Epilogue
1495 A.D.
Milan
Cynda leaned in the door of the villa, enjoying the breeze sweeping across her face. Behind her, in the workshop, she could hear animated voices rising and falling in a waterfall of Latin. They’d arrived the night before, found themselves a room at an inn and after a dinner of wine, bread and cheese, had curled up in the narrow bed. Despite not getting much sleep, Theo had been up at dawn, promising he wouldn’t take very long. She knew better. While she had no worries about her lover tainting Leonardo’s timeline, the reverse was always an issue.
The sound of sandals drew near. Theo leaned close. “This might be a bit longer,” he whispered to her in English. “He has some drawings to show me. I know they’ll be incredible.” He added a kiss on her cheek for good measure. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“No, not at all,” she whispered back. “Enjoy yourself.”
“Oh, I am,” he said, eyes twinkling. “I’ll make it up to you later.”
Cynda smiled at the thought. After another hasty kiss, he scurried off like a kid who’d found himself locked inside a toy store over a long weekend. It was the third time he’d made such a request. She didn’t have the heart to say no.
A donkey cart rolled by, kicking up little puffs of dust. She leaned back against the door frame. For once she wasn’t keen to go anywhere in a hurry. No desire to jump out in traffic like the daredevil she’d always been. It felt good to be here with him. Her father had once told her that sharing the journey made it more meaningful. Now she knew what he meant.
“I like it here.” Mr. Spider hung from a makeshift cerulean web near the top of the doorframe, watching a potential meal buzz haplessly near. “Lots of flies.”
Glad to hear it.
Behind her, Theo’s voice rose in a flurry of Latin, telegraphing his excitement. He would tell her all about it later in glorious detail after they returned to 2058. A few days rest, and then he wanted to see the Columbian Exposition in 1893 Chicago. From there, they’d go directly to 1889 Whitechapel, their clothes nearly compatible. What would a few months have wrought for Alastair and Keats? What exciting forensic mysteries would the doctor have uncovered? What of Keats’ new career? How had he adjusted to life outside the Yard?
Maybe they could all go to the Crystal Palace again. Theo had never seen it. She could only imagine what his analytical mind would make of it.
“Where after that?” the spider asked, winching down on a thread so he could sit on her shoulder. He settled there with a contented sigh.
Cynda spread her hands. “Who knows?”
We have all the time in the world.
The End