The River of No Return

unbearable grief or a drive toward suicide. We lift the knife. But instead of the great courage it takes to plunge the knife into our breast or face death, we tap into this ability, this talent. And we leap forward decades, centuries. Even sometimes a thousand years.”
    “So it is a talent.”
    “Yes.”
    Nick thought about that for a moment. It was inside him, this thing. But he couldn’t find it. Arkady and Alice could use it, but he could not. He spoke again, watching Alice carefully. “Then that’s it for most of us. The Guild gives us a pile of money, life is cushy, and we can never manipulate time again.”
    Alice pushed a toasted pecan across her plate. “Most of us don’t ever manipulate time again. We can . We just don’t know that we can.”
    “Because the Guild makes sure we don’t know.” Nick remembered the Frankish butcher’s insistence that there was no way to go back. Nobody could. It was impossible, he had said. Nick remembered the old man’s sympathy for his first spasms of grief. “Does Ricchar Hartmut know that we can go back?”
    “Ricchar Hartmut?” Alice put her head on one side, searching her memory. “The Frankish greeter. Was he the man who met you when you jumped?”
    Nick nodded. “Does he know?”
    “No.” Alice looked gravely at Nick. “He doesn’t have security clearance. And I know what you’re thinking.”
    “That you have an honest, well-intentioned man telling your lies for you.”
    “Ricchar is a good man. And yes, he is telling lies for us.”
    “How do you live with that?”
    “Easily. It’s about preserving the safety of our members, and the safety of history itself. It’s politics.”
    “Politics.”
    She nodded.
    “Was it politics when you had Leo Quonquont and Meg O’Reilly killed?”
    “Who?”
    Nick narrowed his eyes. Was she lying? “Two people who were with me in Santiago. You met them. Remember when you saw me and Leo in that market? We were waiting for Meg to come out of the bathroom?”
    “No, I’m sorry. I don’t remember that. My life is very full.”
    “Right.” Nick glared at his untouched salad. It was drizzled with raspberry vinaigrette, a modern concoction that he’d found he simply couldn’t stomach. “Well, it doesn’t matter whether or not you remember. The point is that the next day they were gone.”
    Alice exchanged a quick glance with Arkady. “Leo Quonquont and Meg O’Reilly. Was he the Native American who learned languages so quickly? And she was the hungry Irishwoman? Yes, I remember them now. I remember hearing that they’d left the compound. I’m sorry.”
    “You heard that they’d left. And that was fine with you? You didn’t kill them?”
    “Of course not.” Alice held his gaze, and her face seemed composed and confident. “This isn’t really about them, is it? You thought the Guild killed them, and yet you didn’t yell about it back then. You’ve taken Guild money for years, lived your comfortable life. What are you really upset about?”
    Nick leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. She was right, damn it. He wasn’t upset about Leo and Meg, or at least not more than usual. He was upset that the Guild had disturbed his peace and quiet. He wanted nothing more than to go back to that comfortable, uncomplicated life he had built for himself on Guild money. His house in Vermont, Thruppenny Farm, his loft in SoHo, his series of lovers. He wanted to forget Leo, forget Meg, forget the Guild. Forget these new revelations, forget the possibility that he might return. He wanted to forget his past, forget . . .
    But there was no forgetting the war. Those dreams followed him across the centuries. And the girl with the dark eyes. She was always there, too. Wherever, whenever he was.
    “How did your estate, the marquessate, make its money, Lord Falcott?”
    Nick dropped his hands from his eyes and looked at Alice in some confusion. “Tenant farming. What does this have to do with the Guild?”
    “Tenant farming? Really? You were a very rich man, my lord. You made all your money from your land?”
    “I don’t know. It’s been years since I thought about it.” Nick shrugged. “The years of war were good for the landed gentry. Corn prices were high since we were shut off from the rest of the world. But other than that? Investments. Trade, I suppose.”
    Alice laid her fork down with a clink. “Investments where? Trade in what? Sugar, perchance?”
    Nick sat up