The Chronomancer and the Twins of Time

He puts the car in park, finally meeting my gaze.

“Two blokes. Foreign types. Bartley says one’s the fellow from Estonia. The other’s a Russian tough guy of his, apparently.”

A shiver—a mix of annoyance, dread, and a touch of perverse excitement—curls up my spine.

“All right, Harry. Let’s go meet the guests before the wallpaper gets redone.”

As we walk up the path, I catch my breath and steel my humour. It seems miracles will have to get in line behind old friends—and whatever trouble fate has lined up in my own kitchen.

Harry unlocks the door for me, his body language telegraphing both apology and leftover adrenaline. (How many keys to my kingdom are in circulation?!) 

Voices drift from the kitchen—tense, accented, the Boswell boys’ cockney clipped hard as steel. I march in, dropping my bag with a thud, already rehearsing the sharpest “what-the-hell” in my arsenal.

Tarmo is there, still in his travel coat, eyes burning with that impossible sky blue, Mikael looming behind him, his jaw set, guns raised. Bartley’s got a steady shotgun on them, and Darryll’s ready to case-tackle anyone who so much as sneezes. 

“What is this, the cowboys and indians rehearsal?!”.

My stare is magma.

“Tarmo. What, did global control get too boring this time?”

He doesn’t answer—just looks at me, and in his gaze I see both challenge and claim. Something inside me goes taut, the old cocktail of anger, memory, and forbidden longing rising—then I feel it: a sudden, familiar warmth at my chest.

It trickles, slow at first, then insistent—golden drops, sliding along the inside of my blouse, impossible and damning. 

I’m too angry to notice right away, scolding Tarmo in three languages, when Bartley suddenly interrupts, his tone wobbling at the edge of panic.

“Uh, Dr. D? Are you—are you bleeding?”

The room freezes. Every eye flicks to my silk blouse, where delicate streaks of gold now crawl down from my breasts, catching the overhead light, dripping like liquid alchemy.

I look down and see the evidence for myself—miracle turned spectacle, supernatural now public. 

Fury, embarrassment, and incredulity threaten to strangle me all at once.

I throw my arms up, exasperated.

“You must be freaking kidding me!” I snap, voice echoing off the tile. “Of all the moments, Tarmo?”

He’s not smirking; he’s not gloating. His expression is haunted, reverent.

“It started again the moment I saw you, Elena. I knew.”

The Boswell boys exchange wild-eyed looks. Mikael slowly lowers his gun and mutters something in Russian, reverence mixing with fear.

For a long, surreal heartbeat, no one speaks. I’m standing in my kitchen, blouse sticking with liquid magic, surrounded by a motley band of protectors and claimants, and all I really want is a cup of tea—or perhaps a black hole.

Instead, I square my shoulders, yanking open the drawer for a towel, and just shake my head.

“Well, gentlemen, welcome to the new normal. Someone please put the kettle on, and do try not to shoot anyone until I figure out what sort of divine practical joke I’m meant to be living today.”

The gold keeps dripping, warm and uncanny, soaking through silk. The air in the kitchen is tight with confusion and the echo of too many secrets. I feel the world tilt, my body suddenly light, bloodless—as if the miracle is draining me as surely as the shock.

The last thing I hear is Darrell shouting, “Catch her!” as my knees give way and the tile rises up to meet me.

I.Ph.