Page 72 of No Place in Time

One man reached for Cecily. She recoiled.

“Hold on,” Finn said. “Don’t let go.”

She wrapped her arms around him. The light grew blinding inside the dark cave. The high whine became a roar.

Benedict was shouting something. The men were diving toward them.

Then the world tore apart.

Sound like thunder. Brilliant light.

The cave disappeared. Cecily felt herself falling, or flying, or both. Her stomach dropped. She squeezed her eyes shut, held Finn tighter.

Time pulled at them, spun them, swallowed them whole.

Then she felt it. The machine slowing. Settling.

Landing.

She opened her eyes.

Part Four

The Split in Time

“Time forks perpetually toward innumerable futures. In one of them I am your enemy.”

Jorge Luis Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths

38

LADY CECILY DE VEYRON

1301

She woke slowly, the way she always woke these days, surfacing through layers of fog before the world settled into shape around her.

She rolled over, her gaze sweeping the chamber. Morning light illuminated hunting tapestries where stags were forever frozen mid-flight. Silk bed hangings, dyed in the oppressive Veyron colors, suffocated the space. Even the wedding chest in the corner, a gift of carved oak from her uncle, seemed less a treasure than a tomb. Everything a lady could want, and she despised every piece of it.

She lay still and tried to remember what day it was. The effort took longer than it should have. She heard the manor stirring around her. She heard servants moving through the corridors. She heard voices from below.

She should get up. The steward would be waiting. There were accounts to review, household matters to attend to.

Lady Cecily de Veyron had responsibilities.

How long had she been here? Nearly a year, she thought. Maybe longer. Sometimes it felt much longer. She could barely remember a time before this room, this bed, this numb routine of waking and dressing, the straight back, the composed face that did not show the fear behind it.

She sat up slowly. The room swayed. Or was it she that swayed? She gripped the bedpost, waiting for the dizziness to pass. It had been happening more often lately, the exhaustion, the trembling in her hands, the spinning sensation, the way food tasted off, bitter. She was always tired now, always fighting to stay upright.

There was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” she called weakly.

Her maid entered and dipped a curtsy. “My lady, shall I help you dress?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

The routine began. Being unlaced from her night shift, washed with cool water from the basin. Dressed in layers, shift, kirtle, gown. Her hair was brushed and arranged, then covered with a veil.