41
LADY CECILY DE VEYRON
Today she would learn where the money was coming from.
Julian and Benedict left before dawn. Lady Cecily de Veyron had heard them in the corridor. They had spoken in low voices, something about business in Dover. They wouldn’t return until evening. She prayed her strength would hold out.
After dismissing the maid, Cecily moved through the quiet corridors, one hand braced against the wall for support. Her legs felt like lead, but she pushed onward.
The study door was locked. She drew the chatelaine from her belt—the ring of household keys that marked her as lady of this hall—and tried each one until the lock turned. She pushed the door open and stepped inside.
She was told never to enter Julian’s study, but here she was. It was richly furnished with dark wood panels, shelves lined with books and ledgers, and a large desk covered in rolled parchments. Everything spoke of wealth and authority. She closed the door behind her and moved to the desk.
She felt her pulse pounding in her throat as she began searching through the parchments. Letters, contracts, accounts. Most of it seemed like ordinary business. But Julian spent hours here, usually with Benedict. There had to be more.
She pulled the wide center drawer free and set it on the desk.
She ran her fingers along the inside, the joints, the underside, then along the back panel of the cavity where the drawer had been.
There—a thin seam in the wood, almost invisible, and a faint sheen where fingers had worn the grain smooth from use.
She pressed. A panel sprang loose. Behind it was a recessed compartment. She drew out a stack of ledgers, bound in plain calfskin with no markings. She opened the first.
Columns of numbers, dates, and locations. Income from sources she didn’t recognize. The amounts were staggering.
“Calais, 1285.” But that was sixteen years ago, before Julian was even baron. He was just a boy then. How could he have income from then?
“London, 1290.” That didn’t make sense either. In 1290 Julian’s father, the former baron, was still alive and Julian was living the life of a hard-drinking young man, barely past his youth. There were other similar entries showing profits too large, too convenient.
She inspected more records. More impossible dates. Entry after entry showed deals made just before fortunes turned, lands bought just before prices rose, ships avoided just before storms sank them. The pattern was unmistakable. They had known what was coming.
Then she found a smaller bundle of parchments tucked beneath the ledgers. Julian’s private notes, written in his own hand.
“The device is invaluable.”
“Three trips this month alone.”
“Must be careful with the timing.” He had underlined that with ink that had pooled and dripped down the parchment, making it more noticeable.
References to “the machine” appeared throughout.
There was only one machine, one device, Cecily knew of.
She kept searching. She found a small, locked chest beneath a stack of documents. She tried the lock but couldn’t open it. She sighed. What was he hiding?
Then she heard voices in the corridor. She went still. They were back too early. She looked around frantically. The door. She’d never make it. They were too close.
The window alcove. Heavy curtains hung there, concealing a small space. She moved as quickly as her weak legs would allow and slipped behind the fabric.
“Here, I’ve got my key,” Benedict was saying.
Of course Benedict would have his own key.
The door opened.
“I still think we took too great a risk.” It was Julian’s voice.
“You worry too much.” Benedict’s voice was calm, dismissive. “The device continues to serve us well.”
Cecily pressed herself against the wall behind the curtain. Her breath came in shallow pants.
“But if anyone suspects what we’ve been doing—” Julian said.
“Who would believe it?” Benedict cut in. “A device that moves through time? They’d think us mad.”
The time machine. The time machine she and Finn had traveled in. They had it.
“Three trips in one month seems excessive,” Julian continued. She heard wine being poured.
“And three fortunes made,” Benedict replied. “Stop fretting. We appear, take what we need, and disappear. No one can trace us. And do you know why? Because we’re not there anymore. We’re not then anymore.”
Benedict laughed, but Julian remained silent.
Then Julian spoke, his voice lower. “Are you certain it’s well hidden?”
“Completely certain. We’re the only ones who know.”
“What about that man who was working on it? At the widow’s cottage.”
She held what little breath she had.
Benedict’s voice was icy. “The soldier? He’s dead.”
Cecily’s gut tightened. She pressed her hand to her mouth to stop the scream that wanted to escape.
“At least he got it working before we dealt with him,” Benedict continued.
“Yes. He would have been a problem,” Julian said, letting out a sigh. “Coming back for her, interfering with our plans.”
“The widow’s cottage was convenient. No witnesses.”
Finn. They were talking about Finn. Her Finn.
Dead.
She pressed both hands flat against the wall behind the curtain and forced herself to breathe slowly.
In. Out. In. The tears came before she could stop them, hot and silent, running down into the collar of her gown.
She had waited for Finn. Every morning she had walked to the window and looked out at the road, telling herself today, today he would come.
He had not abandoned her. He had been coming.
He had been coming, and they had murdered him for it, and she had spent months believing he had simply chosen not to return.
She bit down on her lip until she tasted blood. She made no sound at all.
“What about my wife?” Julian asked.
“What about her?” Benedict’s tone was indifferent.
“She’s so weak she can barely manage the household.”
“These things take time. We must proceed slowly.”
A pause. Then Julian asked, “How much longer?”
“Not long.”
She didn’t understand what they meant. How much longer for what? But the chill in Benedict’s voice made her shudder.
Their footsteps moved toward the door. It opened and closed. Benedict’s key turned in the lock. They were gone.
Cecily waited, making certain they wouldn’t return. Finally, she emerged from behind the curtain. Her legs nearly gave out. She caught herself on the desk.
Finn was dead. They had killed him, and the impossible truth of it slammed into her.
The machine was the source of their obscene wealth. The new tapestries, the fine clothes, all of it bought with stolen futures. It was madness, but she had heard it from their own lips.
A sudden fire burned through the fog of her grief and illness. It was rage, and for a moment she felt her old strength return. Julian’s weakness, Benedict’s vile coldness, the sheer arrogance of their theft. They had all lit a fire that was burning through her.
She left the study, moving as quickly as she could. She made it back to her chamber and collapsed onto the bed. Everything she’d learned crashed over her in waves.
Finn had been coming for her. He’d tried to save her. And they’d murdered him.
She curled on her side and wept. If only her memories of Finn could leak away like her tears. She lay there until the light changed, until the servants knocked and she didn’t answer, until finally she made herself stand because lying there meant giving in, and she was not ready to give in. Not yet.
∞∞∞
She was summoned to the solar that evening.
Cecily didn’t want to go. She was so tired. She didn’t want to see Julian’s face, or Benedict’s. They were wicked. Thieves. Murderers.
She didn’t want to pretend everything was normal when her entire world had shattered. But she had no choice. They could not know that she had discovered their treachery.
She made her way slowly to the solar. Isabel was already there, sitting by the window with her embroidery. She looked up when Cecily entered and gave her a small, sad smile.
Julian and Benedict arrived moments later. They took their seats. A servant brought wine. Benedict moved to the sideboard and poured four glasses, then set them on the table. One before Cecily, one before Isabel, one before Julian, and one in front of his own seat.
Cecily stared at the cup before her, the wine dark within it. She felt a sudden, sharp revulsion as she remembered their words: Not long.
As Isabel set aside her embroidery and reached for the nearest cup—Cecily’s cup—Benedict moved.
“No!” His voice was like a whip crack as he snatched the cup just before Isabel’s fingers touched it.
Everyone froze. Isabel’s hand hovered over the cup.
Benedict moved smoothly. “Isabel, that’s not yours. This one is.” He lifted the other cup on the table and handed it to Isabel.
Isabel looked confused. “They’re all the same—”
“That one is Lady Cecily’s,” Benedict said. His voice was smooth. “She prefers this vintage.”
Benedict handed Cecily her cup. She stared at it. She thought he had poured all the wine from the same bottle. In fact, she was sure of it.
Her cup. The one they didn’t want Isabel to drink.
The wine she’d been drinking every evening for months.
The bitter taste she’d grown accustomed to.
Her illness. The weakness. The trembling hands. The fog in her thoughts.
She understood then.
They were poisoning her.
She looked up slowly. Benedict was watching her. Julian looked away, refusing to meet her eyes.
They knew she knew.
She stood up, shaking. The glass slipped from her hand and shattered on the floor. Wine spread across the stones like blood.
“No,” she said. “I won’t—”
The room swayed violently. Her legs gave out. She felt hands catching her. Julian’s? Benedict’s? She couldn’t tell which. Their faces swam above her, distorted and strange.
“Please,” she whispered. “Don’t…”
Her world came apart at the edges.