Page 2 of Flirting with Forever

Mertons flushed. “There’s a difference between telling a story and appealing to the prurient interest of readers. Stratford takes the story, embellishes it, and with The Girl with a Coral Earring, makes the entire seventeenth-century art world seem like some sort of giant sultan’s tent in which artists run, satyr-like, over pillowed beds, chasing willing and unwilling women to their reputational doom.”

Peter considered the artists he had known, including himself before the settling influence of Ursula, and found the description to be more accurate than not.

“I see you’re amused.” Mertons crossed his arms. “I wonder if you would feel the same if the subject of the biography was you.”

Peter stiffened. He hated to admit it, but Mertons was right. Seeing his own life splashed across the pages, stripped bare for the amusement of a reading public who would not care what parts were true, so long as the salacious bits of intrigue kept them turning pages, would be more than he could bear. There was a special place in hell for a writer like Stratford, who picked the bones of the dead to further his own career, and Peter supposed he should be glad he’d have a hand in bringing the blackguard down. But the thought brought him little joy, trapped as he was in one of the most unhappy times of his former life. He wished another artist in the Afterlife had been given the opportunity. He glanced again at the clock. “And here, in this studio, in this particular time, is the only—what do you call it?—point of intersection?”

“No, there are a number of intersections in Van Dyck’s life as well, but the Guild is just about to place him in his new life, and, as you know, we cannot retrieve him once that has been done. You, being between lives, are available. Though perhaps when you said ‘in this particular time’ you were referring to this time in your own life?” Mertons unclipped the mass of paper in his hand and fanned it. “In that case, the answer is no as well. There were two intersections in your own life, each approximately equal in likelihood, but the other, you may recall—”

Peter remembered and held up a hand to stop him. “I recall. Thank you.”

The other likely intersection point had been eight years earlier, when Peter and Ursula had been happy. While Peter hadn’t told Mertons or the Guild his reasons, he had flatly refused even to consider returning to such a time. To live through that again burdened with the knowledge of what was to come after would destroy him. He’d rather feel the lash of guilt and sorrow in this, the aftermath of his vanity, than to see it coming at him like a runaway carriage, about to crush him. He gazed at the emerald on his finger as one would a malignant tumor.

Mertons was observing him closely. “Peter, is there something I should know?”

But Peter hadn’t told anyone in the Afterlife about his despair, and he wasn’t about to start. “Only that it’s been a week, and I told you I would give you two, no more.”

Mertons sighed and examined another sheet of paper. “I’ve reconfirmed the coordinates. There may have been a little trouble with our original calculation, but I can assure you the writer is within striking distance.”

Peter had no interest in Mertons’s coordinates or any of the dozens of other numbers routinely spouting from the man’s mouth. “Well, it must end soon. I can’t even take a piss without your approval.”

“My dear Peter, it’s not that I wish to constrain your freedom. As I’ve explained, it’s that the Guild has given us a range of deviation of only plus or minus three point oh six two four seven. That is an average for the entire trip, which means the overages we anticipate with the writer’s arrival must be balanced with something approaching zero deviation as we wait now.”

“Hang on. Did you say three point oh six two four seven?” Peter scratched at a loose sheet with his quill in a fair imitation of a time-jump accountant. “No wonder this isn’t working. You know I can’t work at less than three point oh six two four nine two two.”

“Jest if you will,” Mertons said icily, “but the limits exist for a reason. Jumps are a risk. We must strive to ensure your days are lived exactly as they were the first time through. Unscrupulous or unthinking trippers could reorder time. We’re lucky a novice like you was allowed to attempt it.”

“I count my blessings hourly.”

“Your intercourse with the rogue will cost us at least five points of deviation, and that’s right off the top. Which means the rest of our time here must be kept below two point six.” He scribbled on his paper. “Two point seven at the most. How revealing do you intend the intercourse to be?”

Peter considered both the question and Mertons’s susceptibility to a double entendre, but abandoned his ambitions and said only, “I shall endeavor to bring it in under five.”

“Excellent.”

Peter turned his attention to a stack of mezzotints and reached for the pot of ink and his chop.

Mertons caught his sleeve. “What are you doing?”

“Placing my chop—my mark—upon them,” Peter said. “They’re for the king. Gifts for the envoy from Sicily.”

Mertons held tight. “Were these done in your original life?”

“Aye,” Peter growled. “I haven’t forgotten the proscription against new marks.”

Mertons pulled a sheet of paper from his sheath and looked at it. “‘Eleventh of November,’” he read. “‘Mezzotints of Charles II: Eight.’” He scanned the stack of mounted prints, counting, then relaxed. “Leaving your mark in this place—a child, a bride, your name on a painting, anything that was not marked before—will bind you here forever.”

“Aye. I remember.” Peter shook his arm free. There was no place he’d less like to be bound.

“You must stay as close to me as possible. That’s why I’m here, Peter. To be your guide.”

“Like Virgil through the circles of hell.”

“And you’re certain you recall what you’re to do when you finally meet him? Shall I review that as well?”

“No,” Peter said with exquisite politeness, “thank you.” He stretched his long legs. Now was the time. “How is my patronage looking, Mertons?”

Peter hadn’t been exactly eager to deal with his customers since returning, and the surprise showed on Mertons’s face. With a tilt of his head, the thin man peered into the long hallway.