The Time Tutor by Bee Ridgway Page B

“You are such a passionate, abrupt creature, when all is said and done. Your urbanity is only another one of your disguises, isn’t it?”
    He cursed, and reached for her, but she put a hand against his chest, holding him at a distance. “Of course I’m not going back to the Guild,” she whispered.
    â€œYou are not?”
    â€œDo you think I could, after what I have seen? I want to break the Guild. I want to save Susan, and Ed if he will come. Bertrand, too, if he will forgive us.”
    â€œBertrand is where he needs to be. He is my one hope, my double agent.”
    â€œWe need more than that.”
    â€œI know . . . but I can’t see how . . .” Frustration flitted across his face. “Just kiss me,” he growled.
    But she held him back. “Ignatz . . .”
    â€œI shall teach you,” he said. “Everything I know. But it isn’t enough. They are strong.”
    â€œI do not want to remain your student, Ignatz,” she whispered, slowly releasing the pressure against his chest and letting him come inch by inch closer to her. “You are going to work for me, with me.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    Alva hardly knew, herself, but found that as she spoke the words, the idea sprang into being, fully fledged. “I am going to found a university. You, me, Susan, and Bertrand, when he can slip away. We shall be the start of it. We are going to learn everything we can about the talent, all of us together. No hierarchy, no punishments. No growing old before our time. And before we are finished, we shall have the Guild on its knees.”
    â€œYou are laughing.”
    â€œBecause I am happy. And determined. And I have found the reason for my life.”
    â€œA university?”
    â€œCall it what you will. A school, a cloister . . . we shall study the talent. Hone it. And the Ofan will become something real, something powerful.”
    He was no longer pressing toward her for a kiss. The passion that had been driving him toward her shifted from his loins to his head. “ You are Robin Hood,” he murmured. “You!”
    â€œRobin Hood? Stealing from the rich, giving to the poor?”
    â€œI mean that you’re the leader I needed,” he said. “Someone who could see the forest for the trees. Someone to fit the Ofan to a cause. How could I have known it would be you? When you walked into my absurd draper’s shop, and I thought you were nothing more than a flighty little wigeon . . .” His passion flipped palpably back to where it had been a moment ago. “Robin . . .” he murmured.
    â€œDoes that make you Maid Marian?”
    He raised an eyebrow, and took the kiss that had been hanging between them, sweet and hopeful as a cherry.
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    The Peckham pub was more crowded than it had been the last time; it was a Saturday, and the small group of old men who had perched at the bar, swiveling their eyes like grasshoppers, were joined now by younger people, louder people. There was disco on the jukebox. Disco Tex and the Sex-O-Lettes, to be precise, and the fog of beer and cigarettes was laced with the smell of hash and Old Spice. The jump from 1145, and now the smells and the sounds and, frankly, the sight of British people wrapped up tight in polyester made Dar’s head hurt. He pushed his pint away.
    Bertrand sat across from him, stiff with some emotion Dar couldn’t read. Was it outrage? Grief? Dar had fought with Alva over who would meet Bertrand and tell him the truth—she wanted to be the one, or if not her alone, then at least both of them. Dar insisted it was his job, and by God he was going to do it by himself. In the end, Dar had won by dint of simply walking out of the room, down the stairs, and onto the deserted street. He’d looked up at Alva, leaning out the window of the little inn and calling for him to come