little. What a silly question. Of course something was bothering him. His home, his place, his
world
, was a hundred and twenty years in the future. He didnât belong here.
Before I could say anything else, he spoke in a low, musing tone. âI canât stop thinking about it. . . .Â
I saved Queen Victoriaâs life
.â
âIt was brilliant, Dylan.
You
were brilliant. How did you know what to do?â
âItâs basic first aid training where I come from, especially if youâre an Eagle Scout like I am. Plus my fatherâs a doctor. He works in the emergency roomâthe part of the hospital where they bring people who need to be treated urgently. Iâve heard all sorts of stories from him over the years. Guess Iâve even learned a few things too.â
I decided I could ask later about what an eagle scout was. Dylan didnât seem to be the type of person to be interested inornithology. Instead, I focused on his other revelation. âYour father is a physician?â
âYes.â He grew quiet again, and I searched in vain for something to say.
Did he miss his father as much as I missed my mother?
Was it worse for Dylan, knowing that heâd left his parents, albeit not by his own volitionâor was it worse for me, whose mother had left with no explanation and little communication in a year? At least
she
could come back if she wanted to.
My throat hurt and my eyes threatened to sting. I was relieved when Dylan spoke again.
âBut the thing is . . . I saved the Queenâs life. And I was the only one who could have done it. Yet I didnât change the course of history. The Queen doesnât dieâI mean, she wasnât supposed to die yet. And she didnât.â
âSo you did something that only someone from the future could have done, but you didnât change the course of history.â
It just occurred to me that Dylan knew when Queen Victoria would die. What else about the future did he know? A shiver rushed over my shoulders, ending in an unpleasant twist in my belly. That was dangerous. And fascinating.
âYes. Isnât that weird? But there are a lot of strange things about this whole mess anyway,â he muttered.
âI should think. Time travel is quite strange in and of itself.â And yet there was a part of me fascinated by it, andits implications. Imagine if one could go back in time to the scene of a crimeâjust when the deed was being perpetrated?
âBut itâs not just that,â Dylan mused. âItâs . . . well, there are things in
this
London of 1889 that are very different from what I learned in history books. And so maybe . . . maybe I
did
change historyâyour history, this
alternate
historyâby saving the Queenâs life.â Dylanâs expression was miserable. âAnd if Iâm in an alternate history, how in the hell am I
ever
going to get home?â
For once, I didnât have the answer. âYou saved someoneâs life. Thatâs the most important thing. Itâs always the most important thing.â
Dylan seemed particularly moved by my words. âThatâs exactly what my dad always says. Saving a life is the best work a person can do.â
Forestalling any further conversation, the taxi lurched to a stop. Weâd arrived at our destination.
The driver engaged the vehicleâs side-lift. I appreciated these mechanized platforms, for it kept the chances to a minimum that I would trip on my skirts or catch a heel on the edge of the vehicle. The small lift was smooth and silent as it lowered me to the tiled walkway and the driver handed over my umbrella as I stepped down.
Glasner-Mews was a clean, well-kept neighborhood filled with shops, residences, and boarding houses at all five street-levels. While it wasnât a particularly affluent area likeHyde Park or St. Jamesâs, it certainly wasnât
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