Act Three

Bad Wolf Rising

Swedish Rose

Thorsten and Rose at last drew apart, their first kiss cementing itself into their memories forever, the first of a lifetime of them. "I love you," they both whispered at the exact same moment, and then shared the same sweet, ecstatic smile – and chuckle. Then Rose took a breath, her voice slightly stronger. "And on that note... can we get out of here? Paul doesn't need to be witnessing... that." She tipped her head backwards, indicating the aftermath of the Second Battle of Stanilesti, now out of sight beyond the Khan's tent.

"Absolutely," Thorsten agreed at once. He stopped and considered for a second. "Can you manage a horse again – just for a few miles? I think I saw an abandoned house just back down the road a bit."

Rose nodded, and he moved off to find her mare, leading it back within a couple of minutes, still saddled and with the extra blanket she'd been using for padding. He helped her mount up, then lifted up her young son and settled him in front of her on the saddle. Then he swung himself up on his own horse, and they were off, picking their way directly away from the action through the Turkish baggage train, helping themselves to some unguarded provisions on the way; then they rode around the outer fringes until they found the road they'd approached on.

The house was there, a short distance off the road at the edge of a small forest, and it was abandoned. Thorsten reversed the action of an hour before, lifting Paul off the horse and then helping Rose as she slipped down into his arms, groaning – no, the few subjective hours since she'd last dismounted hadn't healed those sore muscles in her bum at all.

Then Thorsten led the horses around the back to a waiting corral, while Paul and Rose went inside the house. It almost looked like the owners were expected back at any moment – all the scant, rickety furnishings were still there. When Thorsten came in a few minutes later, he explained, "They probably ran off as the armies came marching through a few days ago. We'll leave it the way we found it; and hopefully nobody else will come along to steal anything before they come back."

They made a quick supper from the supplies they'd lifted, then sat on the grass out in front of the house, watching the sunset and holding hands, while five-year-old Paul ran around catching fireflies. It wasn't long before his long day caught up to him, though, and he came to sit beside Rose. When his head slipped down into her lap, she looked down and smiled. "Out like a light." She leaned over to whisper in Thorsten's ear, "Give me fifteen minutes to make sure he's settled. Once he's asleep, he never wakes up till morning." Then she gathered him up and took him inside to the little bedroom, pulled his clothes off and tucked him into the bed.

She came back out to the front room to find Thorsten standing by the window, looking out into the quiet, still, darkening world. She went into his open arms and tilted her head for a kiss, which he gave her after a startled semi-second's hesitation, then he quickly got enthusiastic about the project. When she pulled her arms back around a few minutes later and began undoing the buttons on his shirt, he put his own hands over hers, stopping her, and peered uncertainly into her eyes in the deepening gloom.

She looked back at him for a moment, bewildered, then shook her head. "I've got a child in the other room. I think I know what's what."

He took a deep breath. "I think you're more prepared for this than I am," he admitted.

She slowly took her hands off the button she'd been working on, letting him hold them an inch from his chest. "Would you rather wait?" she asked levelly, hoping he'd say no.

He did, immediately, to her relief. "No! I just... wasn't expecting this is all." He paused, then asked, still unsure, "You don't want to wait for a priest?"

"No," her instant answer mirrored his of a moment before. "We're already together, Thorsten. I don't need some old man muttering over us to seal the deal."

He gave her a quick, amused smile at that, nodding agreement, but still he didn't move, so after a moment she whispered, so softly that he barely heard, "Touch me."

At last his hands released hers and moved to cup her cheeks, then he bent his head again to kiss her tenderly. As the kiss slowly deepened, his hands drifted downwards, caressing her neck, and then found the buttons on her own shirt.

Their blankets made a cozy nest on the floor before the fireplace, and Paul didn't wake up till the sun was shining again.

^..^

They ate breakfast around the table, discussing what to do; they had all the world to choose from, after all – although Thorsten, still Swedish, and still an official, did feel some responsibility towards his country and its government. They hadn't gotten very far, though, when Thorsten held up a hand for silence, listening intently. "Stay inside!" he warned Rose urgently, then walked to the front window.

"What is it?" she asked, breathlessly.

After a moment, he replied, "There's a large group of soldiers heading this way." His head was turned towards the distant battle site.

After another moment, though, he relaxed. "They're ours!" And he opened the door and walked outside to meet them. Rose stopped in the doorway, keeping a firm grip on Paul's hand, while the boy watched the long column of cavalry with wide, excited eyes.

The two men in front didn't seem so happy to see Thorsten, however. They gave him a sharp stare and spurred out of line to where he stood and began a sharp conversation, their voices sounding angry to Rose, though she still didn't understand the Swedish. As they continued, Rose placed them: the one in uniform was Colonel Svenson, King Charles's second-in-command from their manic ride across the country the days before; while the other, in "civilian" clothes, was Poniatowski, who had acted as the king's representative to the Sultan and the Grand Vizier. They were leading what remained of the Swedish troops which had accompanied Charles (perhaps all of them, from the looks of it) back towards Bender.

Thorsten asked a question and it was answered sharply. The stinging silence made Rose gasp, and she took a tentative step forward to his side and took his hand in hers. "Thorsten? What is it?"

He turned sorrowful eyes on her. "Charles died in the night, as I said he likely would. The king is dead."

Her breath caught. "I'm so sorry." A beat, while the continued silence weighed down the air. "Why are they angry with you?"

"They thought I had left for the north, to take the word of his death back to Sweden. They didn't realize I'd left before he died."

"Why would it be your duty to do that?"

He gave her a sharp look. "I was and still am the official observer for the Riksdag, the Ruling Council."

Svenson broke in then with another spate of Swedish, sounding harsh and demanding, and Thorsten sighed, but ignored him. "It's a damn long distance, Rose, and very hard riding. I can't ask you to go through that, but I won't leave you here."

Rose bit her lips to keep from laughing, looking down at the ground until she had her face under control. "Is it?" was all she said.

But she slowly bent her wrist and rubbed the time jumper hard against the inside of his forearm.

Thorsten's eyes widened. "You can take us to Sweden with that?" he whispered, his mouth twitching. She nodded, and watched him struggle to contain his own gleeful amusement.

Poniatowski drawled something, she didn't know what, but from the sound of his voice, and Thorsten's answering flush, she presumed it was a comment along the lines of "pussy-whipped". Instantly deciding to save her mate's face, she dropped her eyes again and said meekly – and a bit loudly – "Whatever you say, dear," and stepped backwards to the doorway again, taking Paul's hand once more.

Thorsten watched her go, his eyes showing he understood and appreciated it, then he turned back to the waiting, watching pair. A few more words were exchanged, calmly now on Thorsten's part, and the two suddenly whirled their mounts about and spurred hard back to the head of the passing lines.

Finally they were gone, and Thorsten turned back, his eyes dancing with excitement. "So, what do we do?"

^..^

Rose had no coordinates, and knew it was a gamble, but they decided that nine hundred miles due north would put them in pretty much the right area, certainly saving them the bulk of the hard ride across what could still be termed "enemy country", and they could go on from there. Sadly, they had to leave the horses behind – Rose had no idea if the jumper's field would extend to cover them, and didn't want to try – but Thorsten said they'd be a gift to the owners of the house for its use. As they didn't want to get there too suspiciously soon, they also agreed to jump three weeks into the future, enough time from Charles's date of death that they could have made it the traditional way if they'd REALLY pushed it hard.

Packs once more on backs, holding tightly to each other, the three of them came out of the transport flash onto the cobbled street of a bustling northern city made of wood and brick. Thorsten spun on his heel, studying the view all around, then stopped in amazement, his jaw dropping. "I know where we are! This is Narva!" They were lucky – a few miles more and they might have been dropped into the frigid waters of the Gulf of Finland.

A short, fascinating walk across town to the port, and they found a merchant ship headed straight for the Swedish capital, Stockholm. Even though Narva was officially in Russian hands at the moment, and Russia was officially still at war with Sweden, trade never stopped.

Paul was ecstatic at being on a real sailing ship, the three masts full of sails capturing his imagination and propelling it across the water with the dolphins at the prow. He ran Thorsten ragged as he raced around the decks chattering to any sailor who'd smile at him, and they all did, whether or not they understood a word. He quickly became the crew's temporary, unofficial mascot and pet. Rose smiled to herself as she watched her two "boys" grow closer together, falling into an easy friendship regardless of the vast difference in their ages. Paul was already beginning to look up to and rely upon his new stepfather – although he hadn't quite realized that relationship yet. Time enough for that later.

When they arrived in Stockholm three days later, Thorsten found a carriage for hire, and gave the driver an address. It proved to be a four-story building, the street level full of small shops, with three floors of apartments above. Thorsten's flat was on the third floor, little used in recent years, but still waiting for him, kept clean in his long absences by a woman who came in once a month to dust things off.

"It's not very large," he told Rose apologetically. She stared at him a moment, then burst into laughter.

"Thorsten, it's ten times the size of the place we were living in. We had one room – and in fact, it could fit into this parlor with room to spare."

"Really?" His astonishment quickly slid into a proud, mock-gallant air. "In that case, welcome to your new home, Fru Sjovold!"

She laughed again in delight, then turned rueful. "I really do need to learn Swedish, don't I?"

^..^

She did so rather quickly, actually – well, enough to get by at least.

Thorsten apologetically had to leave her and Paul at the apartment for several hours that first day, as he went to make his report of the king's death to the authorities. He didn't return until quite late that night, exhausted from the endless questions and repetitions of all his knowledge of the events at Stanilesti – and before. Charles had never been very good at keeping the home office informed, and Thorsten's memory, and his little notebook, were thoroughly wrung dry of every detail.

The government was, of course, thrown immediately into turmoil, as they dealt with the succession, and the implications of Russia's collapse in the wake of her own Tsar's death with no heir or any clear successor. A new Swedish army was swiftly thrown together and marched off to press Sweden's claim to her part of the territory, under the command of the most senior officers to be found – not Thorsten, Rose was relieved to hear. He'd given up his commission years before, and could neither be induced nor drafted into returning. (The troops swiftly marching north from Bender under Colonel Svenson finally met up with the main forces outside Moscow for their part in the wrangling, beating the Turkish troops marching in a long line from Moldavia by a scant five days. The third army, from Poland, arrived last but largest, and the resulting three-way fooforaw threatened to turn ugly before the issue was settled diplomatically, with long lines carving up the map rather than long knives carving up people. At any rate, Russia's vast territory was divided into three portions in the west, with the nearly-empty east left largely to its own devices.)

Instead, Thorsten took a minor position in the new, more constitutional government as an aide to one of the ministers, watching from the sidelines as eventually Charles's sister Ulrica Eleanor was voted into the monarchy, then a short time later abdicated in favor of her Hessian husband, Frederick. The years that followed were joyful, peaceful ones for the new – and growing – family, as first one, then two years later, a second beautiful daughter was born. During Ulrica Eleanor's short reign, she handed out titles and estates by the handful, seeking support from Sweden's previously-displaced nobility, and Thorsten successfully petitioned for his own childhood home – gambled away by his inheriting elder brother before his own death – to be restored to him. He also got the title back (a minor one), but didn't care and never used it. He proudly moved his family into the (relatively) small manor house some ways south of Stockholm and retired from government service again, settling into the life of a country gentleman farmer with joy and satisfaction.

And then Elsa, the older of the two girls, got sick.

At first it was the usual childhood complaints, but they swiftly became continuous, and worse. Soon she was bedridden, her frail four-year-old body becoming weak and pale as the sheets she lay on.

The doctors couldn't figure out what was wrong with her, and before very long Rose had had enough.

"Thorsten," she told him one night. "I'm not going to stay here and watch my baby die. These doctors know nothing. But the doctors of my time – of the twenty-first century," she swiftly amended, seeing the hurt in his eyes, "they DO. They CAN help. Please, Thorsten. Please. Let me take Elsa back to that time. Please..."

"No," he replied, utterly shocking her, but then he continued. "We'll ALL go. She's my child, too."

^..^

She did things the smart way, for once. Swallowing her fear for Elsa, she put on some clothes that wouldn't garner her TOO many odd stares up ahead, pulled the time jumper out from the bottom of her dresser drawer where she'd tucked it away so long before, scrolled back through the last two jumps, reversed the settings, and pressed Execute. She landed back in her little council flat, just minutes after she'd jumped out with Paul. His left-behind clothes were still piled neatly on their bed, and she took a minute to steady herself, caught between misty memory and stark terror for her daughter.

She'd remembered the manager's last words to her about the lottery, "They haven't found the winner yet from last Saturday!" She rifled through the stack of newspapers waiting to be recycled and found the day in question, wrote down the winning numbers, then flashed back to the day before the drawing, bought her ticket, flashed back, and calmly went down to the lottery office to claim her winnings – the largest single jackpot in history. Luckily, they allowed her to remain anonymous, having recently changed the rules in the wake of too many horror stories of winners hounded into penurious insanity.

From there, she went shopping for a house, finding an old, abandoned – supposedly haunted – mansion a mile from the best children's hospital in all of England. Paying cash in full, she contracted workmen to fix it up and a decorator to finish and furnish it, then hopped forward through an entire year and a half one month at a time, checking on their progress. At last it was ready, and she returned to their house in Sweden, an hour after she'd left, collected the family, and brought them forward.

Now, a year later, she and Thorsten were sitting side-by-side in the office of the best specialist in Britain, waiting for the results of the latest round of tests. They sat silently, still, each lost in their own fearful thoughts, just quietly holding hands, giving and taking desperate strength from each other. Rose had brought her daughter forward just in time; the dread disease had progressed to a life-threatening stage, necessitating an operation and several risky, cutting-edge procedures and drug treatments.

Rose and Thorsten had spent the intervening year taking turns staying with Elsa in the hospital, and watching the other two kids. Paul – who this time understood that the "Swedish magic" had brought them through three centuries – was way behind his age group in modern schools, of course, so Rose had bought into a homeschooling program for him – the girls were still younger than school age. Thorsten took over the lessons for the most part – Rose suspected he was learning as much as their ten-year-old son.

Suddenly the office door swung open and the doctor walked in. He didn't go to his desk but straight to their chairs, the broad, ecstatic smile on his face telling them the news before he could even speak.

"It's gone. She's cured."

And they collapsed together in relieved hysterics.

^..^

So now they had to decide again: which century did they want to live in? It was Paul who tipped the scales. "Mummy? I want to become a doctor – a children's doctor, so I can cure kids like Elsa, too." And after all, they were set for life with the lottery money – even more so than back at the Swedish estate. Thorsten, nostalgic for his home, nevertheless agreed that they were all much better off here and now. Besides, now freed from the worry for his daughter, he was having much too much fun exploring this brave new world.

So Rose took the time jumper down to the basement, where the ghosts had always been said to be strongest – though they'd never seen any (though perhaps too preoccupied to notice) – to carefully put it away in a secure, fireproof strongbox in the corner. As she crossed the floor with it in her hands, though, without warning, she received a sharp electric shock from the jumper. "Ouch!" She jumped and exclaimed.

Holding the jumper up, she flipped open the lid, peering at it. It seemed to have turned on of its own accord, a dim light skittering across the display. The tiny screen was clouded over as if fogged. She used her forefinger to try to wipe it off – jumping a little as another tiny electric shock sparked between device and finger, like static electricity.

And then, without warning, a brilliant, unearthly white light hit her face.