tea. “That you’ve heard of the Grandfather Paradox? The theory which posits that a man traveling through time cannot affect major events of the past, even if he tries to do so?”
She took a sip of the steaming liquid. “Ah. Good. Well, as you now know from Jonathan’s journals, there are limits to that theory. But allow me to reiterate anyway. If a man wished to go back in time to kill his own grandfather, it would not be possible. Nature would find a way to prevent such a deed, since if he killed his ancestor, the man would not exist to travel back in the first place. Do you see? Now, when it comes to the native people, we are very careful what we do . . . And even more cautious with what we do not do. By the tenets of the Grandfather Paradox, if you are foolish enough to interfere with the course of events, it means you were destined to do so. Do you take my meaning?”
As my aunt’s spoon clinked in her cup, I’d tried to process this new information. If someone was supposed to interfere with past events, did that mean they were destined to be in that place and time? My brain twinged, trying to wrap itself around the implications.
“When Celia was with us,” Lucinda went on, “she claimed the Timeslippers were trying to push the boundaries of the Grandfather Paradox. Fortunately, the Dim limits them as well. Like us, they cannot force it open to a specific time or place. However, with Tesla’s designs, if they locate the Nonius Stone, that could change.
“It’s why we must find it before—” She gave a sudden, violent yawn. When it passed, my aunt had peered at me through watering eyes. “Forgive me. I seem to be a bit fatigued.”
“That’s okay, Aunt Lucinda,” I said. “You don’t have to—”
“But I do,” she said. “So let these words be your guide, Hope. No matter what you see or hear. No matter how badly you may wish it. Do not interfere with—or interject yourself into—any situation that is not of your direct concern.”
As she rose to unsteady feet, I’d brushed off her warning. “Don’t worry about me, Aunt Lucinda. Danger . . . it’s not really my thing.”
I let my head roll back on my shoulders until I was staring up at the smoky London sky. Blowing out a breath, I marched over and pounded on the nearest door. “Hello? Help! I think someone needs help out here!”
Nothing.
The cry came again. Louder. More insistent.
“Crap.” I groaned. “Crap, crap, crap.”
The image of the map faded as I headed toward the sound. At the mouth of the next alley, I crouched behind a pile of straw-lined crates. The sounds of a struggle came from the far end, in the deep shadows cast between two houses.
What am I doing? This is none of my business.
Splintery wood dug into my cheek as I peered around the stack. At first, all I could see were the backs of two men in the black and silver livery of the city guard. Under the control of the London constable, the guard were supposed to watch over the citizens, keeping them safe.
Dark cloaks whipped back and forth in the wind that swirled down the passage, bringing the aromas of manure and filthy snow. I couldn’t see her. The girl. The men had her pinned against the dead-end wall. Though she sounded calm, she was obviously in a bad spot.