The Chronomancer and the Twins of Time
Dressed and almost feeling ordinary, I gather my things and head outside. To my surprise, there’s Harry, casually propped against the massive black SUV, exuding older-brother protectiveness in his too-short tie.
He straightens up as soon as he spots me. “Morning, princess. Dad’s still not at ease: says there’s too much happening behind the scenes. Wants eyes on you.”
I grin, pinching his cheek as he opens the rear door for me. “Well, I’m happy to have my own Boswell motorcade. Let’s roll, James.” Harry chuckles and replies:” The lady’s wish is my command”. Imitating a higher London posh accent.
The city blurs by in a reassuring rhythm. When we arrive at my office, any haze of last night evaporates. Mrs H is waiting at the door, arms crossed with the force of someone who once ran a shipping line and still expects the world to arrive on schedule.
“Ah, the big boss finally decided to show up,” she intones. “Don’t worry, the building didn’t burn down in your absence—though only just.”
Before I can mount a defence: “Elena! The Marrakech storytelling project—remember? Before Estonia?” Her voice drops to an exasperated mumble. “And then Türkiye. Via Iran. To come back from Armenia.” She holds up the folder like evidence. Still smiling, somehow. Still expectant.
So much for a slow morning, I stand straighter, the world of miracles folding into the world of emails and possibility. Maybe I’m not the only one ready for a bit of magic after all.
By the time I step into my office, my phone already gnaws with missed calls and a dozen messages—Hasna, all the way from Tetouan, as relentless in text as she is in person. I don’t even have to check to know her tone: brisk, bullet-pointed, insistent. Marrakech, project, now.
The first voice note blares: “Elena, I need you on the ground in Marrakech—this week. The festival dates have shifted, delegates are arriving early, and Karim is already in place. Please, habibi, no more delays.”
Hasna is the only woman I know who can guilt-trip and command over three time zones and two continents—a gift, or a curse, depending on the morning.
I scroll to Karim’s latest encrypted update. He’s laconic and dry, never more than he needs to say.
“Observing the Marrakesh Convention quietly. Logging any Sudanese or Djiboutian delegation staff movements. Blending in as you used to.”
I almost laughed—as she used to. The scent of Tangier’s markets seemed to waft up from my memories, but this wasn’t nostalgia. This was the first step back into someone else’s war.
Mrs. H, unflappable as ever, looks up as I pocket my phone, eyebrows arched. “Your Arabian stallion misses you,” she says.
I roll my eyes. “Hasna thinks if she pesters hard enough, the planes will take off faster.”
She smirks. “Maybe this time, she’s right.”
I drop my bag, take a breath, and steel myself. Somehow, it feels, embedding Marrakech’s oral magic storytelling into CYcrds has turned out to be the least complicated part of my day. The rest—miracles, gold_ men with unfinished business—will have to wait.
When Harry picks me up after work, he’s oddly formal—too stiff behind the wheel, hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel, eyes never quite meeting mine in the rearview.
I look up from my papers, the sickly glow of my laptop screen still buzzing in my mind.
“Harry, why so serious? You look like you’re about to deliver a telegram from the Foreign Office.”
He clears his throat. “Dr D, I have to inform you—”
That does it. Whenever Harry gets official, something’s gone sideways.
I set my laptop aside and settle back, bracing. “Since when am I ‘Doctor’? What’s wrong?”
There’s a long pause before he mutters, “Well, we haven’t shot them yet, so that’s something. Bartley’s got nerves of steel.” He risks a sideways glance, sheepish and somehow excited.
My patience snaps. “Shot who, Harry?”
He slouches further, voice dropping. “They’re in your kitchen.”
For a moment, I process this: “They” in my kitchen, not shot, not tea guests.
“Who exactly is in my kitchen?”
I.Ph.
The C.O.M.C. Files 