Tristan took a moment as if trying to remember what his sins were. “For daring to show such insolence to one of my betters.”
“Apology accepted.” He withdrew his sword, stood upright, and casually sheathed his blade. “If it happens again, ’twill be your throat I pierce and not the clothes around it,” he said, then gestured to George (who had retrieved his backsword and was inspecting it for damage). They walked down the steps, took the next wherry, and sailed off downstream.
Tristan got to his feet before I could move to offer him a hand. He shook his head slightly, looking spooked. “Well there’s a lesson in that,” muttered he to himself. “Learning from a fight choreographer has its limits.” He gave me a reassuring smile. “It’s been a very fruitful day.”
And to make a quick end of it, Your Grace, back we went along the Thames, and back to the brewery, and then I Sent him back to where he came from, which is farther into the future than I had dreamed, hundreds of years it sounds like. I’ve kept Ned Alleyn’s stolen costume for his next visit.
So that is the tale of Tristan Lyons, whom I’ll surely see on many another snáithe as I Wend my way thence.
And in conclusion, let me tell Your Majesty that nobody in London seems at all aware that the Spanish are about to land at Kinsale; that Penelope Devereux, sister to the traitor Essex, has been divorced by her husband Lord Rich for having an affair (and bastard children) with Mountjoy, known to yourself also as Charles Blount, known to yourself also as “Lord Deputy of Ireland.” They have but one son, Mountjoy Blount, and himself is four years old, but I do intend to put a curse on him that all of his children will be stillborn or idiots, and so that line will end.
And now I shall close with great love and regard to Your Majesty, as I am off to enjoy my one personal indulgence: the honey-love of a full night spent in the arms of my sweetheart. My life is naught but secrets that I either keep or destroy on your behalf; sure it does my soul good to have one small nugget of mine own.
Whether I be near or far, may I hear only good things of you, My Lady Gráinne! Yours ever, Gráinne in London
Diachronicle
DAY 352
In which we fail better
I SET UP A VIGIL in the office, determining not to leave until Tristan had returned. What if our research about the witch Gráinne had been wrong? What if she was sloppy with her details, and returned him to the wrong time or place? So in a sense, it made no sense at all to wait, and yet I could focus on nothing else. I continued to collate our databases, determined not to leave the building despite the lovely summer weather—weather not unlike what is outside right now, given in both cases it is July in a temperate climate. The whole day passed. Erszebet took it upon herself to buy a used bicycle with what she called “pin money” given her by Tristan for sundry expenses, and she began to map out a bike route she would take to Walden Pond the next day if Tristan had not returned. She seemed to be hoping he’d be gone awhile. Frank and Rebecca, who had left the office shortly after Tristan had been Sent to the DTAP, called to invite us to dinner. This struck me as bizarrely normal when we were living under not-at-all-normal circumstances, so I declined, but Erszebet, overhearing the call, insisted I call them back so that she could go on her own.
A buzz from the control panel let us know that the ODEC door was opening. Erszebet’s face fell slightly. “He’s back,” she said, as if he’d returned just to ruin her social calendar. “Now we’ll have to take him to dinner as well.”
“Don’t you want to hear what happened?” I asked. I went to the glass wall and looked to the ODEC, then, realizing Tristan would be naked, stopped myself. There was now an intercom system that we could use to communicate through the wall. I flipped it on. “Tristan?” I called. “Are you all right?”
“Give me a moment,” he called back out, in a hazy voice. “Actually give me five moments.”
“Look at you, smiling like a girl,” said Erszebet, grudgingly amused. “It is disappointing to me you don’t raise your standards.”
“Don’t you want to know how it went?” I demanded.
She shrugged her trademark disdainful shrug. “It does not matter how it went, it is only the first time, he will have to go back and do it again. It will be days before there is anything interesting to hear about.”
“I’m calling Oda-sensei,” I said, feeling uncharacteristically peevish toward her. Quite suddenly I had a lot of energy and no clear sense of how to channel it. I sent them a text; Rebecca answered and said that they would, naturally, come at once.
We all convened in an office near the ODEC that we had converted into a briefing and debriefing room. It was equipped with gear for recording audio and video, though we had not yet got in the habit of using it. Tristan smelled of the disinfectant shower he’d just stepped out of. He’d changed back into his jeans and T-shirt and thrown his damp towel around his neck like a shawl. He looked fine, although he was slightly distracted as his tongue worked the small gap in his back teeth due to the missing fillings. I’d handed those back to him upon his return. They now sat before him on the table, giving him something to fidget with. He looked like he could use a beer, and so I got him one.
“I have good news and bad news,” he began, after whetting his whistle with a swallow of Old Tearsheet. “The good news—the most important news—is that I believe Sir Edward will change his mind about his investment. I believe he will opt for the East India Company over the Boston Council.”
“On one Strand,” said Erszebet.
“Yes,” said Tristan. “I realize I need to do it a few more times, although it might be worth Mel’s time to go back to 1640 Cambridge just to see if there’s a difference.”
“There won’t be,” said Erszebet. “It does not work that way, you’ve already witnessed that. Why would you subject her to that unpleasant effort?”
“I think it’s worth checking,” Tristan repeated. “To see how much can be accomplished in a single go.”
There was a loaded pause and then Erszebet said flatly, “Well then, you’ll have to Send her yourself. I will not do it.”
“You are refusing an order?”
“I reject the notion you can give me orders,” said Erszebet. “I am simply refusing to do something foolish.”
“Erszebet,” said Frank Oda, ever the conciliatory force. “You signed papers agreeing to cooperate, do you remember that, in Washington?”