‘What do you mean? Oh.’ From the feel of it, it was obvious. ‘It’s a key.’

‘A front door key, no less.’

Rosie was giggling now.

Gavriela said, ‘And I suppose you know which door it fits?’

‘Your boyfriend’s gone and bought himself a cottage, hasn’t he? Thatched roof and rose bushes, you should see it. Well, I guess you will, won’t you?’

‘A cottage.’

‘Penworthy Lane, absolutely lovely.’

‘Well.’

Gavriela sat back in her chair, feeling queasy. Then she realized Rosie was staring down at her belly.

‘Er …’

Someone less thin would not have been showing, not this early.

‘A cottage.’ Gavriela put her hands on the nascent convex bump. ‘A nice place?’

‘Oh, my God, yes. It’s … Does he know?’

Rosie was smart, doing the sums in her head.

‘I only worked it out,’ said Gavriela, ‘when I was at sea. On the way over.’

Blinking tear-damp eyes, Rosie leaned over and hugged her.

‘Oh, well done.’ Then she held up the envelope that Gavriela had put down. ‘With a bit of luck, he might be home already.’

Gavriela could only nod.

It’s so fast.

She tore open the envelope. A label, tied to the key with rough twine, showed the address. There was no note.

Sniffing, Rosie wished her luck.

Everything consisted of minutiae: the rippled grain of greyish wood that formed the gatepost, the clink as she raised the latch, the smooth swing of the gate; the pat-pat of her shoes on concrete, the smell of roses and damp grass, and the gleam of new paint on the door; the shaking of her hand and the clean metallic sound as the key went in, and she twisted.

Stepped inside, silent and awestruck.

Oh, it’s wonderful.

Low ceiling with exposed beams, old uneven flagstones forming the floor. She could see through to the kitchen, where Brian sat in his dressing-gown, bare legs revealed, holding a cup of tea in both hands as he—

Both hands?

The lean face was not Brian’s, and for a moment she thought she must be in the wrong place – but the key, the key fitted – and then footsteps clumped as another figure emerged from what looked like the bedroom. He wore striped pyjama trousers and a white singlet that revealed the stump of his left arm, which looked natural to her.

‘Rupe?’ said Brian. ‘I can’t find—’

When Rupert looked up, he saw her; and then they were both staring.

I’m a day early.

It felt like her fault, but only for a second.

‘Hello,’ she said.

A milky stain on Brian’s trousers, probably unnoticed by him, confirmed what every sense, including smell, was already telling her.

‘We …’ Brian stopped, then: ‘We can’t help what we are, Gabby.’

‘No.’ She looked at Rupert, who had grown very pale. ‘And you couldn’t help sending me across the Atlantic and out of the way, could you?’

Because Rupert had realized, that day in Baker Street, what had happened the night before between her and Brian. She wondered if they had talked about her since, and what they had said.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Rupert. ‘But Brian’s right, we can’t help—’

‘You think it would’ve been all right if I found a woman here?’

Her voice was a roar, causing Brian to step back. But his hand was pointing, trembling.

‘Is that …? Are you …?’

‘I am. It is.’ Suddenly she was grim, her rage pulled deep inside like the furnace at the heart of a destroyer. ‘Yours, yes.’

Both men grew even paler.

‘Which is why, when I return to work at BP tomorrow, you’ll use all your influence to stop the whispering. Plus I’ll continue to draw salary while I’m having it’ – she patted herself – ‘and you can make a contribution towards the nanny when I go back to work afterwards.’

Rupert said, ‘That’s impossible. In your condition … and afterwards, unmarried … out of the question. Unless …’

He looked at Brian.

‘Don’t ask him,’ said Gavriela. ‘Ask me. And no, I’m not marrying him or anyone else, so you can forget that.’

It was very clear now.

‘Look.’ Rupert changed his tone. ‘Even if you were married, you know that having a job would be out of the question. In these circumstances, it’s quite impossible to—’

‘What’s impossible,’ said Gavriela, ‘is for you two to stay out of prison if I tell what I know. And don’t tell me there won’t be other evidence all over the place if the police start looking.’

Of course, there was the possibility of violence, the two of them against her, which she had not considered. But they had seen her in action in Baker Street, hadn’t they?

‘Very well,’ said Rupert. ‘We agree.’

Speaking for Brian as if they were a couple.

Well they are, aren’t they?

For a moment she wondered if she were being unfair. But she had an unborn child to think about, and they had betrayed her, both of them in different ways.

‘And I won’t be needing this.’

She put the front-door key down on a small table, beside a single rose in a vase. The petals were edged with brown, and curling.

‘See you at work.’

The front door clicked behind her as she left.

FORTY-SEVEN

LUNA, 502308 AD

Usually, when Gavriela awoke in the distant future – which became her dreamlike now – she felt clear and solid, without any of the contradictions or confusions that defined her earlier life. This time, as she sat up on the bier, she felt conflicted. Then, when her transparent hand cupped her abdomen, she had a sense of emptiness and disturbance.

—Are you well, dear Gavi?

Roger, her dependable Roger, was standing in the archway. From the points of light glowing overhead, strange reflections glinted in his living crystalline form, his existence here as much a mystery as her own.

—I’m glad to see you.

But things were different, and he must have sensed that. He walked close, and went down on one knee. Here, in this strange airless place, it seemed a very ordinary gesture.

—What is it?

—I’m … I was pregnant. Back in my old life.

Save for these dreamed interludes – some lasting for subjective days, weeks, even months – their lives were centuries apart, her death (whenever that might be exactly – whenever it had been) preceding his birth by six centuries.

Roger was staring at her.

—You’re the woman of my dreams. You know that.

—Ha.

A child. Would she have – had she had – further children? If so, they were dust, and so were generations of descendants, if any. She did not know, truly, whether homo sapiens sapiens survived; nor could she try to find out, because Kenna had impressed upon them all the dangers of paradox.

Then Kenna’s words were in their heads.

—Life continues, or there would be no reason to fight for it.

Roger smiled a crystalline smile.

—I guess that’s a summons.

—It is. Bring swords, unsheathed.

That was unusual, but there was always a reason for Kenna’s commands. Roger slipped two swords from their wall-mounted scabbards, then held one by the cross-guard, blade down, and offered it to Gavriela. She took it left-handed: it happened to be the nearer hand.

Again Kenna’s words came to them.

—Ulfr is about to awaken. Escort him, will you?

The overtones were serious, precluding questions. Gavriela led the way; in seconds, she was standing at one side of Ulfr’s bier, Roger at the other. A slight twitch started in Ulfr’s crystalline body, then another. Then his eyes opened and he sat up with legs straight, looking from Roger to Gavriela.

—You’re guarding me?

—We don’t know what’s happening.

—So we ask Kenna for explanations, as we always do. And shut up if she tells us to.

Gavriela had resonated, in the distant past, with Ulfr’s fierce berserker energy. Here, if he chose to unleash it, she thought Roger and herself might last two seconds, with luck.