Forty-three
Mertons landed in the small studio and straightened his coat. Peter, he noted, hardly looked up from his painting. It seemed to be all the man ever did.
“The Guild has asked me to make a final plea.”
“No.”
“Peter—”
“We’re not done here.”
“‘We.’ Ha. Do you ever get tired of having the rest of us focused on your needs?”
“It’s not about my needs. It’s about Ursula.”
“That’s a lie. It’s about revenge. You’re hurt, and you want to hurt her in return.”
“No. No. I wanted to stop her. I didn’t tell the reporter her name. I would never have hurt her willingly.”
“Really? Then maybe you’ll want to look at this.” He dropped a sheaf of papers on the table.
Peter regarded them suspiciously.
“I told you messing about in the future was dangerous. The most recent calculations have come through. You’ve changed Campbell’s future—and I don’t mean your paintings. I mean something important.”
“What?”
“A child.”
Peter stilled.
“That’s right. There is supposed to be a marriage and a child in her future.”
“Of course there is. She’s a young woman. ’Twould be natural to expect such things.”
“But that marriage is gone now, Peter. Don’t you see?
That child is gone. The original calculations on her future, the ones I ran after I found you here, showed them.
” He tapped the papers. “Today’s do not.
That’s what this nonsense has gotten you.
Is that what you were planning? To take away her future? ”
Peter sunk into his chair. “No.”
“You of all people should know what that’s like. You must leave this place. You must leave before you hurt her more.”