The Time Roads

“The doorway will close before the bells mark the next hour,” Gwen told me. “We must not be late. Are you afraid?”

Do you wish to go back now? was her second, implied question.

“I am terrified,” I told her. “Let us go.”

We hurried as quickly as the deepening snow allowed, but nearly half an hour longer passed before we found the address in Breandan’s papers. The building was an older brick and timber structure, tall and narrow, that dated from the mid sixteenth century, with a chimney that spiraled up from the slate rooftop. This had once been a prosperous neighborhood three hundred years ago. Since then the nobles had sold their homes to wealthier merchants, whose descendants had rented to the rising working class. Now? Between the late hour and the darkness, I could not tell.

A narrow porch gave us some protection from the snow and wind. The door itself was a massive thing, fashioned from heavy iron that was giving way to the inevitable rust. Gwen pointed to a metal grate set into the left-hand side of the door. She wiped away the snow and uncovered a series of plaques with names, and a button next to each.

Ó Corráin, Breandan, read one.

Gwen stopped me before I could press the button.

“Remember what I told you,” she said. “There are no guarantees in what we do. I know. I tried more than once to alter the past. You might find that you cannot undo the future.”

“I know I might fail,” I said quietly. “But I must try. I must.”

She nodded and stood aside. I stabbed the button—a harsh buzzer reverberated, making us both jump with sudden panic. I glanced over my shoulder, certain we would be discovered. Gwen counting under her breath to a hundred, then rang the bell six times quickly.

“Who is there?”

A tinny voice emanated from the metal grill.

I recognized him at once. “Breandan. Breandan Ó Cuilinn.”

There was a pause. “You’ve misread the sign. My name is Breandan Ó Corráin.”

Even with the distortion I could hear the alarm in his voice. Hurriedly, I said, “I have not misread the sign, Doctor Ó Cuilinn. I came to say I received your message. I have some questions…”

“I sent no message.” But now the voice was uncertain.

“You did,” I said. “Or you will try to. Please, listen. Just a moment.” And then, because memory itself flooded me, I could not keep the anguish from my voice. “You told me you would prove your device. Your golden octopus. Do you remember that day, Breandan? You set your own journal into the octopus and launched it into the future. And then, and then … you followed.”

By now I was weeping, my tears frozen into specks of ice. I rubbed my knuckles over my eyes and glared at the silent metal grating, as if by glaring alone, I could force it to produce Breandan Ó Cuilinn. Next to me, Gwen shifted from foot to foot. In a moment she would flee, I could tell it. My own flesh felt unnaturally heavy from the cold.

“Áine. Wait.”

A dozen, two dozen heartbeats, echoed in my ears. Then the door opened.

It was him—the face I had seen in my bedchambers not three hours before, but alive, his cheeks flushed with emotion and his gazed fixed on me, as if he thought I might vanish from before his eyes.

Then he saw Gwen and flinched back. “Who are you?”

“A friend,” she said quickly. “A fellow traveler of

the time roads. You exchanged letters with me one summer, Doctor Ó Cuilinn. My name is Gwen Madóc.”

Another jolt of amazement and recognition. Then he glanced up and down the street. “We cannot talk here,” he said. “Come inside.”

He led us up a flight of stairs to a landing with three doors. The air here was chill, and the plaster walls chipped and discolored. Wood smoke and urine and the scent of stale cabbage made for a noxious combination of scents. Breandan unlocked the door to the left and ushered us inside.

We came into an entryway, which was little more than a cupboard, hung with several coats that smelled of mud and smoke. There were no lamps here, and the only light spilled through a half-open door ahead. A man’s boots had been flung into one corner. A faint electric scent, which called up memories from years ago, drifted from the rooms beyond.

Gwen passed me and went into the main apartment. I followed with Breandan.

More memories, but transplanted into this cramped and shabby setting. What had once been the parlor or sitting room was given over entirely to an enormous worktable covered with trays of wire, screws, batteries, and strange glass tubes. Various tools were scattered about, and in one corner stood a metal cage that reminded me of Gwen Madóc’s own metal monster, but on a much smaller scale. An electric lamp hung over the table. The windows themselves were papered over thickly.

Breandan came into the room, still with that frightened wondering expression. “Áine. You … how did you find me?”