“They did not.” He points at a metal box suspended high over the street. “They stopped for that. When it is green, they may go. When it is red, they must stop for traffic traveling the other direction... and for pedestrians.”
“You are a genius.”
“A true genius would have determined what the yellow light means. On our walk here, I observed that it sometimes seems to mean that the motorized vehicles should slow in preparation for stopping, while other times to mean they should accelerate before they must stop. I cannot quite determine how they know which meaning is intended.”
I peer back at the corner, just as a light turns yellow. One motor vehicle accelerates while another stops. Then the vehicle behind the stopped one makes a dreadful honking, the driver waving what I suspect is not an enthusiastic greeting.
“It is a mystery even to them, I believe,” I say.
We continue down the road, taking our time now that we no longer have a reservation to meet. I trust that Nicolas is heading in the correct direction. If he is not, we will find our way. It is a lovely December late afternoon, with the sun just beginning to drop and the electric holiday lights coming on, each new display of color making me squeak in delight.
“Oh, there seems to be a park ahead,” I say. “May we—”
I stop as I recognize the massive building in that “park.” I stop and look around, getting my bearings to be certain.
“It is the British Museum,” I say. “Bronwyn said our lodgings would be within walking distance.”
“And so they are.” Nicolas glances over. “I had glimpsed it down the street as we walked. Our appointment is not until tomorrow, but I thought perhaps you would like to visit in advance of that and see where your gladius will lie.”
I hesitate.
“I am not attempting to dissuade you from donating it,” he says gently. “I have promised I am beyond that.”
“I was actually thinking that I should very much like to spend a bit of time at the museum, as a visitor, but we also have an engagement this evening.”
“An engagement without a reservation. The note only says that we must attend between dusk and midnight. We would have time to visit the museum, return to our room and enjoy some private time there before we discover the evening’s surprise festivities.”
I grip his arm tighter. “Yes, then. Please. If you do not mind.”
“If you think I mind such a thing,crécerelle, then you do not know me at all. We are about to visit a museum filled with history, some of which is yet to come for us. It is a singular opportunity.”
It seemsour visit will be short, as we are warned the museum closes in less than an hour. We could have been inside sooner if we hadn’t needed to go through a “security line.” Bronwyn warned us about this, and I grieve that such a thing is necessary, but I appreciate the precautions being taken. In truth, the queue is nearly nonexistent, and that is only an excuse for our dallying, when in reality, we take so long entering because we are busy gaping while comparing memories.
The British Museum opened in the middle of the eighteenth century, and Nicolas visited it when his ship docked in London. However, what he visited is not the building we see today but a mansion called Montagu House, located on the same spot. While it was founded as a museum open to all curious minds, the reality at the time was much different, and Nicolas only obtained entry through the connections of his ship’s captain.
I remember Montagu House as a vague memory. It was demolished when construction on the new building began. In my time, this new building is still under construction, though I have visited the first wing—the Enlightenment Gallery.
I’m delighted to find that the museum is truly free now, with entry to all, and we’rebothdelighted to see the Enlightenment Gallery still open or—as we discover—it has been reopened. While it is not the building Nicolas visited, there is much in that gallery that we recognize, and we take some time enjoying those shared memories before we move into the newer sections.
We are now moving through an exhibit that is of particular interest to Nicolas. Called “Living and Dying,” it includes customs from around the world, but the part that interests him most is the central display, which includes a look at the medical history of the modern British man and woman. While he’s reading a description, I notice a young man striding through.
“Oh!” I say. “They have performances.”
Nicolas turns, and I nod toward the young man, who has stopped to peer into a case.
“Either he is dressed for a performance, or some people here dress very retro, as Suravi called it. That outfit is from beforeyourtime.”
Nicolas frowns, and I direct his gaze to a boy of about eighteen, dressed in a plain coat with deep cuffs, a tricorn hat, and a ruffled white shirt, his brown hair tied back with a black ribbon. Nicolas looks at me as if trying to understand the joke.
Then I understand the problem and curse under my breath.
“Ah,” he whispers. “We are not the only time-travelers admiring the future. It is a ghost.”
I cursed because I am usually far quicker to realize that is what I am seeing. In my world, if I spot someone in very outdated garb, it is the first assumption I make... which has more than once led to some embarrassment when a “ghost” turned out to be an elderly—and very alive—person who continued to wear the fashions of their youth. I am not yet steady in this world, and so when I saw what I would otherwise presume to be a ghost, my mind offered alternate explanations.
I watch the young man. Yes, if a ghost realizes I can see them, they may try to converse with me, but in my experience, they often only want nothing more than conversation, and I would hardly begrudge them a few minutes of my time.
“He seems confused,” I murmur.