The Time Roads

For his part, he dutifully suffered through more ceremonies where the queen or various ministers awarded him medals. The queen herself spoke of other honors, from the obvious ones of higher rank, to more obliquely offered favors. He had refused them all as politely as he could.

So it was with some curiosity, and apprehension, that Aidrean Ó Deághaidh came for what the queen had named their final private interview. When he entered the small elegant chamber appointed for that meeting, she was already there, seated beside grand bay windows overlooking Cill Cannig’s grounds. The day was a day of Éire, soft and gray and damp with the promise of rain.

Áine smiled and gestured for him to take a seat opposite her. Her steward poured tea for them both before he retired.

She allowed him a few moments to sip his tea, but her gaze was sharp and her manner that of a queen with her subject.

“Are you well, Aidrean?” she said at last.

He nodded, thinking that surely she had the reports from Doctor Loisg. Thinking as well that her face had a far, far older air, as though she too was recovering from disappointments.

“Then you are ready for a new assignment?” she asked.

He shrugged. “As you command, Your Majesty.”

She smiled. It was the first smile he noticed since the days before he started for the Continent. We have both performed our duty, he thought. We have both paid our price.

“I am glad,” the queen said. “You see, I spoke with Lord Ó Cadhla about the assignment, and he agrees you are the best suited. But,” and her voice dropped to lower register, “let me describe the matter in full. Then you must tell me—honestly—if you agree with all your heart and not just from a sense of duty…”

* * *

High above Budva, the passenger balloon described a wide circle as it began its descent toward the landing fields. Below, the Adriatic glistened like blue satin in the April sunshine, with a darker shadow from the balloon skimming over the swells. Aidrean Ó Deághaidh checked his pocket watch, which he had adjusted for Montenegrin time. Half past noon. He would easily reach Cetinje before evening.

One hour to clear customs and collect his luggage. Two more hours winding north along the highway in the hired motorcar. The church bells were ringing half past four when he arrived at the hotel, an elegant building in the fashionable section of town, near the embassies and royal palace. Tomorrow he would meet with his new associates, but tonight was his to claim.

It was far too early for visits, he told himself.

Coward.

That I am. I have no reason not to be.

Still arguing with himself, he set off on a tour of the city, to see what had changed. A great deal, as he found. The old riverfront district had vanished along with the river. Now a greening trough ran through Centinje, its slopes covered in flowers and newly planted linden trees. There were gravel walks and stone pillars with posters advertising the elections next month, to be held according to a new constitution. So much accomplished since the previous summer.

When the clocks chimed six o’clock, Ó Deághaidh turned his steps toward the university district. He knew from reports that she had not changed her residence, and though almost a year had passed, he could find his way without any missteps. As he approached, his pace slowed as he took in the details, matching them with his memories. There it was—the same dark brick house. The same rose-colored curtains over the ground-floor windows. He climbed the steps to the porch and stopped, his hand hovering over the electric bell. It had come to this moment, and for once, he was shy. He retreated to the sidewalk and glanced up to the second floor. Her rooms were dark.

What did I expect? To find her waiting for me?

He had. A foolish thought, borne of the same foolish hope that led him to accept this post in Cetinje.

Enough. He would return to his hotel. Tomorrow, before meeting with his new colleagues at the embassy, he would send a proper letter to Madame Delchev. What he would say in that letter, he did not know. He foresaw a night spent in useless edits and revisions and second thoughts.

He turned away from the apartment building, already occupied with how to explain his presence in the city, when he saw Valerija Delchev walking toward him.

She looked just as she had a year ago, when he first sighted her in the university quarter. She had the same abstracted air. She carried the same woven basket filled with books, with more tucked beneath her arm. The only difference was that she wore dark blue, not black, and a shawl patterned in roses. Her head was bare.

Valerija had almost reached the steps, when she happened to look up. She stopped. The abstracted air vanished at once and color edged her cheeks. “Aidrean. I mean, Commander Ó Deághaidh. Good evening.”

“Madame Delchev.” He had to clear his throat before he could speak properly. “I … I came to ask if you would dine with me.”

She gave a breathless laugh. “All the way from Éire?”

He ran a hand over his hair to cover his embarrassment. “In a manner, yes. I’ve taken a new post here with the embassy.”

It took her a moment to absorb that. Then, “Are you—Is this a temporary one, or perhaps more permanent?”

“I don’t know yet. I would need time to prove myself, I think.”

Curiosity. A flicker of anxious doubt, which strangely reflected his own. Then her expression cleared, and she ventured a smile. “I see. Well, I would be glad to share a supper with you.”