39
FINN
Finn held Cecily tight as the world tore apart around them.
The cave walls were moving. Cracking. They watched as fissures spread through stone like streaks of lightning. A chunk of stone ceiling fell away, then another, disappearing in a flash of light.
“Don’t look,” Finn said against her hair.
But he couldn’t close his eyes. The air grew frigid, then damp, then warm, the seasons washing over them in dizzying waves.
He heard the ring of steel on stone, an echo that grew loud then faded in a heartbeat.
The walls around them flickered, dissolving into light before solidifying again, chunks of rock vanishing with each pulse.
The machine ground to a stop.
Cecily gasped, gripping Finn’s arm. His stomach rolled, settling slowly. The world stopped spinning. They were crouching on solid ground again.
They both looked up. The cave was gone. Open sky stretched above them. Light streamed down. They sat in rubble with broken stones scattered everywhere, walls reduced to knee height. The cave’s ceiling had vanished completely.
“What happened?” Her voice came out hoarse.
Finn stood slowly, pulling her up with him. He turned in a circle, taking in the destruction.
“I don’t know.”
They picked their way through the debris. Cecily’s boot caught on something. She looked down. A broken pick with its handle splintered.
Finn bent down and ran his fingers over the stones. “Tool marks,” he said. “Someone demolished the cave deliberately.”
“Why would anyone—”
“To find us,” he said. “To find the machine after we disappeared.”
He was already moving toward the time machine, checking it over. He went very still and looked again, hoping he had misread it. His jaw set.
“What’s wrong?” Cecily asked.
He looked up at her. “The coordinates. I couldn’t see properly in the dark when I set them…”
“How far did we come?”
“A year.” He sat back on his heels. “Not the ten years we’d planned.”
Cecily stared at him. “Then let’s set it again. Now. Go forward the ten years.”
Finn shook his head, his hand hovering over the dials without touching them. The memory of Anton’s voice was sharp in his mind, a warning about pushing the machine too soon, about the risk of landing nowhere at all.
“We can’t,” he said, the words tight. “Your grandfather warned against rushing it. The next time, I need light, and quiet, and a clear head. We need to wait. At least a day.”
Cecily was quiet for a moment. She looked at the machine, then at him. “So we wait.”
“Yes,” he said. “We find shelter, we rest, we think. Then we set it properly and go.”
“We’re in the year 1301, then? That’s all?”
“Yes, that’s what the machine says.”
They grabbed it, each taking a side. It was heavy and awkward. They dragged it through the rubble of the cave deeper into the forest, where Finn found a dense thicket of brambles and young growth.
“Here.”
They pushed the machine deep into the brush, covered it with fallen branches, leaves, and loose rubble. When they were done, it was nearly invisible.
Finn memorized the surrounding trees, the angle from the cave ruins. They’d need to find it again.
“Now what?” Cecily asked.
“We need shelter.” He looked toward the road. “Faversham isn’t far. We can get a room there. Do we have money?”
She had the coins Isabel had pressed into her hand before they fled, and her own purse securely tucked inside. “Yes. Some. But it won’t last long.”
They kept to the edges of the fields as the sun bled across the horizon.
Every step seemed to take a monumental effort.
Cecily’s torn dress caught on brambles, and Finn’s ribs ached with each breath, a dull throb that mirrored the fear in his gut.
They moved in a heavy silence, the unspoken questions about the year they’d lost, and the one they’d stumbled into, hanging between them.
∞∞∞
When Faversham’s buildings came into view, the sky had gone purple with dusk. Smoke rose from chimneys. They smelled cooking, and Finn’s stomach gave a groan. Voices and laughter erupted from a tavern.
They found a modest inn near the market square. The common room was warm and crowded with diners. A fire burned in the hearth.
The innkeeper looked them over, at Cecily’s torn dress, Finn’s muddied tunic. Cecily paid for the room. The innkeeper pocketed the coins without comment and led them upstairs. The room was small but clean, with one narrow bed, a washbasin, and a single window overlooking the street.
“Evenin’ meal’s in the common room if ye want it,” the innkeeper said, and left them.
Cecily sank onto the bed. Her hands were shaking.
They were a year ahead. Only a year.
“We should eat,” Finn said.
They washed the worst of the dirt from their hands and faces, then went back downstairs.
The common room was even busier now. Serving girls moved between tables with plates and cups. Finn found them a spot in the corner, away from the fire but with a view of the room. A girl brought stew, cold mutton, bread, and ale.
At the next table, two men were talking business over their wine. Finn paid them no mind until a single word cut through the tavern’s noise:
“Veyron.” He froze, his own thoughts silenced.
“—prosperous,” one of the men was saying. “Lord Julian pays on time, least nowadays he does. Which is more’n I can say fer some.”
Cecily’s hand stilled on her spoon.
Finn was listening intently, his face carefully neutral.
“Surprised, that,” the tradesman said. “Heard he was drownin’ in debt a year back.”
“Was. The lady’s dowry, no doubt.” The merchant tore off a piece of bread. “He’s buyin’ the best now. Imports from France, even.”
“And his lady? They say she’s a beauty.”
Finn glanced at Cecily. He watched her color drain away.
“Aye, the fair-haired lass. Brought a good dowry from her uncle at Malethurst.”
Finn’s hand found hers under the table and gripped tight. Her fingernails dug into his palms.
“Though no one’s seen her in months,” the merchant continued as he filled his mouth with a spoonful of stew.
“How’s that?”
“Word is she’s taken ill. Keeps to her chambers mostly. Been that way near half a year now, I think.”
Cecily pulled her hand free and pressed it to her mouth.
“What kind of illness?” the tradesman asked.
The merchant shrugged. “No one knows. Servants say she’s weak, can barely walk some days. The physicians can’t explain it.”
“Poor lass. And her so young.”
“Aye. Married last Pentecost. Not even a year yet, and wastin’ away.”
Finn leaned slightly toward their table.
“Pardon me. I couldn’t help overhearing. The Lady of Veyron is unwell?”
The merchant looked over. “So they say. Shame, really. Lovely lass, from what I heard.”
“What is Lord Julian doing to help her?” Finn asked.
The merchant snorted into his wine. “Julian? Too busy with his ventures. Him and that favorite of his, always travelin’, always schemin’.
” He lowered his voice. “Strange thing is their travels. Him and that favorite of his are gone fer days, then return with coin to spare. Not my place to ask where it comes from.”
The tradesman nodded knowingly.
“What about the lady?” Cecily asked. Her voice came out barely above a whisper.
“Poor thing. Barely seen since winter. Waste of a good marriage, that.” The merchant shook his head, then looked more carefully at Cecily. “Why, ye’ve got somethin’ of her about ye, now I look.”
Cecily lowered her head.
Finn thanked him and turned back to their table. Cecily continued to stare at her bowl. The stew had gone cold.
After a long moment, she stood. “Excuse me.”
Finn rose and followed her. She walked toward the stairs, her legs unsteady enough that Finn had to put his arm around her waist.
In their room, she stood by the window. The street below was dark and quiet. Finn closed the door behind them.
“Cecily—”
“It can’t be.” Her voice was sharp. “It must be another fair-haired woman.”
He had no answer.
He moved to the bed, pulled off his boots, and lay down close to the wall. After a moment, Cecily came and sat on the edge. She didn’t move to lie down.
“Cecily,” he said quietly.
She turned and looked at him. Her face was colorless in the dim light from the window. He held out his hand.
She took it and let him pull her down beside him. She curled against his chest, still in her dress, her hair falling loose around her shoulders. He wrapped his arms around her, held her close. Her body was warm against his, trembling slightly. He could feel her breathing, quick and shallow.
“I’m with you now, Cecily,” he murmured against her hair. “You’re safe.”
Her hand found his shirt and gripped it tight. She pressed her face into his shoulder.
They lay like that for a long moment in the darkness.
Then she spoke, her voice muffled. “How can there be two of me?”
“I don’t know.”
He remembered Anton trying to explain it, his voice low over the machine’s hum.
Something about time branching like a tree, creating new realities.
He had warned what might happen if two versions of the same person ever met.
The timelines couldn’t stay split forever, he’d said.
One would have to win out. Finn held her tighter, the memory a cold dread spreading through him.
What did that mean for the woman in his arms?
And for the one wasting away at Veyron manor?
“We’ll go to Veyron tomorrow,” he said quietly. “We’ll see what’s really happening. Maybe… maybe it’s not you. We’ll know what to do when we see for ourselves.”
“Will we?” Her voice was small.
He didn’t know. But he held her tighter, his hand moving slowly through her hair.
“Yes, we’ll know what to do,” he lied.