It was time to call Ellen. Marian couldn’t avoid involving Ellen in the chaos in Canterbury any longer. She had to tell Ellen Dad was dead. Of course upon hearing the news, Ellen would catch the first flight to England. The minute she arrived, Marian would have her drink the last ampulla of holy water. Hopefully, it would cure her of VHL. Perhaps then, Dad’s death wouldn’t be in vain.
~ 9 ~
BLEARY-EYED after a sleepless night, Marian wrapped the comforter about her shoulders against the early morning chill that permeated Harrison’s home lab.
Her phone call with Ellen after returning from the hospital had been emotional and difficult. Marian had cried silent tears right along with Ellen’s heartfelt sobs. Even though they’d often commiserated over Dad’s obsession with his odd theories, Ellen had never harbored the same bitterness for his absence in their lives. Instead, Ellen had the capability of loving with her whole heart, unconditionally, in a way Marian hadn’t been able to.
Even so, the pain of the loss sank deep in Marian’s chest, a sick, dead weight along with guilt for not finding the ampullae in the crypt sooner, for not reviving him before it was too late. Now she and Ellen had no one left but each other.
At least Ellen was on her way. Within twelve hours, Marian would be able to hug her. And if all went as planned—if the holy water really was the ultimate cure—then by this time tomorrow, Ellen would no longer have tumors on her kidneys.
Marian stared at the last ampulla in front of her on Harrison’s desk. The glow from the desk light illuminated the workspace, which was now littered with all the equipment she’d gotten out.
Sighing, she reclined in the wingback chair she’d dragged over to the desk. Her sights traveled to the ancient coat of arms on the wall next to the window, the same shield that had been above the entrance to the manor in her first time crossing, with the crimson background, azure trim, and golden stag standing tall and proud. She guessed the heraldry belonged to Harrison’s family.
“Where are you, Harrison?”
She’d been in Harrison’s massive lab for the past hours studying the cork pieces with a high-powered microscope while waiting for the police to update her regarding the search for Harrison.
But she hadn’t heard anything, and she hadn’t been able to find traces of anything in the cork other than the usual water molecules consisting of one oxygen atom and two connected hydrogens.
Deep down she’d guessed that would be the case. Her dad wouldn’t have crossed into the past if he’d figured out a way to replicate the holy water. He wouldn’t have needed to. The lack of a solute within the water macromolecules explained why no formulas, tests, or even a hint of progress toward a new development existed in any of Dad’s stuff.
If neither of them had been able to find a trace of recognizable compounds in the water, then she could only speculate that the properties of the Tree of Life weren’t of this world. What other explanation did she have?
Marian tried to ignore the prick at her conscience, the one growing stronger with each hour since Dad’s passing, the one urging her not to let his lifework stop here, that she had to take up where he’d left off.
She wanted to give Ellen the holy water from the last ampulla. But at this point Marian didn’t know for sure if the water would truly heal Ellen. Even though the old stories pointed to that capability, her dad hadn’t tested the curative properties of the holy water on anyone. She and Harrison had speculated that he’d wanted to find the source of the water first.
Should she do the same? Ellen wasn’t deathly ill yet. Hopefully, she still had many months—maybe years—ahead. After all, their mom had lived into her late thirties.
Marian sat forward and plucked at a sticky note on Harrison’s desk—one of dozens having to do with Von Hippel-Lindau. She’d been surprised to discover how much research into VHL Harrison was doing so privately. His tests were extensive and detailed and every bit as thorough as her own. She guessed he was researching for Ellen, just like she was.
He was a good man.
Tears pricked her eyes, just as they had every time she thought about not only her dad but also Harrison. What were his captors doing to him? Although he was still young and strong and healthy, being without his wheelchair would limit his ability to escape.
Marian pushed back from the desk and stood, rolling and kneading her aching shoulders that had been slumped in one position for too long as she’d peered through the microscope. The slit in the curtain told her it was still dark outside, that dawn hadn’t yet broken. Even though she was tired, her mind was too awake and alert to allow her to slumber.
One thought persisted above all the others—she could go back in time and save her dad. If her dad’s time-crossing speculations were correct, she had the ability to envision any year outside her own lifetime. But even if she knew what year her dad had chosen, she wouldn’t be able to return to earlier this week to intercept and help him. She was still bound by the hour and months.
Instead, she could visualize the May one year earlier and leave a note for him in the crypt, a warning to be more watchful. She doubted it would revive him in the present. But at the very least, she could prevent the death in the past, couldn’t she? That was better than losing him completely.
In crossing into the past again, this time more extensively, she’d also be able to do her own research into finding the original source of the holy water. When she revived from her coma, then she could begin excavations and testing.
If she revived . . .
She shoved that thought from her head. She would revive. She had to. After all, she was resourceful and smart. She’d locate flasks of the holy water to leave in the crypt like Dad had done—one to revive her out of the coma and one to heal Ellen. With so many recorded healings, she suspected the flasks were a dime a dozen in the Middle Ages, that she’d probably be able to purchase them at the cathedral. No doubt that’s what her dad had done with the coins he’d taken with him.
However, before she could even think about drinking the holy water and going back to warn her dad, she had to discover what year he’d traveled to. With determined steps, she headed up to her bedroom. The mansion was dark and silent, the long hallways spooky. At any moment, she half expected a thief or stalker to jump out, point a gun at her, and demand to have the ampullae.
When she reached her bedroom and stepped inside without a confrontation, she released a tense breath. The bedside lamp was still on and her papers scattered across the bed where she’d left them after she’d gotten the call from the hospital that Dad was dead. Before running off, she should have put the papers in Harrison’s home safe as he’d advised. But she’d been too distraught—was still distraught.
Clutching the blanket closer to ward off the early morning chill, she couldn’t hold in a shiver. At the same time, a yawn pushed for release. Reflexively, she pressed her hand against her mouth in an attempt to stifle it.
The moment her fingers made contact with her lips, warmth blew through her and spread along the length of her arms and legs. She knew immediately what was happening, and she eagerly touched her fingertips to her tongue, hoping to ingest more of the residue left there from handling the corks.
She could feel her pulse accelerating, her blood heating, and her heart palpitating. The breeze blowing in her veins was lighter than the gust she’d had during her first vision, but it was there nonetheless, making her eyes hazy for an instant before clearing.