Peace in Our Time

I once thought Dr. Tesla was pleasantly odd, but his friend Miss Halász is the oddest person I have ever met. I don't mean to be critical, for she surely saved our lives, but I still don't know what to make of her. I don't think the people we are staying with are very happy about it, either. Captain Tzitzinia is very tough, which I think is probably a good thing given our situation, and her husband is funny, but terribly worried, for all that he laughs it off. Miss Halász's brother, Dr. Halász, is also a very kind man--he is the only person here I feel would really understand some of the things I believe without judging them--but he is so angry with Mr. Fujiwara, and I don't know why.

I just wish I didn't feel that we have been safely whisked out of a frying pan over a fire into a handbasket that is headed for...a much larger fire.

Dr. Halász and I do know some of the same people, at least. He knows Séverine Leffoy, who is Juliana Leffoy’s older sister, I think. We were trying to steal Juliana away from the Armoricans before the war broke out. (We wanted Séverine almost just as badly, but I hear she has given up her academic work.) Mr. Fife seemed pleased to hear that she knew of me, but I do wonder why Dr. Halász became so glum when I brought her up; is it because she left her academic work? But he's in medicine, I wouldn't think he'd understand her research.

I would ask Miss Halász, but I'm afraid she'd tell me; she is one of those people who says, out loud, whatever comes into her head. A lot of brilliant people are like that, but she doesn't even try to make it make sense to the rest of us. Unfortunately, sometimes it does, anyway, and it's not something that really should have been said out loud.

I think it's close to midnight here and from the position of the stars we're somewhere in Europe. This is not good.

I really wish Chrissie were here now. Dr. Tesla's upset with me because I didn't make the people who were holding us here stop calling this magic. I don't know how to explain to him what's really going on. And he's the only one who really understands what we just saw.

Somehow, he managed to save us. The people who were using the machinery died. It all...turned back on them. Somehow.

We have to get out of here, but right now we're holed up while they scurry around, trying to find us and to figure out what happened. Dr. Tesla thinks they won't find us. I don't know why he thinks that. I believe him, because if I didn't, what else could I do?

But we have to get out of here. Because they're never going to believe we didn't sabotage it. And I don't believe we did. I know I didn't. And I really don't think Dr. Tesla would kill all those people.

Someone on the other side got smart.

Well, I can't say that I'm happy about anything that's going on right now, but at least he seems to have his spirits back.

I wish Chrissie were here, she'd know what to do.

I think it's Sunday. Dr. Tesla and I are...well, really, I don't know where we are. So far nothing too terrible has happened to us.

Assuming, of course, that you don't count being kidnapped and dragged out of our homes as something terrible.

I don't even know why they brought me here. What do they think I know? I'm not important, like Agatha D'Ascalle or Christina Howe.

I just hope Kuntzel doesn't try anything. I may be a pacifist, but that doesn't mean I have to make it easy for them to hurt us.

Starn is some sort of spy. He wasn't working for the Brits at all. I feel like such a fool.

Professor Starn has been here for ten days, and he’s been working like mad on the Tesla documents. I think they’ve met a time or two without me. I wish I could believe that he’s doing this for the right reasons. I have spent a lot of time praying about it, because I don’t want to say anything against him lightly, but he frightens me.

The girls don’t really like him much. He’s a brilliant alchemist—nobody’s arguing otherwise. But none of this has anything to do with alchemy—it’s all physics and harmonics and mathematics. And he’s not really friendly, and I don’t think he really likes women. Which is a problem. Salem is co-educational now, and has been for ages, but it used to be a school for girls—back in the early days of Britannia Nova, when people cared enough to send their sons across the sea to the Academy, but wanted their daughters educated close to home. It’s still called Salem College, as though it were a part of the Academy. It was still Salem Girls’ College when my mother attended. I certainly don’t think Starn respects me very much, though he’s always perfectly polite and deferential.

He’s far too interested in the Tesla work, and in the things that are happening out in Califia, and not nearly interested enough in his students. And I can’t decide if I pity his German apprentice, or think he’s a creep. I wrote to Derek about him but of course he’s much too busy to send me a timely reply. And I know Starn is somehow involved with the British War Office, but even so one might think he would do more work with his students. He lets Kuntzel work with the students a lot. I really can’t stand it. I want to believe that Kuntzel is the refugee I’m told he is, but it’s hard to believe.

I don’t think Dr. Tesla is feeling well, either.

Professor Starn is a very curious man, and I am not quite certain that I trust him, but he is certainly very convincing. At any rate Dr. Tesla has received his letters and I don't think I could keep them from meeting at this point, considering how few people there are who understand what he does and believes even a little.

I must caution him to be careful how he approaches Dr. Tesla. I don't think he would take it at all well if Starn were to tell him that he is a wizard, or even that Starn and I are trained wizards. And it’s hard enough for me to keep the Withdrawal Committee at bay as it is.

Of course Starn won't be fit company for anyone till he's had a few days for the effects of travel to wear off. There's a reason most people choose not to travel this far by gate; a boat, even a magical one, is much easier on the system.

Poor man. Perhaps he'll be more convivial when he's recovered.