A Trail Through Time (The Chronicles of St Mary's, #4)

by Jodi Taylor

bronzed, muscle-rippling heroes who can go all night like a crazed rhino are all very well – indeed, every woman should have at least one – but sometimes, what you need – what you really, really need – is a quiet man with his own basin.

Albay pressed his intercom. A voice squawked, ‘What?’ I caught Dr Bairstow’s eye, just for a very brief moment, and then he looked away. ‘Tea.’ ‘What?’ ‘Tea.’ ‘Tea what?’ He gritted his teeth. ‘I would like a cup of tea.’ ‘I would like a cup of tea what?’ ‘I would like a cup of tea now,’ and wisely closed the connection before she could reply.

A period of calm reflection would have been nice. A period in which I would be able just to stop and think for a moment. To consider what I had been told. To think about what I was going to do. What I was going to say. Fat bloody chance.

Knock-knock. Who’s there? Ivanna. Ivanna who? Ivanna say thank you …

I thought of Leonidas of Sparta. He didn’t know the future of the western world rested on his shoulders but that didn’t stop him drawing his sword, planting his feet, and defying the entire Persian Empire. Our forebears at the Gates of Grief didn’t know they were the direct ancestors of nearly everyone on the planet – they just built their little rafts, climbed aboard, and struck out for the unknown. History glitters with the tales of men and women who, with no thought of reward or glory, make their stand and quietly do their duty. I wasn’t going to be a lesser person than my ancestors.

We crouched in the dark and waited for them. If they came. They came.