The River of No Return

twenty-first-century standards—was beginning to glow in the lengthening light, the river uncurling through it like a silver chain. The great, soot-stained dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral looked like the round breast of a contented gray goose, the other, smaller steeples like her goslings, beaks pointing upward. Nick scratched Solvig’s broad forehead. She sighed.
    Dick Whittington, Nick Davenant . . . could he, Nick, be called back again to the London he loved, this London? Bells were ringing, tolling across the city, their discordant conversation carried to him on the breeze. Could they tell him the future? He listened for a moment. But they were just bells. He supposed the bells didn’t need to talk to him, for he knew the future of London Town.
    Down there in the Houses of Parliament the lords were probably still giving their speeches. The Marquess of Blackdown was not among them. And those venerable medieval buildings gleaming now in the long light—they would go up in flames soon enough. Nick couldn’t remember now why Parliament would burn, but he could see Turner’s painting of the conflagration in his mind’s eye—a terrible inferno. “‘Then the fire of the Lord fell,’” Nick said to the city, “‘and consumed the burnt sacrifice, and the wood, and the stones, and the dust.’” Nick thought about the Blitz, and that three-dimensional image of St. Paul’s dome that Ahn had shown him. The dome, blasted half away. And then . . . the Pale.
    Swallows were swooping back and forth across the sky. It was a five-mile walk back to Berkeley Square. “Come on, Solvig,” Nick said. The huge dog got to her feet, the bone he’d brought for her clamped fast in her jaws. She clearly intended to carry it all the way home. Nick let his hand find the acorn. The bells were still ringing.
    * * *
    Julia wanted no dinner, and she didn’t want to talk to anyone. She certainly didn’t want to see Nick tonight. She needed to think.
    She informed Bella that her head ached and asked her to please make her excuses. Then Julia kept to her room. It was a glorious evening, and if she were in the country she would have struck out on a walk, or saddled Marigold and gone for a good, long gallop through the golden light and unfurling shadows.
    Instead she curled up in the armchair by her window, looking out into the branches of the plane trees. Birds were settling in for the evening. Julia realized that the trees were populated, just as a city is, by different characters. Pert sparrows, cocky magpies, elegant turtle doves. She watched them for a while as they flitted up and down, strutted along branches, argued over matters that were clearly of enormous importance but were comprehensible only, she supposed, to birds.
    She snuggled down into her chair, tired, as if she had actually walked a long way. She’d had no idea that loving was so completely physical. Somehow she had imagined it being contained, confined to the nether regions, as writing is confined to the hand. She had thought that the rest of the body and perhaps even the mind simply went to sleep until the event was over. How wrong she had been. He had kissed the backs of her knees. She had explored him with hands and kisses. She had gripped his shoulders, his behind, his strong arms, and clung to him for dear life, crying his name as she shattered.
    She closed her eyes. Her body was tired. But if there was a change, it felt more emotional than physical. She was calm, in soul as well as in body.
    That calmness could not last. He’d said he loved her and she believed him. She had answered him with the truth. She loved him, too. They loved each other. But he was still keeping confidences from her, and she from him. Indeed, betwixt the two of them, they had licked the platter of secrets clean. He was a time traveler caught between an Ofan mistress and a Guild master. Both mistress and master were seeking the Talisman. As for Julia, his supposedly Natural love? Julia smiled to herself, too content to not see the humor in the situation—she was the Talisman they sought, and Nick didn’t know it.
    Julia curled still more comfortably in her chair. It was a conundrum. One she couldn’t solve tonight. She felt herself drifting into sleep, the happy satisfaction of her body and soul winning over the confusion of her mind.
    Some time later—the room was duskier—she opened her eyes from a dream. She and Nick had been in the tack room in the stables at Falcott