The River of No Return

through a few pages of verse until she found the title. “‘To His Mistress Going to Bed,’” she read out loud. She kept going, silently.
    Then she laughed. So this is what boys got to read. So much better than Matilda Weimar, forever fainting in the shrubbery.
    She read the poem again, and again. When she had arrived for the third time at “Full nakedness! All joys are due to thee,” she heard men’s voices in the street. She was so startled that she froze time in a wide circumference, without even considering her actions.
    Then she sat on the bed in an agony of fear. What had she done? Surely those men were Arkady and Blackdown, home again, and if so, they would not be caught in the moment. Indeed, they would know that someone inside the house could freeze time. They might even now be opening the front door, ready to come and kill her. She squeezed her eyes shut, listening.
    But there was no sound at all. She got to her feet, and each small sound she made struck her ear like a thunderclap. She peeked around the curtain.
    Thank God. Down in the street three men stood looking up at the house, as still as statues. Two of them were strangers to her, workingmen in rough clothes, one with a paper in one hand and a stub of graphite in the other. The third was dressed like a gentleman. Julia’s heart started beating again. Three men, frozen stiff, and none of them were Nick or Arkady.
    She put her hand to the glass and leaned closer. But the gentleman—she knew him. His eyes shone in the glow of a dark lantern that he held up high, its shutter open. The thin cheeks, the saturnine brows.
    It was the Falcotts’ steward, Mr. Jemison.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
    Ibelieve we all need a drink after that,” Marjory Northway said, and there was laughing agreement around the table.
    Saatçi got up and did the honors—“Since tonight I am dressed as a footman,” he said.
    As he worked his way around the room, the Guild members talked eagerly about what they had just done in controlling the bullet. Each wanted to brag about the part he or she had played; no one wanted to listen to anyone else.
    “You talk as if this is the first time you’ve done this,” Nick said into the clamor of voices.
    Silence fell.
    “Ah.” Nick put his hands behind his head and grinned at them. “This is the first time you’ve done this.”
    “You remember, Nick,” Alice said. “We talked about it.”
    “Talked about what?”
    “It was when you were being followed by Mibbs. We wondered for a moment if he had used some new Ofan skill on you. Arkady said it might be group time control, and I told you about what they’ve been up to in Brazil. The Ofan have really been making headway with it and we’ve learned a few of their tricks. So you were perfectly safe. We practiced last night.”
    “On a living subject?”
    No one said anything. Saatçi came past with the bottle and Nick pushed his glass forward. “Better make it a large one.”
    Ahn got to his feet. His gold clothing shimmered in the candlelight, and as he raised his drink, supporting his right arm with his left hand. “Nick, in Korea we turn our backs to those of higher rank when we drink. Here, among these comrades from around the world and across time, it is impossible to say who ranks the highest. But tonight you have shown yourself to be a prince.” He turned his shoulder to Nick. “ Gun bae! To courage!”
    “To courage!” Everyone drank. Nick drank too, although what he had endured had not required courage; he’d had no choice but to face the bullet.
    Arkady got to his feet and raised his glass. “I give you a Russian toast. To Father Frost and the Snow Maiden!”
    “Make a toast that’s about Nick, Arkady,” Alice said. “Not about you.”
    “Wait.” Nick got to his feet. “If we are toasting women, I have one.” He cleared his throat. “‘Here’s to the charmer, whose dimples we prize . . .’”
    Alice groaned.
    Nick smiled at her and carried on. “‘Now to the maid who has none, sir. Here’s to the girl with a pair of blue eyes, and here’s to the nymph with but one, sir!’”
    Everyone laughed, and drank.
    Except Penture. The Frenchman sat back in his chair, swirling his brandy in his glass. When the laughter was done he got to his feet. “To our once-beloved sister who has turned against us, and against whom we have turned. Alva Blomgren!”
    “To Alva,” Nick echoed, and clinked glasses with the Alderman, and then with the others, who