A Legacy of Love
Bad timing, I think to myself. I’m too tired to say it aloud to Spencer.
The storm rages outside. Its fury echoes through the hidden rooms at the heart of the T.Y.M. Casey Archive. Lightning flashes, casting an eerie blue glow over the shelves of old books, some of them centuries old. Each book represents a piece of our history, a fragment of knowledge that could be crucial in the years to come. Some are texts we’ve collected on our missions, their pages brittle with age and heavy with secrets. Others are volumes we’ve written ourselves, filled with insights and instructions for Veronica.
I feel the vibrations of thunder in my bones as I carefully place another book into a small cardboard box. Spencer works silently beside me, his movements as methodical as my own. The scent of aged parchment fills the air, mingling with the musty odor of rain seeping through the old building’s walls. Dust motes dance in the flickering light, and the creaking of the old wooden shelves adds to the archive’s eerie ambiance.
We’ve been at this for hours, our aging bodies protesting with every bend and stretch. No one tells you that you don’t lose motivation or inspiration when you get old, but that you lose the energy you need to carry out what your mind and heart still want. All the books we collected and curated before we chose to retire—if you can call it that—to 1960 are still where we left them in the future: in several dozen libraries and rare bookshops in the care of people we trusted to keep those books hidden until the coming pole shift when Veronica will need them to navigate her way into a post-apocalyptic world. Everything here in the archive is what we’ve collected in the last twelve years or written ourselves. This task is monumental—to pack up and secure twelve years of additional knowledge before time runs out.
And time runs out in less than two weeks.
I should probably be thinking more about my mortality, but I’m too busy to be afraid of how I’ll die. I’ve always known I’ll die. And when. What scares me more is not being able to complete this last task on time. Our responsibility to Veronica and the future of humanity makes each movement feel like a monumental effort.
“We need to make sure every book in this section is packed and ready to go by the time Terre’s plane lands in Birmingham tonight,” I say, breaking the silence. My voice is steady, masking the exhaustion I feel.
I started this task almost as soon as Cora and her students left yesterday, moments before Spencer portaled back into the archive and then had to nap for the next four hours to recover from using his energy as a battery to power the portal four times in a row. I worked well into the night and was up at dawn when Spencer felt well enough to join me.
“Spence, hon, this is going to be a long drive for you, but the safe house will be a good place for these until Terre can distribute them.”
Spencer nods, sealing another box with strong tape. The skin on his neck and cheeks hangs loosely, and the muscle mass of his youth has been gone since before we started the archive. Every time the lightning flashes outside the two windows nearest us, his skin seems translucent. Between the brown spots on the backs of his hands twist blue veins, but his hair is still long and in a thin bun with hair sticks, even if it’s no longer blond but silver.
“I know,” he says. “We’ve been through worse, but it never gets any easier.”
Our eyes meet, a lifetime of shared challenges passing between us in that single glance. The love and determination I see in his gaze nearly brings tears to my eyes. I wish we had more time, that yesterday’s visitors hadn’t arrived so soon. The blue notebook weighs heavily on my mind, even though it’s no longer here.
“Spencer,” I begin, my hands pausing in their work, “who did you give the notebook to?” I rub one fingertip across the embossed cover of a nineteenth century book about how to create predictive labyrinths, then carefully wrap it in unprinted newsprint before placing it in the box between us.
He looks up, his eyes clouded with memory. “I left it with a girl at the St. Augustine Special Collections Library after Terre’s funeral. Emry was her name. She’s to give it to Veronica on her next visit.”
The name strikes a chord. “Emry. The one Veronica told me about? The close friend who helps her take over the priesthood one day?”
Spencer nods, a small smile playing on his lips. “It’s why I trusted her with the notebook. Veronica will need Emry’s support to navigate the treacherous waters of priesthood politics and to implement the changes necessary for humanity’s survival.”
I feel a pang of regret, remembering how Young Siobhan had talked me out of accepting the gift of future memory. I’m not sure if it’s a blessing or curse to remember the events of your future as surely as the events of your past or if it simply drives the priest or priestess mad, but I’ll never know. Both Spencer and Veronica accepted that gift of our sleeping god, Daegan, but not me. Not Siobhan either. But there’s no time for what-ifs now.
“But Spence, I wish I’d had another week, at least, to write more in it.”
“No, we couldn’t afford to lose that notebook. I portaled in practically on top of Siobhan—little twerp—and she was flipping through it. She dropped it, I grabbed it. That simple. Then I portaled away. I guaran-damn-tee you she would have disappeared with it and all your hard work along with her.”
“But she said she found the hidden room because she felt an energy inside.”
He shakes his head. “Maybe before I portaled out the first time? I came back to a minute after I left. In any case, something about that book called to her—maybe because your energy was so focused on its creation—and she made a beeline for it. No one ever said she didn’t have skills to go with her sense of entitlement.”
I want to ask him if it felt strange seeing her young again like that, like when he first met her in our freshman year. He never wants to talk about his high school years, and I can never tell how he reconciles his teenaged mistakes with Siobhan and Veronica’s birth not being a mistake. Siobhan as a teen and later as the leader of the priesthood feels unfair to both of us. No matter what she did, she was positioned for greatness, and we paid the price of being shunned by the priesthood for her sins. Veronica, too. No matter how many mistakes Siobhan made, her mother always picked her up and pushed her toward greatness.
The bitterness of our conflict with Siobhan and the priesthood rises in my throat. “Spencer,” I say softly, “do you ever wonder if we could have reconciled with Siobhan? Worked together instead of against each other?”
He sighs heavily, his shoulders sagging. “I’ve thought about it more times than I can count. But Siobhan’s entitlement and her mother’s influence? They were always going to be a problem. If Siobhan had known her daughter survived, what would have become of Veronica? Nothing good. We had to protect Veronica and the true mission of the priesthood, even if it meant going against the very institution we once served.”
I nod, understanding the weight of our choices. “These books,” I say, running my fingers over the spine of an old, leather-bound volume, “they hold more than just knowledge. They’re our legacy, Spencer. Veronica’s future depends on what we do now. This. . .this is how we measure success in our lives—by the number of books we pass on to her. She’ll measure her success by what she does with them.”
Spencer’s hand finds my shoulder. “Why don’t you let me wrap that one? That’s the legendary Book of Time.”
“Why?” I frown up at him as I open the book and skim a few pages, each large and blank except for a single symbol on each page. No writing, no explanation. It looks more like a sketch book. “I can do it, Spence.”
“I know you can, but let me. That one’s bound in human skin.”
I gasp and shove it toward him. I don’t even want to know what Daeganean priest wrote it centuries ago or how Spencer acquired it. Or why we haven’t used it to change the future.
Spencer seems to read my mind. “Too dangerous. Every choice exacts a price.”
I shrug. “Don’t all choices?”
“This book,” Spencer says, his voice low and reverent, “it’s said to contain the power to glimpse possible futures and even alter the course of time itself. But using it? The consequences could be catastrophic. It’s for Veronica or the Last Priest of her era to decide if and when to use it, when she’s ready to bear that responsibility.”
We return to our task in silence, the room filled with the sounds of rustling pages and the thud of books being packed. The irony isn’t lost on me—two aging, frail members of the priesthood, working off the radar to preserve its most vital secrets so the politics of Siobhan’s mother and later Siobhan won’t destroy what’s left of the order or our millennia-old mission to usher the human race through an extinction event which would have come in my lifetime had we not retired back in time.
Young Maeve’s face flashes through my mind, her eyes wide with wonder and curiosity. This older version of me now sees her as a ghost, with smooth skin I’d forgotten and an air of innocence, but I remember the feeling of standing in her shoes, seeing this archive for the first time. It seems like a lifetime ago, and yet, in some ways, it feels like yesterday.
“Do you think I did the right thing?” I ask Spencer, breaking the silence once more. “Keeping so much from my younger self?”
Spencer pauses, The Book of Time balanced in his hands. “We’ve been over this, Maeve.
We can’t risk changing too much, and telling her anything would be a significant disruption. The timeline. . .”
“I know, I know,” I interrupt, waving my hand dismissively. “It’s just. . .seeing her yesterday, seeing myself? It makes me wonder if we could have done things differently.”
Spencer sets the book down on the nearest table and crosses the room to me. His hands, wrinkled and spotted with age, cup my face gently. “You are who you are today because of what you didn’t know then. You might have spared yourself some pain then, but it would have been a different life. As I said, every choice exacts a price.”
I nod, leaning into his touch. “You’re right, of course. I wouldn’t trade what I’ve had with you and Veronica for any other life.”
“My sweet Maeve, you gave her the encouragement to pursue astrology that you remembered being given to you. No more. No less. Your younger self needed that struggle to become something so much greater. Like the baby bird struggling to break through the egg. Or the butterfly using all its strength to leave the cocoon.”
I nod to myself and go back to my work. There’s the grimoire we recovered from a hidden temple in Peru, its pages still faintly smelling of incense and jungle air. The collection of prophecies we pieced together from scattered sources across Europe, each cryptic line carefully translated and annotated. The book of healing spells that saved Veronica’s life when she was just a child, its margins filled with our desperate notes and prayers. We’d brought that last one back from the twenty-first century for our own health, but it’s done as much for us now as it ever will.
As I pack each one away, I silently bid it farewell, hoping that when next it sees the light of day, it will be in Veronica’s capable hands. I imagine her, strong and determined, using these books to guide humanity through the coming darkness. The thought fills me with both pride and a deep, aching sadness that I won’t be there to see it.
“Listen,” Spencer says as he stops taping the last box, the one with The Book of Time inside.
“What?”
“The storm.”
The constant drumming of rain on the roof fades to a gentle patter, and the flashes of lightning become less frequent. In the relative quiet, I can hear Spencer’s labored breathing as he hefts another box onto the stack by the door.
“Maybe you should take a break,” I suggest, worried by the pallor of his face. “You’ve been at this for at least four hours.”
He shakes his head stubbornly. “No time for breaks. I need to get this first load on the road soon if I’m going to make it to Birmingham tonight.”
I frown, concern gnawing at me. “Are you sure you’re up for the drive? Maybe you should stay here, and I’ll drive the books to—”
“No, it has to be me.” His tone tells me not to argue, but I can see the weariness in his eyes. “This is how I remember it.”
“At least let me help you load the truck,” I insist, already moving towards one of the smaller boxes.
Spencer’s hand on my arm stops me. “No, Maeve. You need to conserve your strength. There’s still so much to do here, and. . .” He trails off, but I know what he’s not saying.
And you don’t have much time left.
I want to argue, to insist that I’m not as frail as he thinks, but I know he’s right. Every day, I can feel my strength ebbing, the clock ticking down on the time I have left. I need to focus on what only I can do—preparing the remaining books and artifacts, deciding what needs to be hidden away and what needs to be destroyed.
So instead, I nod and step back, watching as Spencer begins the laborious process of moving the boxes out to his waiting truck. Each trip takes longer than the last, his steps growing slower and more unsteady. Despite that, he perseveres, driven by the same sense of duty and love that has guided us all these years.
As Spencer prepares to leave with the first load, I watch him shuffle towards the door. “Be careful on those wet roads,” I call out, my voice catching slightly with emotion.
He turns, a familiar twinkle in his eye despite his weariness. “Don’t worry, love. My mind may not be as sharp, but my memory hasn’t failed me yet. I remember coming home to you.”
“You’re sure?” I ask, needing the reassurance. I have only his word that he remembers coming home to me.
“I’m doing this for both my girls. I’ll be thinking about Veronica every minute of the trip there, and I’ll be thinking of you every minute of my trip home.”
You’re reading Turn of Earth free, right here in the Library. Want a copy to keep on your Kindle or e-reader? Buy the e-book direct from me →
© 2024 Lorna Tedder. All rights reserved. Free to read here — please don’t repost elsewhere.