Chapter 6 #3
“Well,” she said, watching as if she fully expected him to get up and stomp off in a huff at any moment, “the main one had to do with all the possible perils to be found in any given village. You know, those bucolic, postcard-worthy locales where mysterious things are bound to happen.”
He forced himself not to smile. “What sorts of things?”
She looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Well, plots and schemes and village fêtes put on by grudge-holding gardeners, miffed ladies’-aid society members, and vicars with shady pasts.”
He couldn’t say he didn’t agree with her there, having met his fair share of the same sorts over the course of his adventures.
“Or other perilous things,” she continued, sliding him a sideways look. “The sorts of things you write about in your books.”
“Ah,” he managed. “Of course.”
She nodded, but said nothing else. Sam saved from having to divulge details he definitely didn’t have by the driver shutting the doors and a tour guide plugging in a microphone to discuss the upcoming adventure.
Would that the man had deigned to divulge a few writerly secrets whilst he was about his blethering on, but perhaps that was asking too much.
He glanced at his companion and couldn’t help but notice the way she fussed with her pen.
He tended to do the same thing with whatever he had to hand, something that had earned him a nod of approval from his uncle Robin and a light sigh from his father.
The habit helped him focus his energies on whatever task—battle or rescue—lay before him, so perhaps there was no use in unlearning it at the moment.
He wondered if Harriet did the same as she prepared to write her stories.
He had no idea what Theo did to get his own tales down on paper save bang around obnoxiously in the kitchens during the middle of the night when the words weren’t arriving as swiftly as he liked.
The rest of the time, he just left piles of pages on every flat surface available but Sam never dared pick those up lest he put them back out of order and find himself skewered on a medieval sword as a result.
To be perfectly honest, he was convinced Theo was doing little more than taking notes of things they’d done in the past and hiding a few identities, but why not? They’d certainly had adventures enough to fill several volumes.
They could also thank their parents for a first-rate education in the thirteenth century and their own insatiable curiosity for everything they’d learned since then.
When he thought about writing, he mostly thought about monks who’d had their work defaced by a member of the local mousing patrol who’d stepped in ink then left paw prints across the first chapter of John, but that was just him.
He wondered, from time to time, what regular blokes thought about and if it was relaxing.
“I’m Harriet, by the way.”
“I hadn’t forgotten,” he said, dragging himself back to the present moment. “I suppose you can call me TD, if you like.”
“Is that short for something?”
“Must I admit it?”
She smiled and he had to smile in return. Hers was a tentative smile, as if she didn’t use it all that often and wasn’t quite sure how it would be received.
“Well, I can’t shorten my name,” she said reasonably, “so can you top that?”
“Well,” he began, very tempted to thoroughly hang his brother out to dry but feeling the heavy hand of discretion come to rest yet again on his shoulder, “there’s not much way to shorten TD, is there?”
“A mystery, then,” she said, sounding as if nothing could have delighted her more.
Damn it, he was going to stick a knife somewhere painful on his brother when he saw him next.
“So it is,” he agreed.
She looked at him, then delicately pointed to the space between the seats in front of them.
He frowned at the sight of the ear there, turned in a manner to best eavesdrop.
He looked at Harriet in disbelief, had another smile as his reward, then watched her scribble something down on her notepad.
She turned it toward him and lifted an eyebrow.
You nap; I’ll watch.
He nodded.
She considered, then wrote again.
Trade me places?
He shook his head and scowled a bit for her benefit, had another small smile as his reward, and wondered how long he could reasonably torture his brother and still be welcome at his mother’s table.
He suspected not nearly long enough.
Two hours and a brief nap later, he was following Harriet off the bus and wondering how he could leave her in a company of mystery writers without fretting over her surviving the afternoon.
Unfortunately, he had an appointment in 1824 that he couldn’t miss.
He drew her over to one side, away from listening ears, and attempted to look harried and apologetic, neither of which took any effort.
“So desperately sorry,” he said sincerely, “but I need to nip off to my flat and fetch notes that I inadvertently left behind.”
Harriet looked at him in surprise. “You live near—never mind.” She nodded firmly. “Of course.”
“I’ll be back before the bus leaves,” he said quietly. “Be careful.”
She smiled, a bit more easily that time. “I think museums are pretty safe.”
He wasn’t about to offer an opinion on that, so he nodded. “I’m sure that’s true.” He looked for potential exits from the group but only succeeded in finding himself facing one of the women who seemed to want very much to meet his brother.
“Have you met Sherlock Holmes?” she asked, blinking in an unsettlingly bird-like fashion.
“I’m certain his characters have,” Harriet said, looking up at him worshipfully. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Piaget?”
“I would, which is why we should hurry inside, what?” he said, giving the cluster of Theo’s admirers his best smile and easing himself and Harriet out of their sights.
He was particularly grateful for the tour guide’s renewed chatter that allowed him to move farther to the back of the group without being overly marked.
“I won’t tell anyone where you’ve gone,” Harriet murmured.
“My thanks,” he said, meaning it sincerely. “I’ll return as quickly as possible.”
She nodded. He made her a quick bow, then did his best imitation of a lad off to sneak a pint before the true work of the day began.
He had the unsettling feeling he was being followed, but he didn’t want to acknowledge the same by looking over his shoulder.
The list of potential ruffians was long and made up mostly of business associates and a few family members. For all he knew, one of Theo’s admirers had decided shadowing him was far more interesting than anything to be found on Baker Street. He wouldn’t have been surprised.
He reached their flat in good time to find it comfortingly free of ghosts but less comfortably full of his sibling.
He set that aside as something to fret over later and concentrated on dressing to blend in.
He shoved shoes and a wig into a duffle, pulled track suit bottoms over his silken breeches, and donned a long mac that would cover him in the twenty-first century and pass muster in the eighteenth.
He didn’t particularly care to disappear into thin air in the middle of the day, but his present circumstances left him with no choice.
He locked up, ran down the stairs, then took the precaution of looking out the front door before he ventured outside. He saw nothing untoward, so he left his building and walked down the street as if he had every reason to look as if he were an extra in some low-budget period drama.
He ducked into the appropriate alleyway, then strode quickly into the shadows.
He passed the lone shop that seemed to find the shadows a decent place for a store front and refrained from rolling his eyes over the paranormal wares on offer there.
He supposed even Irony was taking pity on him because he didn’t encounter any ghosts lingering in that doorway whilst also reaching his gate without running afoul of that bloody cobblestone that no amount of stomping pushed back into its moorings.
The doorway itself was a tricky one behind what in medieval times had been a bog, in the sixteenth century a gaol, and in Regency England a seedy pub.
He didn’t like to pass judgment on the incarnations of any given locale, but he had to admit there was a certain continuity of function in the place.
He glanced over his shoulder briefly, saw no one lurking in the shadows, then stepped into that circle that someone had conveniently marked with slightly lighter-colored stones.
His meet cute awaited and he didn’t dare be late.