The Time Roads

“Late,” Evan whispered.

“Within reasonable deviation,” Síomón replied.

“Certain combinations do prove to be predictable,” Susanna murmured.

Síomón managed a smile at the familiar exchange, which had hardly varied over the four years they had known one another. They had first met in the library, in a furious argument over a rare volume of mathematical theory. The argument had led to a debate, which led in turn to a lasting friendship. Susanna, dark and neat and practical, came from a wealthy family who had immigrated to Éire from Gujarat several generations ago. Evan was the son of a north county family that traced its antecedents back to the first Anglian Wars. He was tall and fair and angular, with looks so much like Síomón’s that many mistook them for brothers.

“How was Gwen?” Evan asked.

Síomón had to draw a breath before he could answer calmly. “The same as always.”

Susanna laid a hand on his arm, lightly. Evan glanced around, then leaned close to Síomón. “An officer, from the Garda I believe, came by the library this morning. A man named Ó Deághaidh. I told him where he might find you. I hope that was right.”

Síomón made a show of arranging his pens and books. “He’s with the Garda, Evan. Of course you did right.”

He ought to tell them about Maeve, in spite of Ó Deághaidh’s orders, but he could not think how to phrase it without sounding trite. Did you hear the news? Maeve died last night. They say she was murdered by a lunatic.

To his great relief, a door swung open at the front of the lecture hall. Professor Ó Dónaill, the senior lecturer in the graduate department for mathematics, stalked to his podium, his white hair floating behind him in an unruly halo. The next moment, a side door banged open. Seán Blácach, a third-year graduate student, darted through and made for an empty seat behind Síomón. Papers spilled from his books, and he had a hurried, disheveled look.

“I’m sure someone robbed the city of all its cabs,” he muttered.

Síomón shrugged, conscious of Evan’s sidelong glance and how Susanna had pursed her lips in obvious distaste. Blácach ordinarily did not speak to them, except in passing before exams. He was a student of the fringes, dabbling at his studies in between gambling and other questionable pursuits. His family had little money, and Síomón often wondered how he could afford to stay at university.

Now Blácach leaned over his desk, between Evan and Síomón. “No luck today,” he whispered to them. “But I can try again tomorrow. Will that do?”

His breath smelled sour, as though he’d been drinking already. Susanna shifted uncomfortably. Evan bent over his books, clearly unwilling to acknowledge Blácach. Reluctantly, Síomón glanced over his shoulder. “What are you talking about?” he whispered.

Blácach smirked. “Oh, how very chaste we are today. I thought you two might not dare—”

He broke off, and Síomón was abruptly aware of a thick silence in the lecture hall, and Professor Ó Dónaill gazing fixedly at them. “My apologies for being tardy,” Ó Dónaill said. “Please do not let it overset you, Mr. Madóc, Mr. Blácach.”

Síomón pretended an overwhelming interest in his pens and papers. Blácach muttered something unintelligible, but sat down. Ó Dónaill nodded. “Today’s lecture,” he rapped out. “Electrical impulses and higher-order numbers. Mathematics? Numerology? Or gin fantasy?”

Someone in the back row barked out a laugh. Ó Dónaill gazed steadily at the culprit, one eyebrow lifted. “Perhaps someone experimented with these theorems last night,” he said drily. “Indeed, that might explain your appearance, Mr. Blácach.”

Evan coughed. Susanna, more discreet, covered her smile with her hand. The rest of the students settled into quiet, and with a last glance around the hall, Professor Ó Dónaill launched into the day’s lecture.

* * *

The first incident took place during the winter holidays, shortly after their nineteenth birthday. Síomón had attended his first semester at university, having bypassed the usual courses for several advanced classes. Gwen had elected to remain at Gleanntara with their aunt and uncle, pursuing her private research.

When he arrived home from the train station, Síomón learned that Gwen had not yet returned from her walk. He would find her in the gardens, his aunt said, or perhaps rambling about the fields. There was an odd note of reserve in his aunt’s voice, as if she wished to say more. Another quarrel, he thought. Gwen had written about their aunt’s increasing attempts to transform her into a proper young woman.

He set off in search of his sister. It was a chill February afternoon, with the sunlight fading into dusk. Snow had fallen overnight, blanketing path and field. After casting about, Síomón soon found her trail. Footprints led him through the topiary, past the sunken garden with its pool lying silvery and quiescent beneath the gray skies. Once or twice, he thought he saw a flickering movement between the evergreen shrubs, but when he called out Gwen’s name, no one answered.

More anxious now, he entered the woods beyond. All the day’s light had leaked away from the sky, and dull gray shadows masked the trees and other familiar landmarks. Once, he smelled a fox’s musky scent, then a strange coppery tang, which sent his pulse racing in dread. “Gwen,” he called out. Only to hear the high shrill call of the fox, and the whispering of snow over snow.

He found her, at last, huddled under a thornbush near the gamekeeper’s old hut. She was barefoot, dressed only in a thin shift. The tatters from her winter frock hung from one of the bushes; her cloak and her boots were discarded to one side. Gwen herself was like a pale gray stone.

Síomón knelt beside his sister. “Gwen?” he said softly. “Gwen, what happened?”

Gwen looked around vaguely. She must have been here for hours, Síomón thought. Her skin was red, her lips chapped, and tears gleamed in her eyes. It was a miracle she was not dead from the cold. She reached out, and he caught her hand. The touch of another human must have recalled her from that daydream, because she shuddered, and her gaze sharpened with sudden clarity.

“It was a number, Síomón. I followed it.…”

Her voice trailed off, and she frowned, as though confused.

Síomón touched her arm gently. “Gwen,” he said. “Did someone hurt you?”