The Chronomancer and the Twins of Time

As a proper cabby, he honks and curses his way through London’s snarled arteries, swearing at cyclists, bemoaning buses, and narrating minor traffic tragedies with wit.

We pull up just in time for me to spot Marina emerging—her long curly hair bouncing, her grin as sardonic as ever.

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She sweeps me into a hug, laughing, “Not getting older, eh, Rubia?” She plants kisses on my cheeks, and as we walk to the entrance, I catch her giving me a sly, knowing glance.

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Inside, we settle at a sticky table, ordering from the reliable, unpretentious Wetherspoon menu—toasties, chips, tea, and a splash of something more substantial. Between bites, Marina fires off rapid questions, her curiosity undimmed.

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And so I take her on the journey:

Narva’s border winds, the stern beauty of Ivangorod, ghostly evenings in St Petersburg, the salt of Gdansk air, the wild folds of the Asupeni mountains, Istanbul’s thunder and neon, Iran’s secret alleys, and Yerevan bathed in blue dusk.

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We trade stories, laughter, and a few sharp looks—London and adventure mingling over cheap lunch and shared memory, just as it should be.

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Quickly, the lunchtime crowd swells—chatter building, elbows bumping, every table jammed. Marina and I look at each other, wordless agreement passing between us, and slip out into the street, talking as we wind our way toward Ye Olde Mitre in Ely Court.

It’s a quiet treasure: centuries-old wood, proper ale on the taps, homemade bar snacks, and staff who know just how to keep the regulars happy.

As we make our way through the alley, I feel that prickling at my neck again—though this time, I spot Darrel in the periphery, lingering, keeping watch. It’s almost comforting, in its own strange way, and I manage to relax.

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Inside, with the aroma of hops and history thick in the air, I surprise Marina—ordering shepherd’s pie without a second thought.

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She gawks at me, “Rubia, we just ate!”

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I shrug helplessly, that old hunger alive and well. “What can I say? I’m starving. Ever since Iran, I’ve been so bloody hungry, pfff, and this mor—”

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She cuts me off, eyebrows up, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I knew it! You’re pregnant.”

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I scoff. “Don’t be ridiculous. Haven’t had my period in fifteen years… ?”

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She grins like a cat, reaches out, and unapologetically squeezes my boob. “See? I’m right. For thirty years, I’ve known you. Trust me.”

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I stare at her, feeling more conviction in my voice than in my bones. “You’re wrong, Nina. Really.”

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But even as I say it, doubt flickers under my skin—my body suddenly a mystery I’m not sure I want to solve just yet.

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It’s already getting late, and Marina has to be up at four in the morning to catch her flight. We stand beneath the pub’s old sign, hugging tight, promising next time will be in Lisboa—her city, her classroom.

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Before she lets go, she grabs both my hands and fixes me with that serious teacher look. “Promise me you’ll buy a test, Rubia,” she insists.

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I laugh, trying to shrug it off, but she isn’t budging. “Promise me!” In the end, I nod, sealing the pact with a grin.

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Darryll falls into step behind me as I make for the nearest pharmacy—Boots, it is, according to my phone. Inside, I feel a little ridiculous browsing the shelves for a pregnancy test. The man at the counter glances at me, probably puzzling out the odds—her or not her, too old or maybe not? Or perhaps it’s just my own paranoia talking. Anyway, I buy what I need, slip it into my bag, and head back out. The cab is idling outside.

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“Hop in, princess!” shouts Harry from the driver’s seat. I blink, catching the switch—Darrel no longer at the wheel. When did they swap?

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Harry animated the whole ride, telling me about his latest girlfriend (not the mother of his daughter, he makes clear). For a while, his chatter fills the cab, and I let it pull me out of my own head. Suddenly, we’re at my house.

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He opens the rear door for me, peering at me with genuine concern. “You okay?”

“Yes, why?” I ask, feigning lightness. “Don’t I look okay?”

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He grins, but there’s an edge in his voice. “Oh, you certainly do. But you keep floating away, drifting off.”

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I smile, thanking him, holding the plastic pharmacy bag and wondering if this day is truly ending or if I’m just stepping into another mystery—one that’s closer to home than I’d planned.

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I stand in my hallway, bag still dangling from my wrist, staring at the luminous plastic rectangle inside—Boots logo, test kit, all the promise or dread tucked in a few grams of packaging.

The kitchen counter beckons, papers strewn, files open, Boswell’s crisis humming for attention. My mind flickers between the two: the task at hand and the question waiting quietly in my handbag.

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For a long minute, I hover. The clock ticks, the house breathes. What do I want to know first? Do I dive into the paperwork, bury myself in company dossiers and legal threats—something tangible, something with answers I know how to chase?

Or do I step into the bathroom, peel open the package, and face a possibility I haven’t let myself believe?

I decide, impulsively, to take the test. The papers can wait. This answer is mine alone—before lawyers, before deals, before anyone else’s mess.

So, I walk to the bathroom, close the door, and let the rest of the world hold its breath with me.

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Ha! I knew it—nonsense, I blurt out, staring at the negative test. Relief bubbles up, light and slightly mocking. For a moment, I marvel at how quickly a question can swell and deflate, how the mind plays tricks when given space.

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I check the time, shrug, and decide on a shower before diving into work. Steam wraps around me, hair wet and heavy. I soap myself, humming that Iranian Romani song I heard under open stars by the campfire—its rhythm clings to me, impossible to shake.

When my hands reach my breasts, curiosity (thanks to Marina) nudges me to squeeze them the way she did—harder, fuller, perhaps, than I remember from before. Then, pulled by a stray impulse, I tug gently at my nipples.

To my shock, a soft yellow liquid beads out—just a drop, but enough to make me gasp. I freeze, watching it, feeling an unfamiliar mix of alarm and wonder. My mind races between explanations and memories, while the song flickers, unbroken, somewhere at the back of my mind.

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My brain flips to high alert: Prolactin. I remember reading—this hormone can spike and trigger milk production even without pregnancy, causing that unexpected discharge. That has to be it. I rinse the yellow drops away with soap, slip into a silk robe, and am determined to push through a final stretch of work as the night settles in.

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I focus, piecing together my strategy to help Roger—mapping out how to cut short Lord Fetchitall and his cronies, hunting down every angle for leverage. But soon, I realise my nipples are starting to leak again. This is mad. What the heck is happening? Stress, hormones, exhaustion—a wild cocktail I never signed up for.

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I step into another shower, trying to scrub away my frayed nerves, even letting myself get lost in pleasure for a moment, just to reset.

I turn the water up, letting steam fill the bathroom, and step beneath the hot spray.

The sensation is almost anaesthetic—needled jets drumming against my skin, washing away the day’s grit and the strange anxiety clinging to me. I take my time, running my hands through my hair, down my arms, feeling muscles slowly unclench.

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The soap is fragrant—rose and sandalwood—and as I work it over my body, I let myself slow down, not rushing as usual. My fingers massage along my neck, my shoulders; I let myself linger over the spots that ache, soothing each one until breath returns softer, steadier. I glide my palms down the curve of my hips, tracing my warmth with my cold hands, and sense I need to take the tension away after so long.

I start stroking myself, unhook the shower head, and the pleasure builds fast—a cry escapes as release washes through me, leaving my limbs loose and breath shaky.

When my hands reach my breasts, they feel fuller—heavier against my touch. Instinctively, I knead them, exploring the strange new density, feeling release where stress had bunched up. My fingers circle my nipples, and I’m startled again by a drop of that golden liquid, slick against my palm. Instead of recoiling, I massage a little more, intentionally, searching for relief and comfort.

The sensation turns sharp for an instant—pleasure blooming again where pressure had fermented, a soft gasp escaping my lips. I close my eyes and let myself drift in the rhythm, letting stress dissolve as new feelings take over.

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I stay in the shower, water cascading over me, until every muscle feels spent, skin flushed and clean. By the time I step out and towel off, breathing calm and slow, I almost feel myself again—less haunted, more whole. Still, the night’s uneasy peace lingers, unresolved.

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By the time I dry off and slip into bed, the sensation creeps back—a prickle at the neck, persistent and inexplicable, as if someone’s watching or some part of myself refuses to let go.

Sleep finally teases the edges of my mind, but even as I lie in the quiet, I know tomorrow promises more questions than answers.

I.Ph.