Lovelace saw Monterey glance in Oxford’s direction. “There were a lot of cats around,” murmured Monterey. “When we were kids. Weren’t there? Your mothers were mad for them, Celeste especially. Kittens everywhere. I don’t remember holding conversations with them, though. Not until...” He frowned.
“Oh, honey,” said Lovelace, batting her eyelashes at him. “Was I your first?”
“Banksia was a talking cat,” Oxford blurted. “She and Professor Burbage brought the secrets of time travel to the Founders. I suppose she might have been the first.” He looked down at his plate, found something wrapped in vine leaves, and put the whole parcel in his mouth.
“Fascinating,” said Cleopatra in a tone that suggested she thought they were all lying through their teeth. “Don’t they teach you this sort of history when you are young? Tutors and wax tablets and abacuses, and all that. Surely it’s important.”
Lovelace was thinking about it, really thinking about it. Had her mother spoken to her with a human voice? She wasn’t sure she remembered her mother at all, except as a vaguely fuzzy figure and a sensation of warmth, like a blanket.
She felt a low hum in her ears as she concentrated on the thought. Pain spiked her head for a split second. And then, just like that, she stopped thinking about it.
The conversation moved on. Cleopatra had other questions — mostly about cinematic depictions of herself, which she had learned about from other time travellers. Monterey was delighted to answer in lavish detail thanks to his personal obsession with HBO’s Rome, and Xena: Warrior Princess.
Lovelace noticed that while Cressida and Fenella joined in the conversation enthusiastically, Oxford stayed quiet. As if he had something on his mind. Eventually, the tall young man slipped away from the dining couches altogether and stood at a window overlooking the cliffs below the palace. His fingers picked away at the sleeve of his jumper.
Lovelace was not an expert on human facial expressions, but she could spot unhappiness easily enough.
Oxford had been an enthusiastic trainee as a student. They had performed a few hops together, Lovelace as the experienced traveller graciously volunteering to supervise the occasional student when Monterey was busy or hungover.
Lovelace remembered sitting on a high shelf of one of the many campus libraries, years ago. Aesop was snuggled on one side of her, and Nero on the other. Neither of them had taken a permanent human partner before, but planned to choose from this particular cohort of graduates. Lovelace, who chose her human long ago, was interested to see who her friends would pick.
Ptolemy had already selected Lakshmi Tunbridge before graduation was official, the two of them forming a close and good-humoured bond.
There were six human graduates remaining to choose from, and Aesop and Nero had been exhausting about it.1 “I’ll take that one,” Nero said finally in his superior way, nodding down at Oxford. “Clearly the most suitable candidate.”
Aesop exploded into a splutter of laughter. “You’re choosing him because he’s the tallest,” she snickered. “Oh, Nero. So predictably obsessed with taking the higher ground.”
Nero sniffed and trotted away, shedding copious amounts of white hair over the books as he went.2
And that was that. Oxford and Nero, together forever. The friendly human and the prickly cat. Somehow their partnership worked.
Since 1899, Lovelace had been thinking dark thoughts about Nero and his betrayal of the college. She had always thought of him as — well, not entirely a friend, but a workplace acquaintance with whom she shared a long history of mutual toleration. (Enemies, she kept hearing, as her thoughts returned to that party. He called us his enemies. Not rivals or competitors.) Oxford must feel the betrayal even more powerfully. He had certainly looked shocked when Fenella and Cressida told him Nero was an Anachronaut.
“Are you all right?” Lovelace asked Oxford now, nosing against his ankles.
Oxford picked her up, and placed her on the ledge of the window before him. One hand absently stroked her back. Lovelace preened under the attention.
“I know a lot of things I probably shouldn’t,” the tall man sighed. “Son of the Founders and all. I hear things. Secrets, behind the scenes… and I can’t tell anyone.”
Lovelace frowned. “What sort of things?”
“I didn’t know about Nero and the Anachronauts,” Oxford said, sounding wrecked. “That makes me wonder what else my mothers are keeping from me.”
Lovelace butted his hand with her cheek. “You’re not responsible for what the Anachronauts do. Even if Nero is your cat.”
“Sure,” said Oxford. “But how much of an idiot am I for not knowing?”
This wasn’t the only thing that was bothering him; Lovelace could tell. But it wasn’t her job to pry. She wasn’t his cat.
“You know what would make you feel better?” she suggested.
Oxford huffed out a laugh. “Is it fried mackerel?”
“There’s just so much fried mackerel in this palace!” she said with a little shimmy of delight. “How could you possibly stay sad with a belly full of fish?”
1 Technically Melusine from Admin made the official cat assignments every year, but she had long since learned to take ‘dibs’ from the cats into account, as long as they filled in the paperwork ahead of time.
2 “What about you?” Lovelace had asked Aesop after Nero was gone. “Any favourites?”
Aesop, who was always a little shy around her, looked delighted to be asked. “I like the dark-haired one with the cheekbones,” she admitted. “He’s a bit of a nerd, but a decent sort. He won’t give me any trouble.”
Thirty-Five
1215 & 2034 “I can’t remember what I had for lunch yesterday.”
Boswell had a headache.
Cats were not supposed to get headaches, but then cats were not supposed to talk, for most of the history of the world.
When he closed his eyes, the headache grew worse. Flashes of memory took over, fragments of voices. Boswell did not like it at all. He was starting to think that some of those voices belonged to former colleagues he preferred not to think about right now. Colleagues like Nero. Colleagues like Aesop.
Boswell put off returning to the time aisle for as long as possible. The time aisles made the headaches worse. Something about that dry, scentless air set them off. His excuse, of course, was that he was waiting for his human.1
The marmalade tabby perched high on a steep metal staircase, observing the barge party and waiting for Ruthven to catch up. When the young man reached him, he looked a bit wild about the eyes. He was holding a full saucer of champagne he had managed somehow not to spill.
“After you,” said Boswell grumpily.
Ruthven nodded, yanking at the cupboard door.
