The Chronomancer and the Twins of Time

As I hang up, excitement hums at my fingertips. The stage is set. Let the night do its worst.

The entrance to The Red Lion feels like a stage.

Eve slips in first—a shock of real red-blond hair, her freckles catching the amber pub light, body taut with old athletic grace beneath her expensive, insouciant tailoring. Despite years on the high-society circuit, she hasn’t lost her edge: she greets the bar staff by name, flirts without effort, and orders her first gin like a champion—straight, no nonsense, the woman could drink anyone under the table.

A moment later, Lord Taren sweeps in behind her—a full two meters tall, aristocratic angles drawn from his blue-blooded father, but the sly irreverence on his face is pure bohemian mother.

He’s in a velvet jacket, his smile a private dare. Where Eve glows, Taren commands; together they make the old pub hush for a beat, heads turning as their laughter rings out.

I follow, a step behind, letting my dress do some of the talking (I can feel the subtle satin move over my nipples), sequins catching light with every breath. The embroidered bow on the front bodice completes the picture as I slip into their orbit—the cherry on the trio. It isn’t long before we’re the only thing worth watching in the room.

“Eve, you’re looking criminally good—what’s the secret?” Taren teases, sweeping his eyes theatrically from hair to boots.

Eve pokes him in the ribs, grinning. “Not letting the likes of you pick the wine, darling. Still off the boxed stuff at Waitrose?”

Taren drops his voice to a purr. “Only for breakfast, love. Besides, Elena’s here now—time to impress.”

Eve throws an arm across my shoulders, nearly knocking over my drink. “Elena raises the tone. You might even behave tonight, Taren.”

I shoot Eve a conspiratorial look—part warning, part trust. She’s all fire and unpredictability, could spin the night in any direction. With Eve, you never know if you’ll end up in a palace or arrested.

Taren leans close, as if plotting mischief. “Let’s see which old friend you introduce us to first. Place feels ripe for drama.”

Eve winks at me, “What do you reckon, Elena darling? Want a quiet night, or shall we stir the pot?”

I smile, nerves thrumming and strategy ticking beneath the glamour. Together, we draw the room’s gaze, every politician and old hand suddenly interested, every whisper a little louder. The Boswell boys hover out of sight, but I keep one ear tuned, waiting for the first sign the plan is in motion—and for Eve’s wild streak to push us right into the heart of it.

The assistant worries me. I watch him closely—tight-lipped, eyes darting, always within arm’s reach of Lord Fetchitall, never letting the man stray too far. His mineral water, his perfectly timed interventions, his measured whispers: all signs the Lord is on a leash tonight, one kept short by someone with something to lose.

How do I loosen his grip? My mind races through options.

Distraction—could I get the assistant busy elsewhere? Eve always knows how to work a room. Her charm and quick wit, that sly way she tosses out questions about art or politics, could easily lure the assistant into a lively debate. If she can draw him in, Fetchitall gets the privacy he needs. Eve’s smile as a diversion: plausible.

False urgency—what if I have Bartley stage something? He’s good at tech drama, could easily conjure a harmless “incident.” Maybe a sudden phone call or a frantic request for help outside, just urgent enough to make the assistant step away for a moment. Temporary, but effective. The façade of a problem to open a window.

Social pressure—Taren’s status is a weapon if I use it right. The Lord likes to be flattered—and challenged. If another aristocrat sets the tone, throws his weight around, the Lord might seize more autonomy just to prove something. The assistant would have to recalibrate, maybe back off, just long enough for things to get interesting. Power in reputation, leverage in hierarchy.

Alcohol—there’s always the option of loosening the atmosphere. “Another round, Lord?” is tradition in these circles, almost ritual. If everyone’s glass is full, vigilance drops, conversations flow in looser rhythms. The Lord becomes less guarded, the assistant less watchful, old patterns slip out. It’s risky, but sometimes fortune favors the intoxicated.

Four routes. Each with its own risks, but each promising relief—a way to loosen the grip, even for a vital moment.

The key: don’t get overconfident or greedy. If I push too hard, suspicion will spike. Instead, I’ll coordinate a simple wink to Eve—she can pull the assistant into a conversation he can’t resist. I’ll cue Bartley on standby in case a tech diversion’s needed. Meanwhile, Taren and I will keep the Lord engaged, gently nudging him toward his vices.

Once the assistant is distracted, Lord Fetchitall will have just the freedom we need—for Duke’s camera, for our plan, for his own undoing.

Lord Fetchitall sidles up, eyes glinting with the kind of curiosity that only comes from privilege and boredom. He raises his glass—champagne, of course, vintage just for show—and offers a toast. I let him clink the rim, hold his gaze for a moment, then slyly pour the champagne into the open tote of the woman beside me, the movement smooth and practised. She doesn’t notice; I make a mental note to slip money into her bag later. If tonight goes as planned, it won’t be the last dose of champagne sacrificed for subtlety.

Fetchitall leans in, lowering his voice just enough for intimacy. “What brings you here with those two?” he asks, jerking his chin towards Eve and Lord Taren, who are already causing ripples at the far end of the bar.

“They were sponsors at a gala for a trust fund I organised,” I say, my tone breezy.

He arches a sceptical brow. “Really? Tell me about this trust fund.”

I don’t miss a beat—shameless and swift. “The Amellal Heritage Trust,” I reply, and feel a slight pang (sorry, Tarmo) for name-dropping my at arms-length kept lover. “It’s dedicated to the preservation of endangered cultural patrimony—music, language, textiles—the kind of legacy that’s easily swept away in today’s world.”

He nods, feigning interest, eyes sharp for angles. “And what makes you so passionate about heritage—surely the world’s got bigger problems?”

Before I can answer Fetchitall’s probing, Eve slides gracefully between us, a practised interruption. “Elena darling, shall we take the party elsewhere?” she says, voice lilting, eyes sparkling—giving me both escape and company.

“Sure,” I reply, throwing her a grateful look. “What do you propose?”

I.Ph.