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y she stopped trying and simply began typing.
“May 17th—Revenge takes over your life. I never realized this before, but then I’ve never hated before. One moment my life was ordinary and secure, happy—and the next moment everything was gone. My husband, my brother… I lost them both.
“Odd how things change, how in the blink of an eye one’s life goes from the ordinary—even mundane—to a nightmare landscape of horror, disbelief, and almost crippling grief. No, I haven’t cried. I’ve held the grief locked inside me, a wound that can’t heal, because I don’t dare let it out. I have to concentrate on what must be done, rather than allow myself the luxury of mourning those I’ve lost. If I falter, if I let my guard down even the slightest, then I’ll be dead too.
“My life feels as if it belongs to someone else. Something is wrong, discordant, but what: before—or now? It’s as if the two halves don’t match, that one or the other simply isn’t my life. Sometimes I can’t feel any connection at all with the woman I was, before that night.
“Before, I was a wife.
“Now, I’m a widow.
“I had a family, small but familiar, and achingly dear. Gone.
“I had a career, one of those obscure, intellectually challenging jobs in which I could, and did, lose myself in dusty old parchment and precious, unknown little books, where I mentally wandered in the past for so long that Ford sometimes teased me about having been born in the wrong century.
“That too is gone.
“Now I have to run, to hide, or I too will be killed. I’ve spent the months scurrying from hole to hole like a rat, lugging around some stolen manuscripts and ancient translations. I’ve learned how to change my appearance, how to get a fake ID, how to steal a car if necessary. I eat occasionally, though not well. Ford wouldn’t recognize me. My husband wouldn’t know me! But I can’t let myself think about that.
“How did I come to this?
“A rhetorical question. I know how it happened. I watched it happen. I saw Parrish kill them both.
“There was no transition between before and now, no time to adjust. I went from respectable to fugitive in the space of a few shattering minutes. From wife to widow, from sister to survivor, from normal to… this.
“Only hatred keeps me going.
“It’s a hate so strong and hot and pure that sometimes I feel incandescent with it. Can hate purify? Can it burn out all the little obstacles that might keep you from acting on it? I think it can. I think mine has. I want Parrish to pay for what he’s done to my life, pay for the deaths of those I love. I want him to die. But I don’t want Ford and Bryant to have died for nothing, so I have to go after the Foundation too, not just Parrish.
“I don’t know how long it will take me to reach my destination. I don’t know if I can do it in time (a bad pun) or if I’ll die in the effort. All I can do is try, because hate, and revenge, are all I have left.
“I must find Black Niall.”
She stopped typing, staring at the words on the screen. When she was in college she had kept a paper journal, with a butter-soft leather cover. Ford had given it to her the first Christmas after they started dating. She had intended it to be a record of her work, her thoughts on it, how the research and translations were going; instead it had become a diary of her private life, and when she switched to a laptop computer the habit had carried over to the electronic page.
In the journal she had recorded her flight from Parrish Sawyer. In it, too, was the only relief she had from the grief she kept bottled inside, for only there had she mourned Ford and Bryant. She had also chronicled her deepening fascination, and her warring senses of disbelief and awe, with what she had discovered in the old manuscripts for which Parrish had killed. She had wanted to dismiss them, but she couldn’t; there were too many details that tied together, too many coincidences for them to be mere coincidences after all. Certainly Parrish didn’t dismiss the secrets contained in the documents. And in the end, she too had believed.
Carefully she closed the file and turned off the laptop, setting it safely aside. She didn’t know if any of the articles she had gathered would make the trip with her, or if she would arrive there—or was it when—without anything, even a stitch of clothing. She hadn’t been joking about being stark naked.
She didn’t know anything for certain, not even if the whole damn procedure would work. If it didn’t, at least only Harmony would be a witness to what a colossal fool she made of herself. And if it didn’t work, she would find some other way to stop Parrish and the Foundation. But if it did—
She took a deep breath. She had everything ready. She had checked and rechecked her figures, then checked them again. She had found the correct mineral surroundings, the rocks, for better conductivity. She had drunk the correct amount of water, calculated according to her weight and the time she needed to travel, so much that she felt bloated. She had eaten the correct things, subtly altering her body chemistry. She had prepared herself mentally, rehearsing what she would do, the sequence in which she would do it. Even the weather was cooperating, with the offshore storm advancing nearer and nearer, so that the air was crisp and crackling with electricity. The storm wasn’t needed, but its presence seemed like a blessing.
It was time.
Grace picked up the big, rough burlap bag she had sewn herself, and hugged it to her chest. She and Harmony had also handmade the heavy, old-fashioned garments she wore, though neither of them was particularly skillful at sewing. At least early-fourteenth-century fashions had been simple. She wore a plain cotton gown, with long sleeves and a scoop neck, not formfitting at all. Over it was another gown, a sleeveless one, of good, soft wool. The undergown was called a kirtle, the overgown a surcoat. In the bag was a heavy velvet surcoat, should she need to convey a bit of status. A length of wool was folded in the bag, to be used as a shawl should she need it.
She had taken the precaution of buying a pair of handmade moccasins while she was in Tennessee, and the soft leather molded to her feet. She wore long white stockings, secured with old-fashioned ribbon garters which she tied above her knees. She wore no bra or panties, for there hadn’t been any such thing as underwear back then. There were no elastic bands or garment tags to make anyone suspicious. Her long hair was secured in a single thick braid, in the style she had worn a long time ago—before. She covered her head with a thick cotton scarf, tying the ends behind her neck.
The only thing she carried in the way of money was a few pieces of jewelry, the earrings and wedding band set she had been wearing when it all happened. There was nothing about her appearance, she hoped, that would be glaringly out of place. What she carried in the burlap bag would be enough to get her burned for witchcraft if she were caught.
The storm was growing closer, thunder echoing like a brass gong. Now or never, she thought. She had to hurry so Harmony could collect the laptop; rain wouldn’t do it any good.
Carefully she placed her foot on the pressure switch she had rigged, holding her weight just short of tripping it. She could feel the electrodes where she had taped them to her ankles, and wondered how they had managed this in the days before electrodes and batteries existed.
Closing her eyes, she began breathing deeply, slowly, and forced herself to focus on Black Niall. She had done all the right things so she should go back exactly six hundred seventy-five years, but she felt as if she needed a target. He was the only target she had, this man who had lived almost seven hundred years before. There were no portraits of him, not even a crude drawing such as had been common back then, for her to bring to mind. All she could do was concentrate on him, the man, the essence of him.
She knew him. Oh, she knew him. He had haunted her for months, owning her waking mind while she struggled to decipher the ancient documents, then invading her dreams with images so vivid that sometimes she woke herself talking to him in her sleep, and always—always—she felt as if he’d just been there. He had made love to her in her dreams, tormenting her with her subconscious’s sensuality. Black Niall had in some ways been her savior, for he had given her hope. The force of his personality, of the bigger-than-life man he had been, had reached out to her across the span of seven centuries. He drew her, somehow, and kept her from sinking into the tar pit of despair. There were times, during these past months, when he had been more real than the world around her.
