Inside, the bright whiteness of the time aisle was shocking all over again, as was the calm quietude of the space and the entire lack of smell.
Boswell had half-expected this time aisle to be gone, and Cressida with it. But no, she was still here, sitting with her back to the flat white wall. Her golden Viking braids were dishevelled, as if kittens had been toying with them.
You couldn’t see through her any more. Boswell’s nose twitched. She still didn’t smell right. But nothing felt right in this non-place. He could hear voices echoing in the back of his skull.
“We’re never going back,” said Aesop. “No one can make us go back.”
“Welcome to Chronos College,” said Nero. “I suppose you’ll do.”
“Just what I needed,” said Cressida, taking the glass of champagne off Ruthven and drinking deeply. She looked expectantly at them both.
Boswell flexed his ears. “Am I mistaken, or did I see you chatting to Anne Boleyn back there?” he asked Ruthven. Saying her name made his headache a little stabbier, if that was possible.
“Not mistaken,” mumbled the human. “We’ve met before.”
“Made a lot of visits to the twenty-fourth century, has she?”
Something flashed through Boswell’s head as he said it. Has she?
Ruthven looked annoyed, which was better than looking all wan and panicky. Boswell was at his most comfortable when surrounded by people who weren’t fond of him. “The usual way travellers meet people from other periods of history,” Ruthven said coldly.
Ah, yes. Of course, he had been Aesop’s human. Ruthven and Aesop had worked together for two years, before they lost her. Plenty of time to go gadding about the sixteenth century, acquainting oneself with Tudor wives. Nothing to worry about.
“Do I get a cat?” demanded the woman in a sharp voice. “May I time travel? Are you ever going to consider me your equal? Or am I an artefact to be stored in a museum?”
“Boleyn,” said Cressida dismissively. “That’s no good, we already knew she was an Anachronaut. No one else?”
“I didn’t know that,” Ruthven said, surprised. “When did that happen?”
Cressida made a ‘spin on’ gesture. Boswell gave Ruthven a meaningful look. “Don’t get distracted. Tell her who we saw.”
“Melusine,” admitted Ruthven. “Fleur Shropshire met with Melusine at the party.”
“From Admin?” Cressida gasped. “She’s a Founder! So this goes all the way to the top?”
“She’s Oxford’s mother,” said Ruthven, as if that meant something.
“It’s best if they remember as little as possible,” said the tall woman with the aquiline nose. “Makes our job easier.”
Boswell’s head felt like he was being stabbed repeatedly with a tin opener. Two whole humans here, and neither of them were patting his fur. What was the point of them?
“Bloody hell,” said Cressida. “Melusine from Admin. That confirms a theory I didn’t want confirmed.”
“Show your work, Church,” sighed Boswell. The last thing he had patience for right now was cryptic messaging. It was all he could do to keep his head in the here-and-now instead of whatever was exploding at the back of his brain.
He was remembering things. Too many things. He didn’t like what he was remembering.
They had to get out of this time aisle.
Cressida eyes brightened and she laughed. “Oh, Boz. You’ve got the grumpy professor tone down. Are they all scared of you back home?”
“Terrified,” said Ruthven, before Boswell could answer her ridiculous question.
Boswell huffed at them both. Humans. Why couldn’t he have Lovelace here to back him up? “Let’s hear your theory,” he demanded.
Cressida took a deep breath. “We’re all Anachronauts,” she said.
A few minutes later, Boswell’s paws landed on grass. It smelled medieval, but later than the tenth century. He didn’t have Lovelace’s knack for zeroing in on a specific time period by scent alone, but he knew the tenth century better than anyone who had ever lived there.
“This wasn’t even a cupboard,” complained Ruthven, not far behind him. “We crawled out of a box. Why is there a big box lying around on a field?”
“1215,” said Cressida, looking around. “Damn it, I haven’t been here before. I knew there had to be a conjunction connected to the signing of the Magna Carta. This year’s been an Event for ages.” She gasped suddenly. “Do we have time for me to steal a pen? Unless Monterey got that one already.”
“No pens,” said Boswell, catching his breath. Event Space was hard work, but it was better than the disorienting time aisles. His headache had subsided slightly. “Where next? Somewhere we can stay for more than two minutes.”
“Quite quickly,” urged Ruthven. “King John’s soldiers are crossing that field towards us. There appears to be an airship above them with a big crown on it. And… a blimp behind that, covered in cartoon mice.”
“Back in the box, back in the box!” said Cressida wildly.
“Can’t we find somewhere comfortable?” complained Boswell. “If this is going to be a long conversation. Furniture. Food. By preference, I am an indoor cat.”
“You say conversation,” said Cressida, striding her way along yet another bright white time aisle. “I think you mean, potential napping spot.”
“Ruthven looks tired,” Boswell said pointedly.
