Sparks of Light (Into the Dim #2)

I leaned forward, squinting at the image. “It’s the front of our house. I mean, the manor. But . . .”

“Where’s the portico? And what’s that building?” Phoebe tapped the left edge of the photo, indicating a lofty stone structure I’d never seen before.

“That’s the old carriage house.” Voice gone flat, Mac studied the picture. “Lu and Sarah’s grandda, old Henry Carlyle, had it brought down just after the Second War. Used the stone to build a new shearing shed.”

“Yes, well,” Bran said, fidgeting a bit beneath Mac’s level gaze. “This is, as you’ve observed, Christopher Manor. Circa 1895. As you can see by the date and time stamp, however, this image was captured only three weeks ago.”

When we all began speaking at once, Bran raised his hands in a request for quiet. “I promise to explain the whens, whys, and wherefores—?at least what I know of them—?in a moment. But first, take a look at the others.”

When he laid the second image down, there was no question.

The full-color photo had been snapped at 11:23 the morning after the first photo. The lighting on this one was perfect, the image crisp and clear. From the partial obstruction and steep tilt of the camera angle, it was obvious the four figures, embroiled in conversation several feet away, were unaware of being photographed. The scene behind them was unmistakable. But it wasn’t the bookshelves or marble fireplace or the portrait above the mantel that sent shock waves through me.

Mac grunted. “Well, damn my eyes.”

“Is that . . . ?” asked Moira in a hushed tone. “Is that who I think it is?”

The crease between Bran’s eyes deepened. “Yes, ma’am, it is,” he said. “Jonathan and Julia Carlyle, Archie MacPherson, and Luis Alvarez as they appeared in February of 1895.”

“Who took this?” I asked, though I was pretty sure I already knew the answer.

Bran took in a deep breath through his nose before slapping down the last and final printout onto the very center of the table. Everyone leaned in to get a closer look. I could feel Bran’s gaze on me as my hand covered my mouth.

“Holy crap on a bleeding cracker,” Phoebe gasped.

“Phoebe Marie MacPherson, what have I said time and again about using vulgarities?” Moira’s admonishment came by rote, lacking its usual heat.

“Aye, I know, I know. ’Tis cheap and all that. But Gram!”

“I don’t know, darlin’.” Hands white-knuckled now on Moira’s shoulders, Mac peered down at the picture. “I’m thinking this particular occasion might call for a bit o’ language.”

Though somewhat pixilated, there was no mistaking the identity of the woman now standing between the Edwardian-clad versions of a young Jonathan Carlyle and his wife. With her dark eyes and haughty features, she even resembled her several-times-great Aunt Julia. In the shot, Celia Alvarez was the only one looking directly at the camera. Her smile, as she faced the clandestine photographer, was unmistakably triumphant.

Mac straightened and let out a long breath. His wise, hooded eyes rose to meet Bran’s. “Do you yet know the meaning of this, lad?”

“First,” Bran said, “I want you to know that I knew nothing of this until a few days ago.”

Collum snorted but said nothing as he glared at Celia’s smug expression.

When Bran faltered, Moira reached out to him. “Go on then, Bran. We’re listening.”

Bran glanced down at Moira’s age-spotted hand as she patted his arm. When I saw the shy, almost awkward way in which Bran looked at her, I realized that such a simple maternal gesture was utterly foreign to him.

And I added yet another mark to the tally of reasons I despised Celia Alvarez.





“The Timeslippers have been recruiting heavily. Though most are little more than mercenaries, thieves, forgers, what have you . . . one of my mother’s newer ‘acquisitions’ is a Swedish physicist. A man named Dr. Gunnar Blasi.”

“Blasi?” Doug nodded slowly as he spoke. “I’ve heard of the man. I remember seeing a lot of chatter about him in some of the science forums a year ago or so. Worked for CERN, the international nuclear research facility in Geneva, right? Some hotshot working with Higgs boson particles in their Large Hadron Collider. But he got the boot and there was all kinds of crazy speculation about it, because he was supposed to be some kind of wunderkind. No one knew for sure; I just remember reading that he’d done something unsavory.”

“Yes,” Bran said. “‘Unsavory’ sums up Blasi’s character quite nicely. And though I haven’t a clue what happened at CERN, I can tell you he’s a nasty character who’s only fueled my mother’s obsession with finding a way to gain control over the Dim and ultimately . . . over time and space themselves.” Bran’s lip curled. “Yes, you heard right. The man’s ego is monstrous. Blasi had been working on a way to harness the lodestones to the current machine, in preparation for when they ‘locate the Nonius.’ Recently, however, the focus of his research has changed.”

“What happened?” I asked when Bran’s shoulders slumped.

Bran’s gaze fixed on the tabletop. He swallowed hard. The shouts and cheers from the festival grounds became muted, as though something as simple as joy could not penetrate the invisible barrier around us.

“I happened,” he muttered. “It’s my fault.”





Chapter 7


“THE WHERES AND WHYS AREN’T IMPORTANT.” Bran didn’t look up from the table as he spoke. “Suffice it to say that during the course of a recent discovery mission to gain some of Tesla’s more obscure papers, I happened upon a box. Nothing of substance, or so I thought, though I’d hoped to mislead Celia and Blasi into wasting time with it. The box’s contents were eroded. They were moldy, and at some point mice had been at them. It wasn’t until we returned and began to sort through that I realized my mistake. Hidden among bundles of receipts and formulas scribbled on cloth napkins was a letter, written by a man named Emil Stefanovic, one of Tesla’s assistants. The note was addressed to Emil’s friend, or—?based on the letter’s tone—?his lover. In any case, Blasi noticed my interest and took the letter from me. But not before I’d made several copies.” Bran looked across the table at me, his face carefully neutral as he removed a creased sheet of paper from his sporran. He unfolded it and pressed it smooth over the table’s surface.

“Here.”



January 15th of the year 1895



My dearest companion,

Janet B. Taylor's books