Page 64 of Flirting with Forever

“Glad?” Rembrandt shrugged. “’Tis not a word we use with Peter.”

“I have some news for him.”

“He will not be interested,” Rembrandt said.

“In this he will.” Mertons drew the journal from his suit coat pocket. “It just arrived. I’ve only scanned the headline myself, but I suspect he’ll find it to his liking.” He opened it and read. “‘The Girl with a Coral Earring Stripped to Canvas. Simon & Schuster announced yesterday the much-anticipated novel from Campbell Stratford, The Girl with a Coral Earring, a fictography of painter Anthony Van Dyck, has been scrapped due to narrative issues.’ Blah, blah, blah. He did it.”

Mertons had to smile. Special projects were rare, and not all ended well. They were fraught with complications and a gamble on the best of days. But despite his success in derailing the book, Mertons had been unable to find the hole in the fabric of time Stratford had used. A shame, really, as it would have been quite a feather in his cap to have closed it. According to Peter, Stratford disappeared after he had adjourned to the scullery to clean his brushes, though the look on Peter’s face while he said it had made Mertons wonder.

With a bow, Mertons left the journal on the table, picked up his cup, and broke away from the men. He wandered slowly up the fieldstone path cut into the lavender, to the top of the rise.

“How goes it, my friend?”

Peter stiffened, receiving the question almost like a blow. “Another day. They are the same.”

Mertons considered the pallid complexion and the eyes, stripped of their usual proud ferocity. “Your new life, the one you will be reborn into, is coming. The Executive Guild is working on it as we speak.”

“I—I would be grateful for it.”

“There is news that might please you.”

The sadness left his face for an instant. “They approved my request to return to 1673?”

“What? Oh, no, Peter. I’ve told you. It cannot be. Even for a day. I’m sorry. I know now how much it would mean to you to convince Charles to sign that writ.”

Peter had confessed his ulterior purpose to Mertons and begged to return for a day or two to convince the king, but the Guild had been adamant. Once the misinformation had been planted with the writer, there was to be no more interaction with the past.

Peter nodded. The sadness returned and he went back to his painting.

“There is something else, though,” Mertons said.

“Oh?”

“It was in the news this morning. Miss Stratford’s book has been canceled. Seems the narrative took a turn for the worse.”

If Mertons had expected a cheer or even a victorious “Aye!” he was disappointed. Peter’s only reaction was a brief half smile.

“I am glad for the sake of the Guild.” Peter reloaded his brush with paint.

“And the Guild appreciates your time, though, of course, we were not as lucky in discovering the writer’s source of travel.”

Peter grunted. Mertons knew the man’s heart had never been in the assignment.

“I, er, found out a bit more about her motives.”

“Did you?”

“It certainly doesn’t excuse it, of course, but it seems she is in line for a promotion at her place of business—a museum of art, actually—and publishing a book is apparently an important hurdle in achieving that goal.”

“Let us hope she finds contentment elsewhere.”

Mertons smiled. Dry wit was an improvement over dour moodiness.

“Uh, she may get the promotion yet.”

“How?”

“The variables weren’t robust enough for significance, but directionally she appears to be heading for it. It seems she has negotiated the gift of a rather expensive painting to the museum—a Van Dyck, oddly enough, a portrait of the Countess of Moreland—and that may carry the day.”