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  He grinned at what he saw in her other hand. “Brought the bottle, I see. Smart woman.”

  Her lips twitched as she placed the bottle on the little table to his side, then slid onto the seat beside him. “Aye, well,” she sighed, and took a sip from her glass. “Anyone can see you’re morose and pining, and you came out here to mope. I wasn’t sure ye’d brought enough alcohol to do it proper.”

  He laughed. “That bad, eh?”

  She smiled in response and gave his leg a pat as she nodded at the tablet. “What are you reading, love?”

  “One of your grandmother’s journals.”

  “Och, it’s worse than I thought.” Sarah lifted her glass. “To Gran, then. May her restless soul find peace.”

  Sam did not raise his own glass. “I don’t know if I can do it, Sarah.”

  “’Course you can.”

  He groaned and glared up at the moon. “Just like that? Press a button and create another bloody grand universe like there’s nothing to it? Drop in, then walk away and leave them like they mean nothing?”

  Sarah reached across him for the bottle and splashed more scotch in her glass, ignoring Sam’s. He lifted his head and watched her in wary concern.

  Her lips tightened. “Which argument do you want, Sam? The one that says you’re only human and can’t be responsible for a feckin’ universe in the first place? The one that reminds you the people in that universe will enjoy life as much as we do, and can bloody well make their own way through it? Or maybe the one about us just dropping in long enough to tell two people a story about their daughter, then we leave with no other interference? That it’s possible the new timeline will just jog off from ours for that brief bit, then it will drift right back in line with ours, and no real change?”

  “Bloody nonsense,” Sam said to his scotch.

  “Uncle Jamie thinks it’s likely.” He didn’t answer, and she held out a hand. “Which journal is it?”

  He shrugged and handed her the tablet. “1928. When your Aunt Terry was leaving for college.”

  Sarah stared at the tablet without saying anything. He couldn’t tell if she was reading it. After a moment, she said, “Oh.”

  Very quiet was that “oh.”

  He took the bottle from her and brought his glass back up to the halfway point. Casey’s words echoed in his mind, as if she were reading them from deep in a cavern. Worse than that, the journal had been scanned into the tablet, and the photocopied pages revealed the wrinkled splotches of paper and ink that had resulted from Casey’s tears as she wrote. She had wept a lot while writing that entry.

  Tomorrow, we take Terry to school in England. All I can see is the past. The future past, when my own parents put me on the plane to Belfast the first time. And all the times after that, for three years. Every year, after every holiday, they sent me back, with half-serious/half-joking reminders to behave myself and to stay safe.

  How could I bear it, to receive a phone call from someone, telling me that my daughter was missing? To rush there, to search and wait and beg ... to never find her. To never know.

  Sam is so old now. He knows he won’t figure out time travel in his lifetime. Albert (Einstein) tells me that he doesn’t think they’ll figure it out even within his lifetime. It will have to be Jamie, and the next Sam Altair, if we can get him to help us. Decades from now.

  I don’t care if it’s a hundred years from now. Someone must go back and tell them. I will not let my parents live a lifetime of never knowing.

  “It won’t be them,” Sam said. The old, exhausted argument burned in futile flame down his throat, along with the scotch. “Every time we go back, we just create a new universe, with new, grieving parents. The original Jim and Terry Wilson lived and died without ever knowing what happened to their daughter. We can’t change that.”

  “I know.” Sarah’s fingers curled around his, her thumb stirring his knuckles. “She knew that, too. But it doesn’t matter.”

  He couldn’t stop the repetitive words of their script. “She’s dead now. It no longer matters to her ...”

  Sarah stood. “Come to bed, Sam.” Her weary voice told him that she would not finish the script, and he knew this would be his last attempt to stop the experiment. He could not say the words one more time. Sarah’s hand pulled at his, strong and needy at the same time, and he rose to stand beside her. The light glinted off her eyes as she gazed at him. “We have our own lives to live, you and I. Let’s finish Gran’s work, and get on with it, aye?”

  First Universe

  Chapter 10

  Strickert Girls Academy

  Oxford, England

  “What do you mean, you're not going to School Day?” Grace stopped dead in the path as she and Moira made their way to class on Wednesday. Moira continued a few steps before realizing Grace wasn't with her. She turned as a tangle of girls split around them with annoyed cries of “look out!” and one “ow!” when a second termer stubbed her toe trying to avoid Grace's violin case.

  Moira raised a brow at Grace, but jerked her head toward the Languages Hall and turned to continue on her way. After the confrontation with Mr. Green last weekend, she'd taken some time to figure out her response to this question, knowing quite well it would be coming from many people over the next week. Already, she'd had a go 'round with her poly sci teacher. Good practice, that was, since there had never been any hope of Moira majoring in political science. That particular teacher didn't have years of support and encouragement invested in Moira, and was willing to accept a plausible cover story without argument.

  Unlike Mr. Green.

  Grace's staccato step sounded behind her as she caught up, and Moira sighed. “I mean I'm not going to Secondary School Day. That's not hard to understand.”

  “It's impossible to understand,” Grace said. “You can't tell me you're not planning on going to college. I won't believe you. So why aren't you going to Oxford on Saturday?”

  “Because my parents don't want me to.” The words tasted like wood on her tongue. It felt so strange to say something this close to the truth.

  “What do you mean, they don't want you to?”

  Moira laughed, but it rang hollow to her ears. “Grace, you're sounding like a broken Pad.”

  “Don't change the subject.” They had reached the Languages Hall, and Grace set her feet on the path, stubbornness visible in her tight jaw. “This has something to do with all that religion crap, doesn't it?”

  “Probably.” Moira had used a humble and pious expression on the poly sci teacher, but that wouldn't work with Grace. So she just shrugged. “You know I don't like it. But they've made it clear I can't argue with them.” This was a version of the truth. She'd always known she couldn't argue, but she had never allowed even a hint of her desire for college to reach her parents. Grace knew about the daily “lessons” Moira had to complete, but not about their content. “College will have to wait, Grace. I'll get there one day. When I don't need my parents' permission.”

  Anger drew the corners of Grace's lips down, nearly to her jawbone. “But it's harder to get in if you don't come straight from secondary school. Especially for a girl.”

  Moira shrugged again. “I'll have a diploma from Stickert. That's good for a lot. They'll let me take the tests, anyway. I'll blow them away, and they'll have to let me in. Assuming,” she punched Grace lightly in the shoulder, “I get to class on time and don't have a record full of demerits.”

  Grace stepped around her to start up the stairs. “We're not through with this,” she said. “There's got to be a way to fix it.”

  Moira kept silent. A watered-down version of the truth had seemed the best hope for deflecting questions. But it left the nagging problem of those who would not be satisfied until they'd tried everything they could to change the situation.

  Grace could not do much harm.

  But a teacher's meddling could get her killed.

  ~~~

  Moira took a deep breath before entering Mr. Green's classroom
that evening. He had not brought up the topic of School Day since their confrontation on Saturday. There had been the usual gang of students around all the time, and no chance for conversation. He could have called her into his office to discuss it, but that would not have been like him. She knew he respected her wish to not talk about it. But this evening, it would be just the two of them, working on his thesis. His respect for her wishes might only go so far.

  He was intent on his typing as she stepped inside, but he spared her a quick grin. “I just sent chapter three to your Pad,” he said, eyes already back on his own Pad, fingers tapping the virtual keyboard shimmering on his desk. “It needs your impeccable editing skills in a desperate way.”

  Relief made her laugh louder than his remark called for, but he didn't seem to notice. She slipped into her own seat and called up his file. She'd finish and leave before he got done with his current writing.

  Unfortunately, chapter three had a lot of equations, and she had to verify each step. She was halfway through when he turned off his v-board and stood to stretch. She glanced at the time in the corner of her Pad. An hour had passed. Her vision was fuzzy and she blinked a few times, setting her stylus down to massage her fingers.

  “I'm for some tea,” he said, and she glanced up, nerves jangling a warning. He was already heading into his office. “Want some chamomile?”

  Darn it all, she did. “Sure,” she said, raising her voice so he'd hear, although she knew his question was rhetorical. For Christmas, he'd presented her with her own mug, to be kept in his office for their evening sessions. The mug boasted a hologram of Deep Space Field #12, taken a few years ago by the new orbiting telescope. The field was popular in cosmological circles, and Moira had been hard put not to cry when she opened the present. It was her first real gift, given to her by a friend, something not under her stepfather's control. In all her dreams of the future, she carried that mug.

  But tea time opened the danger of chatting. Tightening her lips, she picked up the stylus and bent over her Pad, starting on the next equation. He would know the chapter required careful attention. Perhaps he'd just place the mug on her desk and return to his own work.

  She didn't look up when the mug appeared in front of her, but the fragrant steam flooded her sinuses with a sense of renewal. She put the stylus down and reached for the tea, to bury her face in the steam. “Thank you,” she said, sounding perhaps too grateful. She took a sip, closing her eyes to savor it. “This should clear my brain enough to understand your equations.” She picked up the stylus and held her breath.

  He didn't answer, but didn't move away, either. Seeking a distraction, she pointed at the equation on her screen, and opened her mouth to say ... something.

  “Miss Sherman.” He sat in the chair before her desk, turning it to face her. She at last looked up at him, wondering what in heaven her face revealed. She felt paralyzed.

  His own face was pale and tight, and it occurred to her that he didn't want this confrontation anymore than she did. Maybe he had to do it. Maybe his job demanded it.

  He held his mug on his knee, both hands wrapped around it. His eyes were steady on her face, and despite the fear clenching her stomach, she couldn't look away.

  “It was clear the other night,” he said, “that you don't want to discuss your college plans. I don't understand that, but I respect it. Nevertheless.” He lifted his mug, his cheek twitching as he sipped the tea. Moira felt an irrational longing to touch that cheek, and at last found the power to look down, her own cheeks flaming in sudden heat.

  “Nevertheless,” he said again, “I must speak of it. Your other teachers have noticed the absence of your name on Saturday's list. They know I'm mentoring you, and have left me the task of finding a satisfactory answer. You must help me know what to tell them.”

  Sneaky bastard. She was surprised at the thought, but as she glanced up, a glint in his eye verified the trace of trickery she'd heard in his voice. His excuse was plausible, but she suspected he was glad the other teachers had asked this of him.

  Oddly, this gave her courage. She sat back in her chair and tilted her head, curious. “What would you do?” she asked. “To help? What would they do?”

  He placed his mug on her desk and leaned forward, eagerness in his eyes. “It's hard to say without knowing the problem. But there are countless programs in place, for financial assistance, housing, jobs, whatever you might need. If you start now, and with the influence of this school behind you, not to mention your own excellent grades, you'll find you qualify for more help than you can imagine. The thing is, it takes time to apply for these. If you wait until you're eighteen, why it could be four years or more before you finish all the paperwork. As well, you won't qualify for as many programs. So many of them are geared toward the secondary student who plans on starting college as soon as she graduates.”

  He ran a hand through his hair and shook his head, as if to throw off the bewilderment that crossed his face. “I don't understand what keeps you from applying now. Waiting until you're eighteen is practically a death sentence.”

  She sat still, her mouth tight, staring at him. He returned her look, his face hopeful, and she felt the hinges of her jaw loosen, her chin drop as if to prepare her mouth for speaking. But it wouldn't go any further. How could she say the words? Shame flooded her at the thought of him hearing the truth. At the thought of the consequences if his effort to help failed.

  Her mouth stayed closed.

  She leaned forward, hiding from him as her fingers traced wetness from her cheeks.

  “You can't know how much I want to go to college.” She could only whisper, and sensed him leaning closer. “You've shown me a future I never imagined was possible, and I want that future.” Her hands clenched in front of her, but she didn't see them. Didn't even see the desk as she stared at it. “But as a minor, I need my parents’ approval to pursue it. And they won't give it.” She finished the words on a rushed breath and waited, not looking at him.

  He didn't move or speak, as if expecting her to say more. After a moment, he shifted.

  “Mrs. Burke mentioned that you'd said something about that. But I don't understand. Surely they know how brilliant you are. Perhaps if I, or perhaps Headmistress Lionel, talked to them ...”

  “No!” Moira brought her fists down to the desk hard enough to make her Pad bounce and the tea slosh in her cup. She looked up to glare into his eyes. “That must not happen. Not you, not anyone. Whatever you think, whatever ideas you come up with, no one from this school must ever contact my parents in any way about this.” He started to speak, and she plunged on, over-ruling his attempt. “It's more than not giving their approval. They are against the idea of college, for me or for any girl. No, they don't know I'm brilliant, and they wouldn't care if they did. My only hope, and I mean this, Mr. Green, is to wait until I'm considered an adult, and can make my own choices. If you interfere before that, while I'm still in their control,” her voice shook and she was powerless to stop it, “I will never get away. Do you understand? Never.”

  “Why?” he asked. “What is behind this? Help me understand, Moira.”

  She blew a breath out in frustration and stood, pacing away a few steps before whirling to face him. Wincing inwardly at the confusion on his face, she shook her head. “I can't tell you. I can't tell anyone. If you don't understand, then we must leave it at that. You may tell the other teachers, if you feel you must. But I am counting on you to make sure no one interferes. You must promise me.”

  He opened his mouth, but when no sound came out, he closed it again. He cleared his throat. “All right.” His voice was rough. “If it must be, then I promise no one will interfere. But Moira,” and there, he’d used her name again, making what he said even stronger, “You must accept that I am concerned about you. Perhaps more than is proper for a teacher or mentor. I am concerned for you as a friend. We all have responsibilities to our friends, Moira. Yours is to always remember I am here to help you, if the time comes
that I can.”

  His words brought a swell of desire and love rising through her, and she swayed, off-balance from the onslaught. She forced herself to look him in the eye as she answered. “I will remember. That is my promise. Now,” she stepped forward and reached for her Pad, “you really must give me some time with this chapter, or you'll turn it in with all kinds of typos.”

  Chapter 11

  The next evening, with classes over, Andy headed to his room before leaving for Oxford. The Lioness, trim in her Frombeau designer suit, her hair neat in its chignon, waylaid him as he passed her den.

  “A moment of your time, Mr. Green.”

  He sidetracked into her office, placing himself in the sage-and-pink upholstered chair she indicated. He watched as she glided around her desk and sank into the soft leather of her own seat. An unobtrusive inhalation helped him regain the equilibrium her office always scattered when he entered. He was certain not even Buckingham Palace could compare with the elegance the Headmistress of Strickert Academy established around herself.

  Her expression was not unfriendly, but neither did she seem pleased, as she folded her hands on her desk and regarded him across its gleaming cherry expanse. “Two of your colleagues have informed me that your mentee, Miss Sherman, is not expecting to attend college. They said you were quite firm that they must not interfere with this decision. That is, of course, your prerogative, and hers, as well. However, you must realize this will not look well on your record.”

  She held up a hand, although he'd made no attempt to speak. “I understand that teaching is not your career of choice. Nevertheless, the reference you receive from this academy will reflect on your university record.”

  This was true, but he could not forget Moira's fear. He tilted his head. “I assure you, I haven't given up on her, Headmistress. But she was quite adamant about no interference.”