The Time Roads

Meanwhile Breandan scarcely mentioned his research. It was from the official reports, and not himself, that I knew he was writing a treatise about time fractures in the upper atmosphere. He had commissioned a new balloon using the latest technology for his experiments—a navigable balloon with an enclosed carriage and compressed oxygen contained in iron storage flasks.

“If I could fly to the stars, I would,” he told me, in one of our rare moments of intimacy.

“But would you fly back?” I said, more to myself than to Breandan.

He shifted around and grasped my face with both hands. “Yes,” he breathed. “Yes, I would.”

To my shame and regret, I could not find the words to reply.

He must have read my thoughts from my face, because he smiled unhappily, gave me a hurried kiss, and rose to begin his day. By the time I had bathed and dressed, he had disappeared into his laboratory. The servants brought me fresh tea and warm bread, while I reviewed my schedule, but my thoughts were scattered between my obligations as queen and those last moments with Breandan Ó Cuilinn, and in the end, I pushed aside my breakfast only half consumed.

(He loves me. I had not expected that.)

(And you do not love him in return.)

A loud rapping at the door broke into my thoughts. Even as I rose to my feet, Aidrean Ó Deághaidh burst into the room. He stopped, one hand braced against the door frame. He stared at me, his face so blank of emotion that I was immediately afraid. “Your Majesty. There’s been another murder. In Awveline City. Lord Ó Cadhla’s daughter.”

I dropped back into my chai

r. “Lord Ó Cadhla’s daughter. When? How?”

“Word came just half an hour ago,” he said. “By telegraph from the Garda in Awveline City. They believe it is the same murderer as before.” In a softer voice, he added, “A groundskeeper found her body at dawn, near the commons. The report is … ugly.”

My stomach gave a sickening lurch. I had read the detailed reports of those earlier murders. “Where is Lord Ó Cadhla?”

“In his rooms.”

With Aidrean following close behind, I ran to Lord Ó Cadhla’s rooms. Though it was a warm September day, servants had lit a fire and drawn the curtains. Only a single gaslight burned here, its pale yellow light hardly penetrating the gloom. Lord Ó Cadhla sat limply in one chair, his chin against his chest, his arms flung to either side.

Like a dead man, I thought.

I knelt at Lord Ó Cadhla’s feet. A pang of relief shot through me when I saw the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

And yet, there was death in the room.

“Lord Ó Cadhla,” I said.

No response.

“Lord Ó Cadhla,” I said again. “Whatever it takes to find that murderer, I swear I shall order it done. By Christ’s mercy, by the blood I drank upon my coronation. Do you hear me? I am sending Commander Ó Deághaidh to lead the investigation.”

Lord Ó Cadhla raised his head slowly. “Your Majesty,” he whispered. With an obvious effort, he lifted his gaze to Aidrean Ó Deághaidh. “They tell me a lunatic murdered my daughter, Commander Ó Deághaidh,” he said. “A madman.” Then he gave himself a shake, and I saw a shadow of his old self. His eyes narrowed. “Find him, Commander. Find him and bring him to justice.”

“I promise, my lord.”

Aidrean Ó Deághaidh left at once. I canceled all my other appointments that I might stay with Lord Ó Cadhla until his wife and other children arrived from their estates. Later, my secretary and I wrote carefully worded announcements about the tragedy, making certain to emphasize that a senior officer of the Queen’s Constabulary would oversee the case until it was solved and justice achieved. Thereafter followed a dozen or more meetings with my other councilors and ministers—with Lord Ó Breislin to discuss who would handle Lord Ó Cadhla’s responsibilities in the interim, with Lord Ultach’s senior aide, Lord Alastar De Paor, to discuss the possibility of a terrorist connection.

Hours later, exhausted, I returned to my chambers and sank into the nearest chair. Servants had left a tray of covered dishes on the table with bread and soup. A carafe held chilled water flavored with crushed mint. I poured a glass of water and drank it off. Though I had no appetite, I forced myself to eat. The day was not even close to ending.

I drank more water, then cup after cup of hot tea, until my head cleared. Only then did I notice the bells ringing noon. Odd, surely it had to be almost sunset by now. But no, the sun hung high in the sky, a blurred disc behind a veil of clouds. Nothing had changed in this room—not the elegant furnishings, nor the scent of roses and autumn wildflowers—and yet, the taint of death had invaded here, as well.

I wish Aidrean were here.

But he was not. He was already in Awveline City, by my command, searching for Maeve Ní Cadhla’s murderer.

My hand fumbled for the bell—I thought Breandan might spare an hour from his work, and I badly wanted his company. For once, his inattention to state matters would prove a relief. The movement dislodged an envelope left upon the table. I saw Breandan’s handwriting and my name. I snatched it up.

Áine, my love. Do not be surprised by my seeming disappearance today. If all goes well with my experiment, you will see the firmest, finest proof of my long research within the week …