Page 105 of No Place in Time

“This device is untested with people,” Anton said. “The risks are unknown. And going back before Finn’s succession is secured, before your father dies, Finn, and you inherit, could unravel everything. The other Cecily needs you here, doing what you came back to do, more than she needs you to return.”

“But if we wait,” Cecily pressed. “After the succession is settled. After everything is changed. Couldn’t we go back then? With your new device? To make sure she’s free? Or… gone?”

Finn looked at her, the memory of that other Cecily’s cold hand a ghost against his own. The promise, “Live. For both of us.” It was a brand on his heart. He felt the pull of it, but a colder logic prevailed, a sharp knot of fear tightening in his gut.

“Cecily,” Finn said quietly. “If we change the succession, if Julian is never born into that title, the 1301 we came from may not exist anymore. The other Cecily’s timeline may already be resolving. She may not be there at all. We can’t know.”

“Or it may not be resolved,” she said. “We can’t know that either.”

He had no answer for that. Neither did Anton.

They stood in the garden for a moment, the three of them, looking up at the same stars that would sparkle in the year 1301 if they ever found their way back. The same stars, yet a different world.

“It’s a question for another time,” Anton said at last. “Literally.” He turned back toward the house. “For now, you have two years to wait and a great deal to do. Don’t borrow trouble from the future. You’ve had enough of that already.”

Cecily looked at Finn. He looked back at her and saw the conflict in her eyes give way to a weary acceptance. For tonight, at least, the discussion was over. She gave a small nod.

They followed Anton inside. Back in the workshop, Anton wrapped the device in its cloth and locked the chest. He set his hand briefly on Finn’s shoulder, then on Cecily’s. He picked up the fresh candle Beja had brought and moved toward the door.

“Now,” he said. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow, you must go home and tell your stories. Let time do what time does.”

He paused at the door and looked back at them.

“You threw the stone,” he said. “Wait for the bend in the river.”

49

FINN

1239

When he arrived at Veyron Hall, Finn found his father in the counting room. Alard was at his desk, working through correspondence, and did not look up when Finn entered. This was deliberate. Finn knew it and stood quietly, hands at his sides, waiting. Outside, someone was splitting wood. The rhythmic crack of the axe drifted through the window.

After a long moment, Alard set down his pen. He looked at Finn the way he always looked at him: measuring, assessing, always seeming to find him insufficient.

“You’re back,” he said.

“Yes.”

Alard raised an eyebrow. “Three days.”

“Four,” Finn said. “I went north. Hunting. I stayed longer than I intended.”

“You stayed with friends?”

“Yes.”

Alard’s gaze didn’t waver. “I see.” He let the silence stretch just long enough to make clear he didn’t entirely believe it. “You might have sent word.”

“Yes, Father. I should have.”

It was the correct answer. Not an apology—Alard considered those a weakness—but an acknowledgment. Finn held himself still, letting the silence be his father’s to break. He had learned early to offer the shape of submission without the substance, a kind of deference that cost him nothing and ended these interrogations sooner.

Alard studied him a moment longer, then leaned back in his chair. “I’ll wager you were with a woman.” Alard delivered his statement with a thin, knowing smile.

Finn’s jaw tightened. “I was not.”

“There’s no shame in it.” Alard waved a hand. “All men do.”