The Time Roads

“Yes, you are.” But to Síomón’s ear, Ó Deághaidh’s tone sounded ambiguous. “Tell me,” he went on, “about the arrangements you have with your uncle. He manages your estates of Gleanntara, in County Laingford, does he not?”

“He manages our estates,” Síomón said, with a slight emphasis. “My sister and I own the property jointly. Why do you need to know this?”

“To complete my understanding of your circumstances, Mr. Madóc. Your parents left everything—land and money—to you without division, is that not so?”

“Yes. We had talked earlier about dividing the estate—the will allowed us to alter the arrangement once we came of age—but then my sister took ill.”

“And so you kept things as they were.”

Síomón nodded, but his mind had wandered. He was seeing Gwen’s face, chapped by hours in the cold, and hearing her singsong voice as she talked about following a number. There will be nothing like it was, he thought. Not unless we wind ourselves backward through time a half dozen years.

To his relief, the interview ended at last. Síomón stood and shook hands with Ó Deághaidh. The gestures and the words came to him automatically, even in such a strange situation, and he did not begrudge them this time.

“I’ve ordered a cab for you,” Ó Deághaidh said. “Remember that we might need to speak with you again tomorrow.”

A sergeant escorted Síomón from the building and helped him into the waiting carriage. Once inside, Síomón collapsed into the corner. His entire body ached, as though he had worked every muscle from his scalp to his toes. He wanted nothing more than to sleep, but when he closed his eyes, he kept seeing David’s pale face, his outstretched hand, as though he had tried to grasp something in those last moments of life. Then there was Ó Deághaidh and his endless questions, seemingly random but by now Síomón knew that Ó Deághaidh never spoke or acted without purpose.

At last the cab stopped before the house where Síomón rented a suite of rooms. He climbed down stiffly and was grateful when his valet met him at the door. Kevin Garret removed Síomón’s muddy coat without comment and handed him a hot drink.

Síomón drank down the tea in one long swallow. “Thank you, K

evin. No need for you to stay up. I’ll take myself to bed.”

“As you wish, sir.”

Síomón stumbled into his bedroom and closed the door. His hands were shaking again, and he nearly called Garret back to help him unbutton his shirt. It was then he noticed the stain on his sleeve. Blood, he realized, suddenly queasy. David’s blood, still damp to the touch.

* * *

Their guardians invited Professor Glasfryn to visit the spring after Síomón and Gwen turned thirteen. Glasfryn was a retired professor, Uncle Liam told them, and had taught mathematics at Éire’s largest university, in Awveline City. He was man of considerable reputation, their Aunt Eilín added, in a tone that suggested they would show respect for once.

“What do you know about him?” Síomón asked Gwen.

“Nothing,” Gwen replied, a little too quickly. Then, “Enough to know he’s worth listening to.”

They had retreated to the attic above their bedrooms. Their aunt called it their schoolroom, but for Síomón and Gwen, it represented a refuge from the ordinary. Not even their most recent tutor, a man they both liked, ever ventured into this space. Síomón wanted to ask Gwen what she meant by worth listening to, but her expression had already closed. He took up the nearest book and pretended to study a diagram of numerical theory.

Glasfryn arrived in midafternoon. Now stationed in the parlor, at their aunt’s command, Síomón and Gwen watched the liveried footman help the old man disembark from the carriage. He looked nothing like Síomón had imagined. Old, yes. But with a face so brown and seamed, it was as though he’d spent his years laboring in the sun, not confined to lecture halls. Gwen stood with her hands clasped together, silent and demure, but Síomón could tell she was studying Glasfryn as intently as he was.

They took an early tea in the parlor while Aunt Eilín fussed over their guest, and Uncle Liam explained at tedious length about the twins’ schooling. Glasfryn stirred his tea and nibbled at the scones, but it was clear to Síomón that he was ignoring their uncle.

“Let me talk to them,” he said, interrupting Aunt Eilín’s third inquiry about his health.

Their aunt bit her lips, clearly irritated. Their uncle started to make excuses why he ought to remain present, but when Professor Glasfryn waved them away absently, Uncle Liam rose and motioned for Aunt Eilín to come with him.

“But Liam,” she said softly. She glanced toward Gwen with an anxious expression, but then she shook her head and excused herself.

Glasfryn waited until the door closed. “Now then,” he said. “Let us speak openly.”

He began with straightforward questions about their lessons. They answered dutifully, just as they did with their tutors. Without their uncle to explain and repeat himself, the interview lasted only a quarter hour.

Glasfryn fell silent and studied them a few moments through rheumy brown eyes. “What do you think about numbers?” he asked abruptly.

Síomón and Gwen blinked. “What do you mean?” Síomón asked.

“The ancient Greeks thought numbers were dead. Myself, I wonder if they were right. Maybe mathematics is like so much lumber. Take the sticks and build a house.”

Gwen’s cheeks flushed pink. “What about Pythagoras?”