He’d already decided to remain behind when the tour left Rome. He had to find her. Or find out how she’d died. One or the other. Night closed in on their final few hours. Nine days … He’d searched from dawn until well past dark every day, asking strangers if they’d seen a young man in Palmyrene dress, searching the slave markets with sinking horror in his gut, losing hope with every additional hour that passed.
The agony of guilt was very nearly more than he could endure.
As the chronometer on his personal log ticked past eleven-thirty and crept toward midnight, Malcolm found a corner behind the deserted wine shop’s front counter and waited. He had given up hope; but he would wait, anyway, until the last possible moment Then he’d tell the Time Tours guides to return without him. The big touring company had lost tourists on occasion-it was an industry secret closely guarded with massive bribes to grieving families-but the harsh reality of a tourist’s disappearance shook everyone.
The guides and even the other tourists were subdued as they made their way into the wine shop for the return trip. Malcolm huddled in his corner, refusing to meet anyone’s gaze. Ten minutes until midnight Five minutes. A ghost of white appeared in his peripheral vision. He jerked around
And swore under his breath. Just a white carthorse pulling a load of hay. The familiar ache of a gate preparing to open thrummed against the bones of his skull. The cart rumbled past. The placid carthorse tossed its head and squealed a complaint its driver echoed. The man held his ears, muttered loudly enough for Malcolm to hear, “Absit omen…” and shook out his whip. The carthorse broke into a shambling run.