Read Online The Time Travel Chronicles by Robert J. Sawyer, Stefan Bolz, Ann Christy, Samuel Peralta, Rysa Walker, Lucas Bale, Anthony Vicino, Ernie Lindsey, Carol Davis, Tracy Banghart, Michael Holden, Daniel Arthur Smith, Ernie Luis, Erik Wecks - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert J. Sawyer, Stefan Bolz, Ann Christy, Samuel Peralta, Rysa Walker, Lucas Bale, Anthony Vicino, Ernie Lindsey, Carol Davis, Tracy Banghart, Michael Holden, Daniel Arthur Smith, Ernie Luis, Erik Wecks
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now. “Is something wrong?”
“No. Why?”
“You’re clenching your jaw.” She glances around, and then leans closer, lowering her voice. “The way you did at the Objectivist Club, when you were angry with Campbell.”
I really like the warm press of her breast against my arm, and the gentle thrum of her heartbeat that I can both feel and see in the little hollow where her neck meets her collarbone. I even like the way she smells—the hint of vinegar and honey on her breath from the drink, the faint undertone of sweat from our walk.
What I don’t like is her chatter interrupting my thoughts. She’s more observant than I thought, and now I’m wondering whether she’ll be the easily controlled partner I first imagined.
I lean in closer, purposefully maximizing contact between our bodies. Her pulse quickens, as I expected, but she doesn’t move away.
“Do you like waiting here in an empty room?” I ask, locking my eyes with hers as the pink slowly fades from her cheeks. “We’ve been allotted thirty-six hours, give or take, before we must return to our stable point and head home. I don’t know about you, but I doubt there are answers to the questions on my research agenda here in this parlor.”
Katherine leans back in her chair after a moment, thankfully silent. Then she walks over to the bookshelf in the opposite corner, which holds a few dozen volumes, and runs her forefinger along the spines, eventually pulling a thin bound volume from the shelves. Another brief search and she snags a second book from the lower shelf.
She tosses one of them to me. “I don’t remember seeing either of these in our archives. Maybe they’re some of the Friend’s lost manuscripts.”
I don’t respond, just thumb quickly through the essay collection, “Some Considerations, Propounded to the Several Sorts and Sects” by the Publick Universal Friend. It’s written in the obtuse, florid language used in all of her works. There’s an occasional, mildly interesting biblical reference, interspersed with paragraph after paragraph of commentary that’s either self-aggrandizing or else addressed at resolving petty squabbles between one local church and another.
A complete waste of time. “I’m going to find the privy. Wait here.”
It’s a lie, but I’m too edgy to sit. I need a few words with Jemima in private, anyway. The Friend’s desire to take credit for the prophecy will probably keep her from saying anything too revealing in front of Katherine, but you can never tell. Jemima was stupid enough to keep the prophecy vague, so she might be stupid enough to babble about it. But most importantly, Katherine can’t be around when I slip Jemima the medicine I’m carrying. The longer I wait around on the Friend to grant us an audience, the greater the possibility the fool will botch her second chance to add a miracle to her résumé.
I veer down a hallway I saw Caesar take earlier, when he first left us in the parlor, and head up the stairs. The house is large by colonial standards, but I hear faint moans when I turn into the hallway, so it doesn’t take a genius to locate the room. When I nudge the door open, Jemima is praying, eyes closed, over a feverish woman in a damp white gown that clings to her frail body. Judge Potter’s wife, Penelope, is at the head of the narrow bed, sponging her daughter’s forehead.
When I tap on the doorframe, Penelope looks up from her ministrations, frowning as she tugs a blanket over her daughter’s body. “Thou should not be here. Caesar asked thee to wait…”
I glance away from the bed and say, “I beg thy mercy. My business with the Friend is urgent but it will only take a moment and she can return to her prayers for thy daughter. Another life hangs in the balance, else I’d not intrude in this way.”
The Friend’s eyes flash with annoyance, but she places the Bible she was holding on the bed
“No. Why?”
“You’re clenching your jaw.” She glances around, and then leans closer, lowering her voice. “The way you did at the Objectivist Club, when you were angry with Campbell.”
I really like the warm press of her breast against my arm, and the gentle thrum of her heartbeat that I can both feel and see in the little hollow where her neck meets her collarbone. I even like the way she smells—the hint of vinegar and honey on her breath from the drink, the faint undertone of sweat from our walk.
What I don’t like is her chatter interrupting my thoughts. She’s more observant than I thought, and now I’m wondering whether she’ll be the easily controlled partner I first imagined.
I lean in closer, purposefully maximizing contact between our bodies. Her pulse quickens, as I expected, but she doesn’t move away.
“Do you like waiting here in an empty room?” I ask, locking my eyes with hers as the pink slowly fades from her cheeks. “We’ve been allotted thirty-six hours, give or take, before we must return to our stable point and head home. I don’t know about you, but I doubt there are answers to the questions on my research agenda here in this parlor.”
Katherine leans back in her chair after a moment, thankfully silent. Then she walks over to the bookshelf in the opposite corner, which holds a few dozen volumes, and runs her forefinger along the spines, eventually pulling a thin bound volume from the shelves. Another brief search and she snags a second book from the lower shelf.
She tosses one of them to me. “I don’t remember seeing either of these in our archives. Maybe they’re some of the Friend’s lost manuscripts.”
I don’t respond, just thumb quickly through the essay collection, “Some Considerations, Propounded to the Several Sorts and Sects” by the Publick Universal Friend. It’s written in the obtuse, florid language used in all of her works. There’s an occasional, mildly interesting biblical reference, interspersed with paragraph after paragraph of commentary that’s either self-aggrandizing or else addressed at resolving petty squabbles between one local church and another.
A complete waste of time. “I’m going to find the privy. Wait here.”
It’s a lie, but I’m too edgy to sit. I need a few words with Jemima in private, anyway. The Friend’s desire to take credit for the prophecy will probably keep her from saying anything too revealing in front of Katherine, but you can never tell. Jemima was stupid enough to keep the prophecy vague, so she might be stupid enough to babble about it. But most importantly, Katherine can’t be around when I slip Jemima the medicine I’m carrying. The longer I wait around on the Friend to grant us an audience, the greater the possibility the fool will botch her second chance to add a miracle to her résumé.
I veer down a hallway I saw Caesar take earlier, when he first left us in the parlor, and head up the stairs. The house is large by colonial standards, but I hear faint moans when I turn into the hallway, so it doesn’t take a genius to locate the room. When I nudge the door open, Jemima is praying, eyes closed, over a feverish woman in a damp white gown that clings to her frail body. Judge Potter’s wife, Penelope, is at the head of the narrow bed, sponging her daughter’s forehead.
When I tap on the doorframe, Penelope looks up from her ministrations, frowning as she tugs a blanket over her daughter’s body. “Thou should not be here. Caesar asked thee to wait…”
I glance away from the bed and say, “I beg thy mercy. My business with the Friend is urgent but it will only take a moment and she can return to her prayers for thy daughter. Another life hangs in the balance, else I’d not intrude in this way.”
The Friend’s eyes flash with annoyance, but she places the Bible she was holding on the bed
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