“Firefighters do.”
“Why?”
The question irritated me because I didn’t have one answer. For the pay? Absolutely not. For courage? Recruitment-poster rubbish. For glory?
Nobody looked glorious at three in the morning smelling of smoke and carrying someone’s incontinent spaniel.
“Because someone has to.”
I looked away.
“Also, we have excellent jackets.”
That pulled at the corner of his mouth.
“Devil’s cloth.”
“Waterproof devil’s cloth.”
He nodded solemnly as I laughed. It slipped out before I could stop it, and for one strange second, I saw Brian beside the engine, grinning over a paper cup of terrible coffee.
The laughter died as I looked at the village, at the thatched roofs, the muddy lane and the smoke rising from open fires.
I’d been avoiding the question since I came out of the sea. Maybe because as long as I didn’t ask, some small part of me could continue pretending there was a reasonable explanation.
A film set, or a head injury. Maybe a breakdown. Anything but the truth.
“What year is it?”
He didn’t answer immediately as his gaze sharpened on my face.
“What year? Why do you ask?”
“Because I need to know.”
The words came out quieter than I intended. Something in my face must have convinced him this wasn’t another of my strange questions.
“The Year of Our Lord one thousand and sixty-six.”
The world didn’t tilt, no thunder cracked, in fact nothing dramatic happened at all. That was the worst part, that the village simply carried on around me.
1066. Even people who slept through history class knew 1066.
William and Harold. Hastings. The Norman Conquest.
I looked south at the faint smear of smoke beyond the trees.
“Oh.”
Wulfric watched me as my palm began to ache.
“How much of September is gone?”
“Not enough.”
Not exactly helpful.
“Early? Middle? Late?”
