She blinked and shrugged without protest, proving just how disturbed she must be. Liam used his knife to tear off pieces of mosquito netting from the sack of emergency supplies and made bandages for her hands, knotting them firmly behind her knuckles.
“You know, the Maya were obsessed with time,” she went on. “It would make a weird kind of sense, if it’s true. The funny thing is, I know I’m not crazy.”
Liam lifted her in his arms and carried her to the shade under the ruined wall. “Of course not,” he grunted. Slender as she was, she was no wraith. He eased her down on what remained of the mosquito netting.
“I’m just not the kind of person who has delusions,” she said, sliding bonelessly onto the makeshift bed. “Whatever Homer said, I don’t have the imagination to come up with so much… perfect detail.” She flexed her hands in their bandages, counting off on her fingers. “The wall is the same, but the bones aren’t there. Neither is Homer’s cap. And the first path is gone. And it did look like Tikal, only not the way it did when I left it—the way Maudslay photographed it. And then there’s you…” She squinted up at him. “You’re just too perfect.”
“Thanks.”
“And I think I’ve established that it can’t be some sort of practical joke. Just not possible. I’m not dead—”
“It’s a wonder,” Liam murmured, cursing his lack of a blanket to cover her with. He had only his shirt, and it was too’ damp and thin to be of much use.
“—so if I’m not crazy,” she mumbled, “it must be real. Doesn’t that make sense?”
“Perfect sense.” God save him.
She tried to sit up, and he pushed her back down. Already her pulse seemed stronger, her skin less pale. He removed the cap of his own canteen, pulled down her lower lip with his thumb, and poured water into her mouth as if she were a child. After the first few swallows she gave a muffled protest and took the canteen herself.
When she’d finished he reached for the canteen, but she stopped him with a touch. Her fingers were trembling as they brushed his hand and pointed at the engraved metal band near the mouthpiece.
“You… really are… Liam O’Shea,” she whispered.
He followed her stare. The engraved, silver-chased canteen had been a gift from Caroline’s father the year they’d met, when Liam had been a simple miner and Gresham the mine owner whose life he’d saved. Gresham was dead now, and he’d left Liam a far more precious endowment—a trust Liam was failing at this very moment.
Damn Perry.
“So my sainted mother named me,” he said acidly. “Why does that surprise you?”
She inched backward on her elbows and propped herself against the wall. “I don’t know,” she said. “No. I don’t know how…”
He took her shoulders between his hands. “Were you expecting to find me here?”
“Here?” She chuckled weakly. “No. Not like—” She closed her eyes, laughter dying. “Can you give me my pack?”
He did as she asked. Her movements were deliberate as she opened the top flap; for the first time he noticed the strange interlocking teeth that held it closed. But when she’d pulled out the photograph she pushed the pack behind her, out of his reach.
“You wanted to know about this photograph?” she said. “It was taken in Tikal in 1880.”
Liam restrained his impatience. At last he was getting answers, however jumbled. “I was there,” he said.
“Okay. Now look at it closely.” She held it up with all the exaggerated pedantry of a professor in a classroom. “Does it look like it’s only a few years old?”
He humored her, ignoring the stab of anger that came with the sight of Perry. Indeed, there was something aged about the paper, creased and a bit ragged about the edges, the image faded. He’d seen this photograph in Perry’s rooms only a month ago, protected behind glass.
There was no question about it. Perry must have given it to Mac. Their meeting in the tunnel couldn’t have been coincidence.
“How long have you had this?” he demanded.