Page 65 of Time for You
George nearly knocked over a candle on his desk in his haste to get over to pull Henry into a tight hug. “What—how—where the bloody hellwereyou?” George stammered.
“It’s a long story.”
“Then tell it,” George ordered, holding his hand out to a velvet-covered chair. Henry had been in it countless times, waiting for George to finish his work so they could walk back to Henry’s family’s mansion together. Sitting in it, with the comfortingly familiar flicker of gaslight and candles, made him curiously homesick. He wasn’t sure what he missed, the future or the past. It was all so godforsakenly confusing.
“I went to the future,” Henry said bluntly.
George blinked. “Pardon?”
“Where I was, when I was gone. I went to the future. Time-traveled, as it were. But I’m back now.”
“You cannot be serious.”
“Alas, my friend, I am.”
George stood, walked to the sideboard behind his desk, and poured a healthy glass of whisky. He downed it in one gulp, then poured another measure, before pouring another glass for Henry. “You’re going to have to start from the beginning.”
So he did. George listened without questioning him. Henry found himself telling the story as though Daphne were just one of the kind people who took him in, not the woman he’d fallen in love with, but he didn’t have time or, as Brittany was fond of putting it, the “executive function” to figure out why he was doing so.
“Women doctors are common?” George asked disbelievingly when Henry was done.
“Indeed,” Henry confirmed. “And they get quite cross if you are surprised by that fact.”
“I’ll have to remember that if I ever go to the future,” George said dryly. “Are they ... pretty?”
Daphne’s face flashed before him, but Henry blinked it away. “Some are.”
“And you’re quite sure you time-traveled? You weren’t locked in a madhouse and have only just escaped?”
Henry reached into his knapsack and drew out one of the photographs he had promised Daphne he wouldn’t bring back to the past. Not the one he knew he couldn’t survive without but the other one, the one of them in the formal outfits at the hospital gala. Vibol with his arm around Michelle’s waist, Brittany and Ellie in the middle, and Henry and Daphne on the other end of the line, all of them beaming at the photographer.
George studied it, his brow furrowed. It wasn’t that he had never seen a photograph before, but rather the way it was printed. “It’s in color?” he asked after several long seconds. “Not colored after the fact, but—” He flipped it over, judging the weight of the paper and running his fingertips along the back. “This was printed this way. And these clothes—what trick is this?”
“It’s no trick. This is how photographs are, in the future.” Henry paused, considering trying to explain that most of them had all their photographs on little rectangles they carried in their pockets and called “phones” even though mostly they just sent tiny, short missives back and forth, rather than talking, and decided against it.
He could explain that to George later. He had all the time in the world now.
George had stopped looking at the photograph and now studied him just as intensely. “Who did you leave?”
“Those people. They became very good friends,” Henry replied over the lump in his throat. He’d never lied to George before and wasn’t sure why he was doing so now, but admitting his feelings for Daphne might shatter whatever reserve he was clinging to, and he didn’t want to break down. Not here, not now.
It didn’t look as though George believed him, but he nodded nonetheless. He checked his pocket watch. “Your mother and sisters have likely gone to bed, but I’m sure they’d want to be woken. I assume you haven’t gone there yet?”
“Not yet,” Henry admitted. “I didn’t want—I needed to be sure, I guess. That I really was back. And I returned closer to you,” he lied. Two lies in barely two minutes—perhaps George’s friend hadn’t really returned from the future.
“We should go, then. Maggie will have my head if she finds out I knew you were alive and kept you from her. And Henry?”
“Yes?”
“I’m glad you’re home.”
Henry had to remind himself thathomeno longer meant Daphne, but he nodded.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Henry’s insides felt like a bucket of eels, twisting and turning as he walked toward the home his father had bought for them the year before his death. It had been brand new then, but nigh twenty years on, it was more weathered, the wisteria climbing the front heavy and gnarled at the base. Henry considered letting himself in, but George pointed out that was a sure way to get a coal shovel to the face courtesy of Shepard. The butler had been a boxer at the warehouses down near the docks before entering the family’s service, and even with his bum shoulder, Henry didn’t fancy being on the receiving end of his attack.
George noticed his hesitation but made no comment, just rang the bell. The windows were dark, the house quiet, but after several seemingly endless minutes, Henry saw the dim light of Shepard’s lamp floating across the front hall. “Who is—Mr. Campbell, whatever is wrong?” Shepard asked, his familiar broad frame filling the door. He didn’t even glance at Henry.
