The Chronomancer and the Twins of Time

As I listen to Roger spin out his troubles, I notice my gin still untouched, condensation pooling on the table. I realise I don’t even want it—something in me resists the old rituals tonight.
Roger clocks the glass, eyes narrowing. “Better off with still water, love?” he asks, half joking, oddly respectful.

I nod. As he hauls himself up, I catch his mutter: “Already wondered why you ordered gin in your state.”
Then, louder, with a flourish: “Bring the princess a proper drink!”
The boys scatter, half-mocking, half-dutiful, hunting down cranberry juice like it’s treasure for a crown.

Roger sits, smirking. “That’ll keep ’em busy,” he says, mischief settling in the creases around his eyes.
I just raise my eyebrows, lost in thought. My mind’s running loops: how to untangle the mess, who to approach first, whose name needs to surface.

“Alright, Rog: first thing, find me the name of this ‘Lord Fetchalot’ you’re so worried about. After that, I’ll tell you what I need to move forward.”

The pub grows quieter, night hugging at the windows. Weariness settles over me, heavy as old velvet—a long day’s adventure winding down. Soon after, I let Roger know I’m done for the night.
Harry ferries me home, this time in a sleek black SUV that makes me think of Tarmo’s G-wagon: power, style, and a shade of memory that lingers all the way to my door.

I trudge up my stairs, feeling that prickling sensation creeping over me again.
Pff, I really need sleep—my nerves are shot. In the kitchen, I set the kettle to boil for tea, letting the mundane ritual slow me down.
As I wait, my mind flits back over the evening, piecing together conversations, weighing which strings I might pull for leverage.

Then Roger’s mutter surfaces: “in your state.” What did he mean by that? Something about the way he said it needles me.

A restless, insistent heat stirs inside me—a pulse, almost, beneath the surface. I stand there for a moment, feeling the weight of the day and something more tangled: a longing, raw and unfamiliar, that makes my skin feel too tight. With deliberate slowness, I peel off my dress, then unclasp my bra. The lace scrapes—tonight, it’s almost intolerable, as if every nerve is dialled up, the fabric a barrier I can’t bear. When my breasts are finally freed, I pause, fingertips brushing over them. The skin is flushed, unexpectedly sensitive, plumper than usual. It’s odd—I’ve never had a reaction quite like this, and the intensity leaves me momentarily breathless.

The need lingers, refusing to be shrugged off. I run the shower hot, letting the steam close around me, and take my time—palms lingering, water cascading over bare skin, every touch amplified. The world shrinks to the rhythm of my breath, the sensation of heat and ache. Afterwards, wrapped in a towel, I reach for the rose oil, pouring it slow, massaging it gently over my breasts and nipples. Each motion is deliberate, meant to soothe, but the softness only stokes the ember, not quieting it. I close my eyes, trying to steady myself, craving rest but left humming instead, as if the night itself won’t quite let me go.
No rest for the wicked. The rose oil glistens on my skin, and as I work it in, the need that’s been building crests—intense and undeniable, a hunger I haven’t felt in years. For a beat, I lean into it, letting the ache echo through me, before I force myself to finally pull away, breath shaky, senses still sparking.

The night has me tangled and restless until dawn beats through my window.

I finally surrender, drag myself up, and tiptoe into the living room—where I find Boswell’s bunch have already been and gone.
There’s a briefcase on the table, heavy with paperwork on John’s company, the details of the hostile takeover, and, scribbled on a sheet, the name I asked for: Lord Sewel.
Alongside all that, those lunatics have delivered a full English breakfast—a “fry-up” with all the trimmings: bacon, sausages, eggs, beans, mushrooms, tomatoes, toast, even black pudding. When I open the box, the smell is so thick it nearly knocks me over. The black pudding almost makes me gag. I snap it shut, half laughing, half horrified, and wonder (not for the first time) how they managed to get in without making a sound—especially when I wasn’t sleeping.

I boil water for Earl Grey, needing refuge in something gentler. The radio goes on, voices and songs flitting through the kitchen as I start sifting through the folders, eyes sharp for leverage and weak spots.
Suddenly I remember Mrs H. Owner or not, I owe her a proper account of my movements and intentions. The thought makes me grin like a naughty child sneaking out of school gates, and for a heartbeat I’m back in Hasna’s kitchen, her eyes wise and knowing. “So you swam with the sea, not the man,” she teases, and just as quickly, I nearly scorch my mouth with the hot tea.
Some memories linger on the tongue longer than others.

I set the cup down, ready to tackle the business ahead, a little more awake, a little more wily, and a lot less sentimental.

By midmorning, hunger gnaws at me so fiercely I start tearing through my kitchen—cabinets, fridge—desperate for something edible that isn’t cold toast or the infamous fry-up still lurking in its box. Just as I unearth a bruised apple, my phone vibrates, insistent and familiar.
Marina.

“Hola, Rubia, why are you not in your office?”

I can’t help but laugh, shouting back, “Nina! What do you mean, you never call me in my office!”

She’s unfazed, voice teasing and bright. “I am in your office, surprising you, not.”

I freeze, apple halfway to my lips. “Wait, really? You’re here, in London?”

“Yes, but just for the day—tomorrow I fly to Denmark for a convention, but I made a stop to see you,” Marina replies, words tumbling over each other.

Marina laughs, her energy crackling through the line. “Claro que sí, I’m here. Come rescue me from your terrifying desk before I start reorganising your papers!”

“Alright,” I say, “you’re in my office, I’m home—let’s meet in the middle. How about Holborn, Shakespeare’s pub? Is that to your liking, or do you want to head to Camden Town?”

She laughs. “I see you in Holborn, Rubia. Next time we’ll act like proper tourists in Camden, I promise.”

“Deal. See you in an hour,” I say, already moving to get dressed, energy swirling back into my limbs with anticipation.

Suddenly, hunger forgotten, I grin and dash off to greet her, half mindful of the chaos awaiting, half glad for the interruption—a bright spark in the middle of this tangled, relentless day.

I call a cab while brushing my teeth, splashing water on my tired face and debating what to wear. Everything’s been chafing lately, so I ditch the bra and tug on a long silk dress, throwing a wool jumper over my head. My hair—blond, unruly—I leave loose, boots tall, sunglasses big. A swipe of lip gloss, a blink at my reflection. For a second, I almost look young—an odd thought, already fifty.

I snatch a last glance at the papers, then rush out just as the cabby outside blares his horn with enthusiasm. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming—hold your horses!” I yell.

To my amazement, the cabby is none other than Darrel—the Boswell bunch’s enforcer, ex-boxer, always with a frown and never far from trouble, but loyal to the bone.
“Morning, Dr D,” he grumbles as I climb into the classic English cab.

“Hi, Darrel,” I reply, eyeing him over my sunglasses. “Changed profession?”

He just scoffs, shifting the cab into gear. “Nuuh, courtesy of dear ol’ da. Send me to play chauffeur, keep you out of scrapes.”

I laugh, settling in as we roll toward Holborn, half-expecting the day to take another twist before noon.

So the old Fox sent protection. That can only mean one thing: he’s expecting the worst. Predators like that never back down when there’s something worth clawing for. Still, I’m grateful to know Darrel’s there to watch my six.

I.Ph.