Cleopatra moved to Ruthven and Boswell’s side, glaring up at Cressida. She might be a glamorous Pharaoh, divine ruler of Egypt, but even in jelly sandals she was nearly a foot shorter than the other woman.
“I have spent my entire life chasing Anachronauts away from the palace, because you told me it was important when I was nine years old,” Cleopatra said, her chin high. “Now you’re not who you say you are?”
“I am exactly who I say I am,” Cressida insisted. “More or less.”
Boswell hissed. He didn’t care if her voice had that familiar ‘upset’ tone that he knew so well. He didn’t care if she looked exactly like the partner he had lost. She didn’t smell right. This had to be a trap.
“Guards,” called Cleopatra. Her men stepped closer, reaching for their tasers…
“No. Wait!” Cressida fell to her knees, facing Boswell as if she only cared what he believed. “Boz. I know it’s been a long time for you. And everything is different. I’m not quite your Cressida, you’re right. It’s complicated. But I still remember everything we did together. All our mad travels. The City Dionysia: how hard we worked to record that bloody play for posterity. Pompeii: the stolen honey cakes. That time we spent three days stalking David Bowie through the grottiest clubs in Soho. I remember all of it.”
Boswell blinked, slowly. He didn’t trust humans as a rule. He had trusted Church.
“We’re supposed to go along with you?” he demanded. “Even though I know you’re not her?”
“Yes,” Cressida replied with a hiccuping gasp. “Just a little while longer.”
Trusting Cressida had been easy, once. A matter of life or death. Boswell got used to running when she said run, jumping when she said jump. She did the same in return. They argued, of course. They often disagreed wildly on their methods. Not when it was important.
His confidence wavered.
“Go on,” Boswell challenged Cressida. “Prove it.”
“Wait, what?” said Ruthven.
“Is no one even slightly interested that I’m in charge around here?” demanded Cleopatra.
Cressida’s smile lit up like a fireworks display. “One more time aisle,” she whispered so that only Boswell could hear her. “This is a good one.”
She leaped to her feet, and dashed across the palace floor like it was on fire.
“What are you waiting for?” Boswell ordered Ruthven. “Run!”
He took off after Cressida, without waiting to see if the other human was following. His new partner.
It was as good a time as any to find out how much Ruthven trusted him.
Run when I say run.
Thirty-Two
1978 keep partying until it’s 1979
Cressida’s wild card conjunction took them through a glass corridor that led out of 1899. They arrived in the middle of a party, which was Monterey’s favourite way to arrive anywhere.
“Where is this?” he asked Lovelace. “Where are we?”
“The 1970s, I think,” his cat said, digging her claws into his shoulder as she sniffed the air.
“Bellbottoms?” Monterey eyed a few dancing hippies with bright yellow clothing. Sunflowers were a common motif, not only printed in large, obnoxious patterns, but the flowers themselves — in necklaces, tucked behind ears, bursting forth from vases on every surface. The occasional rose, the occasional marigold… but mostly sunflowers.
Going by the fashions, it wasn’t not the 1970s.
“Petrol fumes,” Lovelace said primly. “Eau de fossil fuel.”
No one was looking at them strangely, despite the fact that four people and a cat had just climbed out of a remarkably small shed. Oxford and Monterey were dressed for an unobtrusive stroll through the 1960s, all blazers and turtleneck jumpers with high-waisted trousers. For the 70s, they looked like terrible squares but not especially anachronistic.
Cressida and Fenella in their long historical dresses looked like attractive women who liked to wear vintage, an archetype readily available across the spectrum of every century from the twentieth onwards. Even Cressida’s bustle wasn’t likely to make anyone suspicious, not at a sunflower rave.
The crowd around them danced to groovy tunes played on a phonograph (this late in the century, it was probably called a record player) in the backyard of a country house (not a manor like Fenthorp, just a moderate sized house in the country). Long hair, fringe on everything, and the scent of gentle cannabis in the air. Hip and happening.
“Wait,” Monterey breathed. Something wonderful had occurred to him. “There’s only one Event in this decade that I know about. Is this 1978?” He scanned the garden eagerly, and then sighed. “Not Halloween or South Kensington.”
Lovelace gently head-butted him in the side of the face. “You can’t judge all parties by whether or not Freddie Mercury is throwing them.”
“I thought it was impossible to ever set foot in this year,” he whined. “And now it is possible. But there’s bloody tulips growing over there, so it’s probably not even the right month.”
Cressida staggered, falling against her sister.
“Cress?” asked Fenella in concern, holding her up.
“I’m fine,” Cressida muttered. “Dehydrated, I think. Time aisles do that.” She looked distinctly unwell.
Monterey knew when chivalry was called for; one didn’t spend time hanging around medieval tourneys without picking up a thing or two. He took Cressida’s other elbow and led her to a chair to the side of the party. It was occupied by a large porcelain vase overflowing with bright yellow sunflowers. He placed the vase on the floor, and pushed Cressida into the chair. “Oxford, get the lady a drink. Apparently we all need to moisturise, so sort that out too.”
Oxford huffed a bit in Monterey’s direction, but couldn’t resist the urge to be gallant.
“If there’s any chance of a cup of tea,” Monterey added in a winsome whine as Oxford strode away.
