The Chronomancer and The Twins of Time

The flat is quiet—Mikael, diplomatic as ever, has slipped out, probably to fetch Tarmo a fresh suit and a coffee strong enough for the next war. The sight would be comic if it weren’t evidence of all the ways my life has become both impossible and inevitable.

Tarmo stirs, blinking at the grey light, and studies me with something close to hope. I trace his jaw with my thumb, equal parts tenderness and exasperation.

​“Sleep much?” I murmur.

​“Not a wink,” he admits, lips quirking. “But this isn’t a night I wanted to miss.”

I see his eyes drift to my wet nightgown. I know the temptation for him to touch me or even look at the golden magic is tearing at him.

I let us drift in the quiet, cataloguing my heart: the ache for what was, the hunger for what could be. I realise I don’t just carry two children—I carry two men, two epochs of my life tangled together. Two loves, neither simple nor complete. I’m not sure if it’s a disaster or a miracle. Maybe both.

​

“I have a busy schedule today,” I whisper, more to myself than to him. “Meetings and a plane to catch, London is closing its gates behind me.”

​Without a sound, he presses me tighter to him. I can feel he is hard.

He nods, not arguing for once. “We’ll see you off, Mikael and I. If you let us.”

The words are careful—permission, not presumption—a gift from the man who doesn’t do generosity without a purpose. Less, offering his jet.

The day clicks into fast-forward. Breakfast passes in a blur: the Boswell boys’ voices outside, the whiff of fresh coffee, Mikael immaculate in a new suit and stone-faced as ever., although: do I spot life in his silver eyes?

​

Roger Boswell meets me at the quiet G Kelly, enjoying his Pie and Mash (with a Medium Liquor 16oz, traditional before gravy).

” Elena,” he says, voice gravelly but warm, “you delivered. But danger has a way of circling back when you least expect it. You’ll always have family here, understand?

The boys’ll keep an eye from a distance, no matter where you end up. Just text a postcode—I’ll send tea and trouble.”

​His handshake squeezes something like a promise into my palm. “You ever need us—anything at all—you let us know. Some debts, we honour with loyalty, not paycheck.” Before letting go of my hand, he presses a kiss and mumbles: “You should have married me”, at which he winks: “We would have ruled the White City!” I smile and say, “Perhaps in another life, Rog”.

​

I return to the office for one last meeting with Mrs H, who is, as always, already two steps ahead.

She eyes me up and down, arching a brow. “Going off to write new legends, are we, Dr D? Don’t make this place too boring while you’re gone.”

​I smile, touched more than I let on. “Someone’s got to keep the lights on.”

​She slides a folder toward me—loose ends, passwords, a note about staff birthdays. “Call if you need to be saved from the world or the filing done right. And bring back something we can actually pronounce, next project.”

​I promise, half laughing, and she nods, her affection disguised as professionalism to the last.

​

Hasna calls, impatient already for Marrakech. “Habibi, it is taking you too long, are you on camel’s back?!”

I retort: “Keep your camels, I prefer stallions, Arabian as a matter of fact”.

She laughs and ululates the Zaghareet sound to énfasis her joy,:”Your preferred stallion is waiting for you, yala, yala!”

​

I step out into the evening and dial Eve. She answers on the third ring, breezy as ever.

​”Darling, don’t tell me you’re running off to another time zone without a debauched farewell?”

​”Work calls, Marrakech first. I owe you both a night to remember,” I say.

​Lord Taren appears on the speaker, voice smiling. “Just don’t end up founding any new religions, Elena. There aren’t enough velvet jackets left.” Eve and Lord Taren with irreverent goodbyes and last-minute invitations to trouble.

​

London Heathrow—grey, messy, miraculous—shimmers outside the taxi window, a closed chapter, unfinished at the edges. I hold Tarmo’s hand, Mikael’s silence sheltering us from behind the glass. Inside me, the double heartbeat keeps time, singing of triangles, futures, and the wild, uncharted road ahead.

​

As the city recedes, I know at last: I never had to choose between them, not completely. Some stories are meant to be too large for a single heart, or a single ending.

And if anyone asks how I managed it all, I’ll just smile and say, “Miracles don’t like to travel alone.”

I.Ph.