Page 83 of No Place in Time

“Yes. He would have been a problem,” Julian said, letting out a sigh. “Coming back for her, interfering with our plans.”

“The widow’s cottage was convenient. No witnesses.”

Finn. They were talking about Finn. Her Finn.

Dead.

She pressed both hands flat against the wall behind the curtain and forced herself to breathe slowly. In. Out. In. The tears came before she could stop them, hot and silent, running down into the collar of her gown. She had waited for Finn. Every morning she had walked to the window and looked out at the road, telling herself today, today he would come. He had not abandoned her. He had been coming. He had been coming, and they had murdered him for it, and she had spent months believing he had simply chosen not to return.

She bit down on her lip until she tasted blood. She made no sound at all.

“What about my wife?” Julian asked.

“What about her?” Benedict’s tone was indifferent.

“She’s so weak she can barely manage the household.”

“These things take time. We must proceed slowly.”

A pause. Then Julian asked, “How much longer?”

“Not long.”

She didn’t understand what they meant. How much longer for what? But the chill in Benedict’s voice made her shudder.

Their footsteps moved toward the door. It opened and closed. Benedict’s key turned in the lock. They were gone.

Cecily waited, making certain they wouldn’t return. Finally, she emerged from behind the curtain. Her legs nearly gave out. She caught herself on the desk.

Finn was dead. They had killed him, and the impossible truth of it slammed into her.

The machine was the source of their obscene wealth. The new tapestries, the fine clothes, all of it bought with stolen futures. It was madness, but she had heard it from their own lips.

A sudden fire burned through the fog of her grief and illness. It was rage, and for a moment she felt her old strength return. Julian’s weakness, Benedict’s vile coldness, the sheer arrogance of their theft. They had all lit a fire that was burning through her.

She left the study, moving as quickly as she could. She made it back to her chamber and collapsed onto the bed. Everything she’d learned crashed over her in waves.

Finn had been coming for her. He’d tried to save her. And they’d murdered him.

She curled on her side and wept. If only her memories of Finn could leak away like her tears. She lay there until the light changed, until the servants knocked and she didn’t answer, until finally she made herself stand because lying there meant giving in, and she was not ready to give in. Not yet.

∞∞∞

She was summoned to the solar that evening.

Cecily didn’t want to go. She was so tired. She didn’t want to see Julian’s face, or Benedict’s. They were wicked. Thieves. Murderers.

She didn’t want to pretend everything was normal when her entire world had shattered. But she had no choice. They could not know that she had discovered their treachery.

She made her way slowly to the solar. Isabel was already there, sitting by the window with her embroidery. She looked up when Cecily entered and gave her a small, sad smile.

Julian and Benedict arrived moments later. They took their seats. A servant brought wine. Benedict moved to the sideboard and poured four glasses, then set them on the table. One before Cecily, one before Isabel, one before Julian, and one in front of his own seat.

Cecily stared at the cup before her, the wine dark within it. She felt a sudden, sharp revulsion as she remembered their words: Not long.

As Isabel set aside her embroidery and reached for the nearest cup—Cecily’s cup—Benedict moved.

“No!” His voice was like a whip crack as he snatched the cup just before Isabel’s fingers touched it.