“Quite so. But did he do it independently, or does such a feat require simultaneous rituals in both realities?”

Setting down the books, Monckton Milnes divided the tottering pile into two stable ones, then took up a volume and waved it at Burton. “And how can we account for this? De occulta philosophia by Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa. Published in 1533. If history didn’t bifurcate until 1840, how is it possible that so many treatises about magic date from centuries earlier, before there were any realities other than the original?”

Burton, who was sitting Turkish-style on the floor with open books arranged in a circle around him, dug his knuckles into his lower back and stretched, massaging the muscles to either side of his spine. He groaned, got to his feet, and said, “I wonder—on how many occasions have you experienced what you might call a turning point in your life and felt it was predestined?” He stepped over to the fireplace and leaned with his shoulder blades against the mantle, pulling a cheroot from his pocket and lighting it.

“Many a time,” Monckton Milnes replied. “Back in ’twenty-seven, when I entered Trinity College, my falling in with Tennyson and his cronies propelled me into literary circles in a manner that felt utterly precipitous yet strangely appropriate. In 1840, Abdu El Yezdi’s exhortation, via the countess, that I should finance Disraeli’s opposition to Palmerston, had about it a whiff of the preordained, too.”

Burton blew smoke into the room’s already polluted atmosphere. “I’ve also had such moments. Being posted to India was one. Meeting Isabel. Berbera. As a matter of fact, I feel I’m at such a juncture right now, what with this king’s agent business and all.”

Monckton Milnes plonked himself into an armchair. “Your point?”

“That perhaps Time isn’t the unidirectional phenomenon we take it for. What if there exists, within any given history, certain moments—in the lives of individuals, of nations, of the world as a whole—that possess such potency they send out ripples in all directions? Thus, hints of a significant future event can be sensed long before it occurs, so when it finally happens, it feels as though it was always meant to be.”

“How does that relate to magic?”

“What bigger moment in Time can there be than the breaking of its mechanism? Surely the ripples caused by the bifurcation of history have echoed far into the past, as well as into the future. I don’t consider it inconceivable that Agrippa and John Dee and Edward Kelley and all the others who’ve presented their theories of magic were engaged not with what was then a feasible science, but with the foreshadowing of one that would, long after their deaths, become viable.”

Monckton Milnes grappled with the concept, scratched his head, grunted, and murmured, “Sideways, too.”

“Pardon?”

“Those ripples. If they extend backward and forward through time, then maybe they go sideways, too, into the alternate histories. The war the countess spoke of—you said she claimed it occurs in all versions of reality. I’m wondering whether it originates in one—perhaps the original—and the rest suffer as they are battered by the—the—”

“The resonance,” Burton offered.

“Yes! Resonance! Brunel’s Clifton Suspension Bridge!”

Burton frowned. “What?”

Monckton Milnes slapped the arm of his chair enthusiastically. “When an army marches over a bridge, it breaks step so as not to establish a rhythm that’ll resonate through the structure and cause it to swing—potentially to such a degree that it’ll collapse. Wind blowing at the right speed and angle can have a similarly disastrous effect. Brunel built dampeners into the Clifton Suspension Bridge to prevent such a phenomenon. Don’t you see?”

“See what?”

“That Abdu El Yezdi is attempting the same! He’s been manipulating people and events in order to dampen the resonance. He must know the causes of the war in the other histories and, in this one, just as the countess claimed, he’s been trying to change them. He’s making our version of history break step!”

Burton considered for a moment before answering. “In which case, I think we can discard entirely the idea that there exists an Afterlife, for it seems far more likely to me that El Yezdi is a visitor from the future.”

Monckton Milnes emitted a whistle and shook his head. Sotto voce, he quoted Plato: “How can you prove whether at this moment we are sleeping, and all our thoughts are a dream; or whether we are awake, and talking to one another in the waking state?”

It was a rhetorical question, and one that perfectly summed up the sense of unreality that held both men in its grip.

On Wednesday the 19th, a telegram was delivered to Fryston. It originated from France and stated simply, En route. The sender arrived two days later. He was ushered into the library by the butler to be welcomed with enthusiasm by Monckton Milnes, who cried out, “Monsieur! This is indeed an unexpected pleasure. It was not my intention to wrest you from your studies. May I introduce you to my friend, Sir Richard Francis Burton? Sir Richard, this is Monsieur Eliphas Levi. In matters of the occult, no man has greater knowledge or experience.”

Burton stepped forward and shook the visitor’s hand. Levi was a tall, broad, and wide-faced man, with a spade-shaped beard and clear blue eyes. He wore the robes of a monk. When he addressed Burton, he did so in a deep, booming voice. “Your recent achievement, it cause a sensation even in my own country, Sir Richard, and—mon Dieu!—you know how reluctant we French are to celebrate the deeds of any man not of our own nation! But à tout seigneur tout honneur, eh?”

Burton bowed his thanks.

Monckton Milnes instructed his butler to bring a pot of coffee, then hustled Levi and Burton into armchairs. The men settled, and Levi said, “I have no choice but to come. The information you send—oof!—ça me donne des frissons! So to England I travel aller au fond des choses—to get to the bottom of things. Commençons par un bout. Tell me all about it. All about it, je vous prie!”

Monckton Milnes looked at Burton. “Richard, I assure you, Monsieur Levi can be trusted. I recommend you hold nothing back. I will take responsibility.” He then addressed the Frenchman. “But, monsieur, please understand that much of what you will hear has been classified as secret by the British government. It must not be repeated.”

“I understand. Bouche cousue! Now, you speak and I listen. Cela vous dérange si je fume?”

Monckton Milnes flicked his hand in consent then looked on in amazement as Levi pulled a perfectly enormous calabash pipe from his pocket and began to stuff its exaggerated bowl with tobacco. A minute later, the Frenchman was leaning back in the chair with his eyes closed, giving every indication of being asleep but for the thick plumes of foul-smelling smoke that he puffed into the air.

Burton tried to counteract the pungent odour with one of his Manila cheroots, and while doing so, described Laurence Oliphant’s ritual before going on to detail the course of his investigation, his encounter with Countess Sabina, and his and Monckton Milnes’s theory.

Levi sighed and emitted a breathy whistle.

“Monsieur?” Monckton Milnes murmured.

“Attends, je cherche!” Levi responded. Wait, I’m thinking!

They sat quietly while he ruminated. Five minutes passed.

“Bien,” the Frenchman finally said. “On commence à y voir plus clair! Yes, yes! I see all now!” He reached into his pocket, produced the letter Monckton Milnes had sent him, and held up a page upon which the magic squares had been transcribed. “The four central numbers—mille, neuf cents, dix, et huit—I think you now comprehend, non? They are exactly what they appear when written: une année! They are 1918, fifty-nine years from now.”