A Rip Through Time(93)

She looks over at me. “If it were only a matter of convincing him you are not Catriona, I would attempt it for the sake of the investigation. It is not. It is convincing him of the possibility of passing through time itself, which opens endless potentialities that his mind will not be able to ignore.”

When I don’t answer, she says, “When we were growing up, our mother always called Duncan’s brain a boisterous puppy. Give it a toy, and it will attack with vigor. Wave a brighter, shinier toy in front of him, and it will abandon the first to pursue the second. It is something he has struggled with all his life. He must force himself to focus on one at a time and not be lured away by the promise of another. He has an incredible mind, but it requires incredible discipline.”

I understand what she’s saying. In the modern world, it might be labeled a mild form of ADHD. But I’m not sure it’s right to manage it for him, not at his age. Gray might struggle to avoid distractions, but from what I’ve seen, once he’s found his focus, he holds tight. Otherwise, he’d be with me today, pursuing this case, instead of locked away with his paper.

Isla’s concern smacks of older-sibling syndrome, never quite trusting her younger brother can do things on his own, wanting to fix problems for him. Yet I’m a newcomer, and to even suggest she’s babying him is to suggest I know the man better. I don’t—I just think I might, as an outsider, see him more clearly, my view unmarred by the gauzy layers of his younger selves.

“Please, Mallory,” she says. “Trust that I know my brother’s mind. We will tell him. Once his paper is done or when there is a lull in the investigation. Until then, I will handle any doubt regarding your abilities. Now, the lead?”

“I think the first victim, Archie Evans, knew the killer.”

I give my reasoning, insofar as I can without bringing in the part where his torturer was a guy from the future. Without that, it’s a weak argument, and Gray was right to set it aside. If she does the same, I will tell her, but she only says, “So what do you propose to do about it?”

“Investigate Evans. I’ve been to his lodgings. I won’t be able to speak to his roommates again. I burned that bridge.”

“Dare I ask?” she says as she buttons her blouse.

“The ringleader made me throw him into a table.”

“Made you?”

“It was unfortunate. However, I did score points with the landlady, who seems sick of the little assholes. That will be my way into the house, maybe into Evans’s room. I just need a few hours off and, er, directions. Possibly also a bit of advice, so I don’t say something rude or weird and get kicked out on my arse.”

“In other words, I ought to go with you.”

“No, I just need—”

“A companion. One who understands this world and can guide you through it. One who also has not ‘burned a bridge’ with the young man’s friends, in case more information is needed from them.”

“I really don’t think—”

“I do.” She looks at me and smiles. “You do require a half day off, do you not, Miss Catriona? A half day that only the lady of the house can grant?”

“You’re blackmailing me into taking you along?”

“I am, indeed. Now gather what you need, and I shall inform Mrs. Wallace that I require your assistance with my shopping today.”





THIRTY-TWO


So I’m off playing Victorian detective with Isla. If pressed, I’d admit I’m happy to have her along. Yes, it’s helpful having someone who knows the city and the customs and, better yet, that I might screw up and need rescue. But also I like her, and while I’m in this world, she’s someone I’d like to get to know better. She’s also the only person in this world I can be myself with. So, yep, happy to have her along, even if I worry it’s not entirely safe, which is why I’d have gone alone if I’d had the chance.

We walk to the Old Town. If we need a cab, we’ll take one home, but it’s a gorgeous day, with rare sunshine. Walking also gives us the chance to first pop into a little shop on Princes Street that caters to the “ladies” of the New Town. It’s the Victorian equivalent of The Body Shop or Sephora, with everything from creams to cosmetics. The “cosmetics” aren’t mascara and lipstick, though. From what I’ve seen, there’s little of that. Instead, they have tiny vials marketed as beauty aids, like mercury for your eyelashes. Or you can lighten your freckles and sunspots with lead sulfate. Isla points those out and assures me that she also avoids them—the advantage to being a chemist.

I pick up a jar of hand cream that smells of tea roses and vows to keep my hands silky smooth. Somehow, I suspect that promise doesn’t extend to the cracked hands of a housemaid, but if I’m going to blow some of the cash in my pocket, hand lotion is at the top of my most-wanted list. As I turn the jar over, looking for an ingredient list, the shop clerk fixes me with the kind of narrow-eyed look I haven’t gotten since preteen-Mallory would wander into MAC Cosmetics with her friends.

Even after I set down the jar, she keeps glaring. Isla comes over, and I whisper, “Did I miss the ‘no maids allowed’ sign?”

“No, but it is also possible this isn’t the first time you’ve been in here.”

“Ah, right. Light-fingered Cat strikes again.”