The Time Tutor by Bee Ridgway

Crash. We’ll go to the Savoy and dance, and you’ll wear a rope of pearls twice as long as you are yourself. . . .” His voice dwindled away. The mice were winning.
    â€œNo, thank you,” she said. “I’d prefer to go back to 1793, if you please.”
    â€œCan’t. Have to save you.”
    â€œSave me? Save me? ” And she was off, cursing a blue streak in Swedish while he peered at her through two slits that he supposed were his eyes, but that really seemed as if the mice had only just now gnawed them from the inside out.
    When she paused for breath, he held up a hand. “Please calm down, Alva. It hurts to look at you.”
    â€œOh, it hurts to look at me? Thank you. Thank you very much. Mr. Vogelstein, look at me .”
    He hauled his eyelids up. She was a mess, poor kid, sitting in a medieval building site in nothing but her fine linen shift. Where was that dress for her . . . ? Blast. He’d left the goddamn sack full of clothes behind in her eighteenth-century bedroom. No dress for her, no tunic for him.
    Well, he’d been in tighter spots, though he really couldn’t remember when. “You look gorgeous,” he said. “Let’s get going, shall we?” He gathered his strength and tried to heave himself to his feet, but the pain in his head exploded like a fire balloon and he fell back, moaning.
    â€œYou have a concussion,” she said. “And it serves you right.”
    â€œBe that as it may, we have to jump again,” he whispered, eyes closed. “If only back a few hours into the darkness. Take my hand.” He lifted it and felt her take it, tenderly enough, bless her. “Here we go,” he said. “Hold on, sweet chuck.” He reached, in his mind, for the River. But there was nothing. He couldn’t sense the River at all.
    â€œWell?” she asked after a long time.
    â€œCan’t jump. Head hurts too much.”
    â€œAh.” She dropped his hand.
    â€œYou’re going to have to go alone,” he said. “Take my boots. Get several streets away, then jump away from here.” He thought about her, in her shift and his big clumpy boots, her hair all jumbled up. “Jump to the 1980s,” he said. “You’ll look enough like a punk waif to pass. It’s the twentieth century, though, so be careful. The big metal things that charge through the streets? They can kill you. Look for the white paint on the roads and cross there. Red man means don’t cross, green man means go ahead. There are catacombs under Soho Square. Yellow house. Corner of Carlisle Street. Ofan hideout. Stay there until I come for you.”
    Another long pause.
    â€œBetter get going,” he said, opening his eyes a crack and peering up at her.
    â€œI’ve never jumped alone,” she said. “I don’t know how.”
    â€œOh shit. Of course you don’t. Hannelore. Hiding your God-given talent from you . . . the fucking Guild . . .” He subsided, because she was laughing. It was a small, pitiful sound, but it was brave, as well.
    â€œI guess you’re going to have to be my time tutor after all,” she said. “Poor Mr. Vogelstein!”
    He attempted a chuckle. “I knew you’d come running back to me,” he whispered, and smiled when he heard her laugh gain strength.
    At just that moment, the builders arrived.
    Alva had to admit, Vogelstein handled the situation with aplomb. Speaking a version of English she could hardly understand, he showed the men his golden ring, said he was some kind of aristocrat, and pointed out the fine lace on her shift. They’d been robbed, he explained, and dumped here, and he was injured and his wife was freezing.
    Alva was still contemplating the oddity of being married, without her consent and with no warning, to two men in one day, when she found herself being draped in a builder’s warm cloak and