“The wisdom of skin is underappreciated. I used an Act of Suasion to persuade Shiroyama to end Enomoto’s reign. Poison. Regrettably, it cost the magistrate his life, but such was the arithmetic of sacrifice. My turn will come, one day.”
Jasper the dog took advantage of Vasilisa’s immobility to jump onto her lap, a liberty that my foster mother never granted.
I asked, “What’s ‘suasion’? Is it like a ‘hiatus’?”
“Both are Acts of Psychosoterica,” said Holokai-in-Claudette. “Where an Act of Hiatus freezes, an Act of Suasion forces. I presume your only present means of improving the lots of your lowerborn lives,” she indicated the Koskovs’ warm but humble parlor, “is by acquiring patrons, patronesses, and such?”
“Yes. And the accrued knowledge of my lifetimes. I gravitate towards medicine. For my female selves, it’s one of the few ways up.”
Galina was still chopping vegetables in the kitchen.
“Let us teach you shortcuts, Marinus.” Xi Lo leaned forward, his fingers drumming his cane. “Let us show you new worlds.”
• • •
“SOMEONE’S MILES AWAY.” Unalaq leans on the door frame, holding a mug emblazoned with the logo of Metallica, the death-defying heavy-metal group. “The mug? A gift from Inez’s kid brother. Two updates: L’Ohkna’s paid for seven days on Holly’s hotel room; and Holly was beginning to stir, so I hiatused her until you’re ready.”
“Seven days.” I put the felt cover over the piano keys. “I wonder where we’ll be in seven days. To work, then, before Holly’s snatched from under my nose again.”
“Ōshima said you’d be flagellating yourself.”
“He’s not up and about already, is he? He didn’t go to bed last night, and he spent the morning being an action hero.”
“Sixty minutes’ shut-eye and he’s up and off like a cocaine bunny. He’s eating Nutella with a spoon, straight from the jar. I can’t watch.”
“Where’s Inez? She shouldn’t leave the apartment.”
“She’s helping Toby, the bookshop owner. Our shield covers the shop, but I’ve warned her not to go further afield. She won’t.”
“What must she think of all this insanity and danger?”
“Inez grew up in Oakland, California. That gave her a grounding in the basics. C’mon. Let’s go Esther-hunting.” So I follow her downstairs to the spare room, where Holly is lying hiatused on a sofa bed. Waking her up seems cruel. Ōshima appears from the library. “Sweet tinkling, Marinus.” He mimes piano fingers.
“I’ll pass my hat around later.” I sit down next to Holly and take her hand, pressing my middle finger against the chakra on her palm.
I ask my colleagues, “Is everyone ready?”
HOLLY JERKS UPRIGHT, as if her torso is spring-loaded, and struggles to make sense of a present perfect of homicidal policemen, of my Act of Hiatus, of Ōshima, Unalaq, and me, and of this strange room. She notices she’s digging her nails into my wrist. “Sorry.”
“It’s perfectly all right, Ms. Sykes. How’s your head?”
“Scrambled eggs. What part of it was real?”
“All of it, I’m afraid. Our enemy took you. I’m sorry.”
Holly doesn’t know what to make of this. “Where am I?”
“154 West Tenth Street,” says Unalaq. “My apartment, mine and my partner’s. I’m Unalaq Swinton. And it’s two o’clock in the afternoon, on the same day. We figured you needed a little sleep.”
“Oh.” Holly looks at this new character. “Nice to meet you.”
Unalaq sips her coffee. “The honor’s all mine, Ms. Sykes. Would you like some caffeine? Any other mild stimulant?”
“Are you like … Marinus and the — the other one, that …?”
“Arkady? Yes, though I’m younger. This is only my fifth life.”
Unalaq’s sentence reminds Holly of the world she’s fallen into. “Marinus, those cops … they … I think they wanted to kill.”
“Hired assassins,” states Ōshima. “Real flesh-and-blood people whose job is not to fix teeth or sell real estate or teach math but to murder. I made them shoot each other before they shot you.”
Holly swallows. “Who are you? If it’s not rude …”
Ōshima’s mildly amused. “I’m Ōshima. Yes, I’m another Horologist, too. Enjoying my eleventh life, since we’re counting.”
“But … you weren’t in the police car … were you?”
“In spirit, if not in body. For you, I was Ōshima the Friendly Ghost. For your abductors, I was Ōshima the Badass Sonofabitch. Won’t deny it, that felt good.” The city’s hiss and boom are smudged by steady drizzle. “Though our long cold War just got hotter.”
“Thank you, then, Mr. Ōshima,” says Holly, “if that’s the appropri—” A barbed thought snags her: “Aoife! Marinus — those police officers, theytheythey said Aoife’d been in an accident!”
I shake my head. “They lied. To lure you into the car.”
“But they know I’ve got a daughter! What if they hurt her?”
“Look, look, look. Look at this.” Unalaq passes her a slate. “Aoife’s blog. Today she found three shards of a Phoenician amphora and some cat bones. Posted forty-five minutes ago, at sixteen seventeen Greek time. She’s fine. You can message her, but don’t, don’t, refer to any of today’s events. That would risk embroiling her.”
Holly reads her daughter’s entry and her panic subsides a notch. “But just ’cause those people haven’t hurt her yet, it doesn’t—”
“This week the Anchorites’ attention is focused on Manhattan,” says Ōshima. “But to be safe, your daughter has a bodyguard. Roho’s one of us, too.” And one that the Second Mission can ill spare, Ōshima subreminds me.
Again, Holly is all at sea. She tucks some loose strands of hair under her head-wrap. “Aoife’s on an archaeological dig, on a remote Greek island. How … I mean, why … No.” Holly looks for her shoes. “Look, I just want to go home.”
I break the brutal truth gently: “You’d get as far as the Empire Hotel, but you wouldn’t leave the building alive. I’m sorry.”
“Even if you slip through that net,” Ōshima extends the brutal truth more bluntly, “the next time you used an ATM card, your device, your slate, an Anchorite would find you within a few minutes. Even without using those methods, unless you’re hidden by a Deep Stream cloak, they could get to you with a quantum totem.”
“But I live in the west of Ireland! That’s not gangster country.”
“You’d not be safe on the goddamn International Space Station, Ms. Sykes,” says Ōshima. “And the Anchorites of the Chapel of the Dusk belong to a higher order of threat than gangsters.”
She looks at me. “So what must I do to be safe? Stay here forever?”
“I think,” I tell her, “you’ll only be safe if we win our War.”
“If we don’t win,” says Unalaq, “it’s over for all of us.”
Holly Sykes shuts her eyes, giving us one last chance to vanish and to return to her life as it was at Blithewood Cemetery before a slightly chubby African Canadian psychiatrist strolled into view.
Ten seconds later, we’re still here.
She sighs and tells Unalaq, “Tea, please. Splash of milk, no sugar.”
“ ‘HOROLOGY’?” REPEATS Holly in Unalaq’s kitchen. “Isn’t that clocks?”
“When Xi Lo founded our Horological Society,” I say, “the word meant ‘the study of the measurement of time.’ It was a sort of self-help group, you could say. Our founder was a London surgeon in the 1660s — he appears in Pepys’s diary, by the by — and acquired a house in Greenwich as a headquarters, a storage facility, and a noticeboard to help us stay connected down through time, from one self to the next.”