Page 1 of A Flicker in Time (Mine Through Time #2)

Washington, DC

1866

F rom the shadows in the second-story gallery, he observed the Watchers fall apart.

The meeting—not the first, and still not the last—was held in a courtroom with a high vaulted ceiling and shut windows in tall, wood-paneled walls, providing a gloomy ambiance for the scene below. Four men sat on the podium, the middle chair of the Leader left empty. The Watchers would never have another Leader.

Not if he had anything to say about it.

“On to the matter of the existing reserves,” a man on the podium said. His words incited a wave of whispers among the gathered members—two hundred of them, almost the entirety of the American branch—and another podium resident slammed his walking stick into the ground. The room quieted.

“There’s not enough to last. The collected reports from overseas show the same problem. Eighty percent of all almonite destroyed. All the watches, the raw material samples…”

The talk turned into an argument between two men. Still in his safe hiding place on the gallery, he smiled, tore himself from the wall, and slowly paced the length of the passage, careful not to draw too close to the wooden banister. How easy they were to irate. That’s why it was so easy to bring them down, too. They’d practically done it themselves. Chaos was inherent; everything in the Universe, from atoms to human beings, gravitated toward it. Leave the Watchers without something—or someone—to incite order, and they crumbled like a house of cards. In five more months, they’d arrive at the final decision: to destroy what was left of their precious almonite. In five years, they’d be dispersed. In fifty years, they’d pass out of memory.

But that would not yet solve his problem.

“Next is the case of G.P. Henson and the assist in the assassination of President Lincoln.”

His ears perked. He leaned forward enough to catch a glimpse of his former partner being led into the room. Henson looked as composed as ever, every dark hair in place, mustache neatly trimmed. Must have good razors, wherever they’re holding him.

The members of the room rearranged as witnesses were called forward. A lengthy procedure followed, with each participant sharing their side of the story, coordinated by the podium.

Now he knew why he never watched legal dramas. Was it always this boring? Or was it only because he already knew the outcome ?

“Marshall, Brayden C.”

The man headed for the stand, nodding in passing to his colleague who had just left it.

There comes the nail in the coffin. Nothing he could do with the evidence Marshall had. Okay, fine—a lot he could do. But it would serve no purpose. Henson was irrelevant now. The plan with Mrs. Marshall had gone awry—a tough defeat, but in retrospect, an expected one. He’d been arrogant and naive to think he could’ve gotten rid of her so easily, so obviously. His beautiful Time Travel Force was much smarter than that. Hadn’t She taught him that already?

“…evident in these letters,” Marshall said.

“And the origin of proof?” the man on the podium prompted.

“My wife.”

No, he had to let Fabienne Marshall go. That ship had sailed, literally. Next time, he’d try something different. He’d play the long game—and for that, he needed a vision. An intricate sequence of events that even She wouldn’t see coming.

While the hearing continued, he scoured the crowd for the first domino. He knew many of the members, not personally, but from talking to Henson. Too old. Too set in his ways. Too loyal. Too unpredictable. There—that one! The man with a serious face couldn’t be more than twenty—one of the newest members. Probably initiated only weeks before everything went to shit. He’d be disappointed. Promises of a lifetime of time travel, of serving his country in a way most could never imagine, only to have it all snatched away.

He kept an eye on him until the meeting ended. As the members piled toward the double-door exit, he smoothly slipped off the gallery and mixed into the crowd. Lucky him—his little fishy fell behind. In a few jaunty steps, he was right beside the man. “Mr. Ralkin?”

The young man whipped his head. “Yes?”

“Arduous meeting, wasn’t it? Almost makes you glad they might soon be over.”

“I’m sorry,” Ralkin stuttered, “I don’t think we’ve met—”

“Lien.” With a broad smile, he offered a hand. Ralkin shook it, unleashing the expected flood of images. Flashes of color, sounds, sensations. Looking up at the statuesque university building. Back home, I suppose. A young woman—a hearty smile, flowers in her hair— The veil was my Grandmother’s —belly swollen— Which name would you like? —crying, a grave, more crying, the baby never quiets— But Father, why can’t I go play too? —the girl coughs and falls back on the pillow—

“Sir?” Ralkin was looking at him, eyebrows drawn.

He closed his eyes to push the vision away, then resumed his smile. Perfect choice. What could be a stronger incentive than family?

“Mr. Ralkin, let me take you out for a drink. There’s a nice place right around the corner. I’ll let you in on some of our secrets.”

“Uh, certainly.”

“Wonderful!” He clapped Ralkin on the back. “And while we’re at it…I have a proposition for you.”