She returns to the contract. “You may request an excursion to any time or place in the past. All date and time coordinates must be submitted for approval a minimum of five business days before an excursion can be scheduled and must be submitted using the proper electronic form. Once an excursion has been approved and scheduled, no part of it may be changed. Aevum reserves the right to deny any visit for any reason, including but not limited to danger to the client—meaning you.”
“Danger?” Oliver says. “Am I going to accidentally erase myself from existence?”
“This isn’t science fiction, Mr. Rhodes. The past is inevitable. If Aevum sends you on an excursion, you must have always been on that excursion, always been at that point in time. You are there because you have always been there. Events happen a certain way because they have always happened that way.”
“What about the future?” Oliver asks. “Is that inevitable?”
Lucy purses her lips. “We leave the future to the professionals.”
It’s probably for the best. Oliver’s not sure he wants to know any more about what the future holds.
Lucy rattles on. “You cannot visit a time more than once. You cannot visit a place you have already been or where you are known to exist. You cannot visit anywhere out of chronological order.
“Downtime between excursions is based on the client’s—your—health and may vary at Aevum’s discretion. The minimum time off between excursions is forty-eight consecutive present-time hours. If the trans-temporal chamber deems you unfit for travel, it will not send you on your excursion; however, you will be charged the full amount.
“And lastly, Aevum shall not be held responsible for any distress, illness, injury, dismemberment, or death that occurs during or due to an excursion,” Lucy finishes. A signature box glows green on the contract. “Questions?”
“What, nothing about stepping on butterflies?” Oliver jokes.
“Prohibited”—she swipes to a different screen—“and covered in the fine print.”
“Very fine print,” Oliver says as lines of smaller text scroll past, faster than he can read.
“It’s protecting the butterflies, not the timeline. It’s turned into the new African lion hunt. Apparently, nothing asserts your dominance like going back in time and squishing a monarch.” Lucy shakes her head, bewildered by the idea. The contract displays the glowing signature box again. “Anything else?”
Oliver stares at the blank line. Theo gave him this. Theo, whom he owes too much to ever repay. And what did Oliver call it yesterday?
Self-sacrificing bullshit.
His face burns at the memory of his brother in that moment. How his eyes changed when Oliver’s words landed. How he was glad he hurt Theo, too.
Oliver doesn’t want to want Theo’s gift. He hates that he does. Hates that Theo knew—that Theo always knows—exactly what to do for him. But his pride won’t get him more time. Only this will.
He signs his name.
“Excellent,” Lucy says. “I’ll call a nurse in to take your baseline vitals and inject your recall chip. Then we can get you scheduled for your first excursion. When and where would you like to go?” She smiles at him—awkward, forced—waiting for his answer.
“I’m not sure.” The look in her eyes reminds him of Theo. He hates it.
Lucy opens the bottom drawer of the desk and pulls out a pocket-size notebook, bound in dark brown leather and embossed with the Aevum company logo: a compass combined with a clock. “Take this.” She lays the notebook on the desk between them. “It’s a travel log. Lots of our clients use one to prioritize where and when they want to go, in case—”
She stops herself, but Oliver can guess what she was about to say. He picks up the journal and thumbs through the blank dotted pages.
“How do I choose?” The task is daunting. He could go anywhere. Any when.
She gives him a patronizing smile. “Why did you walk into Aevum today, Mr. Rhodes?”
Because yesterday morning, Theo delivered a bombshell, and Aevum’s logo was on the letterhead. Because he isn’t angry that his brother betrayed his trust—betrayedhim. He is angry that he didn’t do it sooner. Because—
“I want more time.”
“Everyone says that.” Lucy’s brown eyes meet his. “The question you need to ask yourself now is why?”
February 24, 1711Venice, Italy
Beatrix studies Oliver in the moonlight reflecting off the canal. Whatever thought he is lost in, she can’t read it on his face. “Why do you want more time?”
Oliver straightens, and his hands fall from the white stone balustrade. “Do you remember in the piazza, when I asked what you wanted to do before you die?”
