reached Asher’s street. The horse pulled up tiredly at the corner, wearied by the miles they’d travelled.
“It’s best we stop here and not outside the house,” Asher said as he stepped out and proffered a hand to Minerva. “I shall wait here in case you need me.”
Minerva stretched out a foot towards the pavement, but as she reached out, she swayed precariously as though the wind were too much. Darting forward, he caught her just before she collapsed to the ground.
“Minerva!” Her eyes were shut, filaments of hair whipping across her bleached skin. He shook her gently, reining in his agitation. “Speak to me, Minerva.”
With a grimace she peeled open glazed eyes. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.” She rubbed her forehead and slowly righted herself. “This is the second time in as many days that I’ve had a fainting spell. Perhaps it is the London air which doesn’t agree with me.”
The north wind froze Asher’s heart. It wasn’t the London air which was causing Minerva to faint. The ramifications of what he so desperately needed to stop were rippling through time, altering all of history.
The pliability of time was beginning to obliterate all trace of Minerva.
Chapter Five
Cheeves, Asher’s butler, was too well-trained to betray any surprise at opening the door to Minerva once more. Before he could lead her into the front parlor as she knew he would, she said, “Is Mr. Quigley in his workshop?”
“I believe so, ma’am. If you will wait in the front parlor, I will go and call him.”
Minerva was heartily sick of the front parlor. It had witnessed too many depressing encounters between her and Asher. “No need.” She brushed past the startled butler before he could move. “I know the way to the workshop. I’ll call him myself.”
Ignoring the servant’s flustered protests, she hastened down the hall and out through a side door into the garden beyond the back of the house. Once, she’d sneaked out in the middle of the night to take a peek at Asher’s workshop. He’d caught her, of course, and made her feel as if she were spying on him. Now, she forced down the guilt that spurted up as she hurried down the garden path to the former stable block which had been converted into a spacious, well-equipped workshop.
The former wooden doors had been replaced by ones of solid iron, held together by stout rivets, and firmly shut. The windows, even though they were set high in the brick walls, were barred and boarded up. Altogether the whole building looked as if it had been turned into a fortress.
She rapped on the door, her knock echoing the quickening thump of her heart. Footsteps sounded from inside, and then one of the doors was wrenched open with a force indicating a certain impatience.
“ What is it, Cheeves—”
The words halted. Minerva swallowed, suddenly mute with awe. She had accepted Asher’s wild tale of chronometrical travelling, but here staring her in the face was proof positive. This was not the Asher who’d just ridden through the park with her. This was not the Asher who’d held her hand so tenderly and called her “sweetling.” This man frowned at her, perplexed at her unconventional arrival, and if he was at all pleased to see her, he hid it very well.
“Good day, Asher,” she managed to get out, her voice husky with tension. “May I—may I come in for a while?”
Still frowning, he glanced past her, as if searching for any possible accomplices. “Of course,” he said rather reluctantly.
He had no jacket on, and when she entered the workshop, she realized why. It was exceedingly warm inside, the atmosphere like a tropical jungle despite the cavernous proportions of the building. An odd structure dominated the center of the workshop. It vaguely resembled a sedan chair, with an outer structure made of beaten copper studded with black metallic discs. Inside the sedan she caught a glimpse of a console bristling with buttons and levers. Thick
“It’s best we stop here and not outside the house,” Asher said as he stepped out and proffered a hand to Minerva. “I shall wait here in case you need me.”
Minerva stretched out a foot towards the pavement, but as she reached out, she swayed precariously as though the wind were too much. Darting forward, he caught her just before she collapsed to the ground.
“Minerva!” Her eyes were shut, filaments of hair whipping across her bleached skin. He shook her gently, reining in his agitation. “Speak to me, Minerva.”
With a grimace she peeled open glazed eyes. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.” She rubbed her forehead and slowly righted herself. “This is the second time in as many days that I’ve had a fainting spell. Perhaps it is the London air which doesn’t agree with me.”
The north wind froze Asher’s heart. It wasn’t the London air which was causing Minerva to faint. The ramifications of what he so desperately needed to stop were rippling through time, altering all of history.
The pliability of time was beginning to obliterate all trace of Minerva.
Chapter Five
Cheeves, Asher’s butler, was too well-trained to betray any surprise at opening the door to Minerva once more. Before he could lead her into the front parlor as she knew he would, she said, “Is Mr. Quigley in his workshop?”
“I believe so, ma’am. If you will wait in the front parlor, I will go and call him.”
Minerva was heartily sick of the front parlor. It had witnessed too many depressing encounters between her and Asher. “No need.” She brushed past the startled butler before he could move. “I know the way to the workshop. I’ll call him myself.”
Ignoring the servant’s flustered protests, she hastened down the hall and out through a side door into the garden beyond the back of the house. Once, she’d sneaked out in the middle of the night to take a peek at Asher’s workshop. He’d caught her, of course, and made her feel as if she were spying on him. Now, she forced down the guilt that spurted up as she hurried down the garden path to the former stable block which had been converted into a spacious, well-equipped workshop.
The former wooden doors had been replaced by ones of solid iron, held together by stout rivets, and firmly shut. The windows, even though they were set high in the brick walls, were barred and boarded up. Altogether the whole building looked as if it had been turned into a fortress.
She rapped on the door, her knock echoing the quickening thump of her heart. Footsteps sounded from inside, and then one of the doors was wrenched open with a force indicating a certain impatience.
“ What is it, Cheeves—”
The words halted. Minerva swallowed, suddenly mute with awe. She had accepted Asher’s wild tale of chronometrical travelling, but here staring her in the face was proof positive. This was not the Asher who’d just ridden through the park with her. This was not the Asher who’d held her hand so tenderly and called her “sweetling.” This man frowned at her, perplexed at her unconventional arrival, and if he was at all pleased to see her, he hid it very well.
“Good day, Asher,” she managed to get out, her voice husky with tension. “May I—may I come in for a while?”
Still frowning, he glanced past her, as if searching for any possible accomplices. “Of course,” he said rather reluctantly.
He had no jacket on, and when she entered the workshop, she realized why. It was exceedingly warm inside, the atmosphere like a tropical jungle despite the cavernous proportions of the building. An odd structure dominated the center of the workshop. It vaguely resembled a sedan chair, with an outer structure made of beaten copper studded with black metallic discs. Inside the sedan she caught a glimpse of a console bristling with buttons and levers. Thick
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