I must have fallen asleep, because when I opened my eyes, it was fully daylight and there were voices coming up the stairs.
I looked wildly round the narrow tower, as if there might actually be somewhere to hide, and then sprinted up the stairs.
I had gone at least five steps before I realized I needed to count the steps so I would know where the drop was. Six, seven, eight, I counted silently, rounding the next curve of the steps. Nine, ten, eleven. I stopped, listening.
“Hastyeh doon awthaslattes?” the woman said.
It sounded like Middle English, which meant I’d been right about this being the Middle Ages.
“Goadahdahm Boetenneher, thahslattes ayrnacoom,” the man said.
“Thahslattes maun bayendoon uvthisse wyke,” the woman said.
“Tha kahnabay,” he said.
I couldn’t understand what they were saying, but I had heard this conversation a number of times before, most recently in front of the south door of St. Michael’s. The woman was demanding to know why something wasn’t done. The man was making excuses. The woman, who must be an early ancestor of Lady Schrapnell’s, was saying she didn’t care, it had to be done in time for the jumble sale.
“Thatte kahna bay, Goadahdahm Boetenneher,” he said. “Tha wolde hahvneedemorr holpen thanne isseheer.”
“So willetby, Gruwens,” the woman said.
There was a clank of stone on stone, and the woman snapped, “Lokepponthatt, Gruwens! The steppe bay lossed.”
She was yelling at him for the loose step. Good. I hoped she read him out properly.
“Ye charge yesette at nought,” she said.
“Ne gan speken rowe,” the workman said placatingly.
They were still coming up. I looked up the tower’s shaft, wondering if there might be a room or a platform above.
“Tha willbay doone bylyve, Goadahdahm Boetenneher.”
Botoner. Could the woman be Ann Botoner, or Mary, who had built the spire of Coventry Cathedral? And could this be the tower?
I started up again, trying not to make any noise and counting the steps. Nineteen, twenty.
There was a platform, overlooking an open space. I looked down at it. The bells. Or where the bells would be when they were installed. I had just ascertained my space-time location. It was the tower of Coventry Cathedral, the year it was built. 1395.
I couldn’t hear them. I went back to the stairs and took two tentative steps down. And nearly ran into them.
They were right below me. I could see the top of a white-coiffed head. I leaped back up to the level of the platform, and on up the stairs, and nearly stepped on a pigeon.
It squawked and flew up, flapping like a bat at me and then past me and down onto the platform.
“Shoo!” Dame Botoner shouted. “Shoo! Thah divils minion!”
I waited, poised for flight and trying not to pant, but they didn’t come any farther. Their voices echoed oddly, as if they had gone over to the far side of the platform, and after a minute I crept back down to where I could see them.
The man was wearing a brown shirt, leather leggings, and a pained expression. He was shaking his head. “Nay, Goadudahm Marree,” he said. “It wool bay fortnicht ahthehlesst.”
Mary Botoner. I looked wonderingly at this ancestor of Bishop Bittner’s. She was wearing a reddish-brown shift, cut out in the wide sleeves to show a yellow underdress, and fastened with a metal belt that sank somewhat low. Her linen coif was pulled tight around her plump, middle-aged face, and she reminded me of someone. Lady Schrapnell? Mrs. Mering? No, someone older. With white hair?
She was pointing to things and shaking her head. “Thahtoormaun baydoon ah Freedeywyke,” she said.
The workman shook his head violently. “Tha kahna bay, Goaduhdahm Boetenneher.”
The woman stamped her foot. “So willetbay, Gruwens.” She swept round the platform to the stairs.
I ducked back out of sight, ready to go up again, but the discussion was apparently over.
“Bootdahmuh Boetenneher—” the workman pleaded, following her.
I crept after them, keeping one turn above.
“Gottabovencudna do swich—” the workman said, trailing after her.
I was nearly back to the site of the drop.
“Whattebey thisse?” the woman said.
I cautiously came down one step, and then another, till I could see them. Mary Botoner was pointing at something on the wall.
“Thisse maun bey wroughtengain,” she said, and, above her head, like a halo, I saw a faint shimmer.
Not now, I thought, not after waiting a whole night.
“Bootdahmuh Boetenneher—” the workman said.
“So willet bey,” Mary Botoner said, jabbing her bony finger at the wall.
The shimmer was growing brighter. One of them would look up in a moment and see it.
“Takken under eft!” she said.
Come on, come on. Tell her you’ll fix it, I thought.
“Thisse maun bey takken bylyve,” she said, and started, finally, down the stairs. The workman rolled his eyes, tightened his rope belt round his ample middle, and started after her.
Two steps. Three. Mary Botoner’s coiffed head disappeared round the curve of the tower and then bobbed back into sight. “Youre hyre isse neyquitte till allisse doone.”
I couldn’t wait any longer, even if it meant they saw me. People in the Middle Ages had believed in angels — with luck, they’d think I was one.
The shimmer began to glow. I shot down the steps, jumping over the pigeon, who took off into the air with a wild squawking.
“Guttgottimhaben,” the workman said, and they both turned to look up at me.
Mary Botoner crossed herself. “Holymarr remothre—”
And I dived for the already closing net and sprawled flat onto the blessed tiled floor of the lab.
“We realized with intense consternation and horror…
that nothing more could be done.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
And let it be 2057, not 2018. I looked up, and yes, it was. Warder was bending over me, extending a hand to help me up.
When she saw it was me, she stood up and put her hands on her hips.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“What am I doing here?” I said, picking myself up. “What the bloody hell was I doing in 1395? What was I doing in Blackwell’s in 1933? I want to know where Verity is.”
“Get out of the net,” she said, already moving back to the console and beginning to type. The veils on the net began to rise.
“Find out where Verity is,” I said, following her. “She went through yesterday, and something went wrong. She—”
She moved her hand in a gesture of silencing. “Eleven December,” she said into the console’s ear. “Two P.M.”
“You don’t understand,” I said. “Verity’s missing. There’s something wrong with the net.”
“In a minute,” she said, staring at the screen. “Six P.M. Ten P.M. Carruthers is stuck in Coventry,” she said, her eyes never moving from the screen, “and I’m trying to—”
“Verity may be stuck in a dungeon. Or the middle of the Battle of Hastings. Or the lion’s cage at the Zoo.” I pounded on the console. “Find out where she is.”