From Beyond the Library

[Taffey]

CHAPTER ONE
The Arrival at Hacienda Buenaventura

Constance Lydney-Farrar had always suspected that boredom was not a condition but a slow-moving poison. It gathered in the corners of English manor houses like dust and lingered behind polite conversation. When her husband, Sir Archibald Lydney-Farrar — noted explorer, amateur cartographer, and wholly indifferent spouse — announced that he would be returning to South America to continue his "ethnographic investigations," she surprised even herself.

"I'm coming with you," she'd said, over a breakfast of tepid eggs and marital silence.

Sir Archibald blinked at her as if she had declared her intention to embrace Bolshevism. "My dear girl," he spluttered, "the Andes are hardly Kensington. One needs stamina. One needs a constitution like a... like a yak."

"Then it's fortunate," she replied, "that I'm quite sturdy."

And sturdy she was, though the journey had tested even her resolve: a steamship across the Atlantic, a rail journey that appeared to have been built entirely from leftover intentions, and finally a narrow track up into the foothills of the Andes aboard a mule of questionable optimism.

By the time the hacienda appeared — a long adobe building sprawled beneath the shadow of a great ridge — Constance felt as though she had been shaken apart and reassembled twice.

A figure emerged from the courtyard as she dismounted, her hat askew and her dignity clinging by its fingertips. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in the practical clothing of a man who knew what danger looked like and had once shaken hands with it for a wager.

He removed his hat.
"Señora Lydney-Farrar? Welcome to Hacienda Buenaventura."

His English was softened by a rural Midlands burr — familiar yet incongruous in the Andes. She found herself staring longer than politeness permitted.

"And you are...?"

"Thomas Briggs, at your service. I run the estate for Sir Archibald while he's gallivant— er, conducting research."

Her husband, who had just dismounted with the grace of a wardrobe falling down stairs, grunted. "Briggs is a practical sort. Knows how to mend a saddle, start a balky motorcar, and—"

"—catch frogs," Briggs added cheerfully.

"Frogs?" Constance echoed.

"Essential creatures up here. Some very rare. Sir Archibald promised the Royal Zoological Society he'd bring back one they insist does not exist."

Sir Archibald puffed proudly.
"The Andean Accordion Frog. Makes a sound like a harmonium being sat upon. Marvelous specimen."

Constance turned to Briggs. "And you assist in this... endeavour?"

"Assist?" Briggs smiled. "Señora, I'm the one daft enough to actually go looking for them."

They shared — unintentionally, impossibly — a moment of mutual amusement. A glimmer of warmth flickered through her, unfamiliar after years of matrimonial frost.

Sir Archibald, oblivious, had already wandered toward the hacienda muttering about sketch maps.

Briggs gestured toward a shaded archway.
"If you'd care to freshen up after your journey? The rooms are simple, but the walls keep out most of the heat and almost all of the wildlife."

"'Almost'?" she repeated.

"A man can only do so much."

She smiled again — too readily, too naturally.
It unsettled her.

[Biggles]

I'm trying to see where this Mills and Boon romance is heading with reference to motorcycling, which is mostly what this Forum is about.  Maybe future episodes will make it clear.

[ZigZag]

As you said Biggles, "mostly". Some humorous light entertainment, sans motorcycles could be an entertaining diversion.

[Taffey]

Inside, the hacienda was cooler than expected, its walls painted in a soft earthen red that made every room glow. A faint scent of smoke and something floral lingered in the air — not the artificial sweetness of English perfumes, but something warm and alive.

Briggs carried her trunk as though it weighed nothing. He set it by the bed and stepped back, wiping a faint sheen of sweat from his brow. The movement was unselfconscious, but Constance felt an odd tug in her chest, a pull toward something she couldn't yet name.

"If there's anything you need, just ring the bell," he said, nodding toward a small chain beside the door. "It doesn't summon me — it startles the housekeeper — but she summons me eventually."

Constance laughed, softly.
She could not recall the last time she had laughed in her husband's presence.

"Thank you, Mr Briggs."

"Call me Tom," he said with a warmth that curled through her like smoke.

And then he was gone.

Leaving her standing in a foreign land, heart unsettled, heat rising in her cheeks for reasons that had nothing whatsoever to do with altitude.
 
That afternoon, after changing into lighter clothing and persuading her hair into a semblance of order, Constance wandered into the courtyard. The sun hung low, gilding the world. A few workers crossed the yard, leading mules and carrying baskets. Beyond, she saw Tom Briggs repairing a fence, sleeves rolled up, forearms taut with effort.

Her gaze lingered too long.

"Admiring the craftsmanship?" came Sir Archibald's voice, suddenly at her shoulder.

She startled. "What? Oh. Yes. The... fence."

Sir Archibald squinted at Briggs. "Remarkable fellow. Surprisingly competent. Terribly unrefined, of course, but that's the working classes for you — all sinew, no subtlety. Still, one does need that sort of man in places like this."

Constance did not answer. Her eyes had drifted back — treacherously — to Tom.

He caught her gaze. Held it.
Not bold, not improper... but aware.
She felt the ground tilt almost imperceptibly.
As though something in her life had been knocked loose — like a fence post Briggs had decided needed to be somewhere else.
 
That night, as the household settled into stillness, she stood at her window and looked out across the dark land. Crickets hummed. A warm breeze stirred the curtains. In the distance, she saw a lantern flicker — Briggs checking the animals.

She should have looked away.

She did not.

Something in her — long starved, long silenced — tightened, warmed, awakened.

The Andes might yet be the cure for boredom after all.

Or the cause of far more dangerous things.
 
End of CHAPTER ONE

[Taffey]

CHAPTER TWO
Into the Foothills (with Unexpected Guests)**

Dawn arrived at Hacienda Buenaventura not with the gentle yawn of an English morning but with a roar of colour: gold, pink, and a red so fierce it looked capable of catching fire if provoked. Constance found herself awake before the bell, excitement and unease tangled like threads of the same fabric.

She dressed for the day's "frog expedition," a phrase Briggs had uttered with such bright confidence that she had felt obliged to respond with equal enthusiasm, though she had no earthly idea what was involved in hunting an Accordion Frog. She half-expected it to unfold itself like a concertina and demand to be played.

When she reached the courtyard, Tom Briggs was tightening the straps on two mules, both of whom regarded the upcoming journey with the stoic dread of civil servants awaiting a new management directive.

"Morning, Tom," she said, far too brightly.

He straightened, tugging his hat brim in greeting. "Morning, Constance."
Her name in his accent still surprised her, warm in a way it had never been under Archibald's clipped enunciation.

Sir Archibald appeared moments later, clutching an oversized field journal and a canvas satchel that seemed to jangle ominously.

"Specimen jars," he explained, proudly. "One must always be prepared. You never know when a frog will allow itself to be bottled."

Constance privately wondered whether frogs ever permitted such things voluntarily.

They set off up a narrow trail that curled along the mountainside. The air was thin, fragrant with wild herbs and the faint sweetness of distant orchards. Constance's mule plodded with grim resignation; Tom's strode with purpose, occasionally glancing back at her mule as if offering encouragement.

By midday, they reached a small plateau where the land opened into a green basin threaded with streams and dotted with boulders shaped by centuries of wind.

"This," Tom said, spreading his arms, "is prime Accordion Frog territory."

Sir Archibald pulled out a small brass instrument shaped like a horn. "The mating call."
He blew into it.

The resulting noise resembled a goose undergoing a spiritual crisis.

Constance pinched her lips together. Tom coughed. The mule sighed.

They waited.

Nothing emerged.

Sir Archibald, undeterred, blew again — with more enthusiasm than accuracy.

That was when the world changed.

From behind a ridge came a low hum — mechanical, insistent, and distinctly not of the 1920s. Before Constance could speak, two figures crested the trail atop sleek, futuristic machines that glowed faintly as if lit from within.

The men wore helmets unlike any she had seen — rounded, modern, and entirely at odds with the mule-based reality she currently inhabited.

The machines rolled to a stop, silent except for a soft whirr.

The two riders flipped up their visors.

Constance gasped.

Sir Archibald blinked.

Tom Briggs stared as though the laws of physics had just delivered an insult.

The taller of the two riders smiled warmly.

"Hello there," said Ewan McGregor, as if dropping into 1920s Andean wilderness was an entirely normal extension of his day.

The second rider lifted his visor with a grin.

"Sorry about the interruption," said Charlie Boorman. "We're filming a thing."

"A... thing?" Constance echoed.

"Long Way Up," Charlie added. "Electric Harleys. Patagonia to Los Angeles. Apple TV and all that."

Tom looked at the motorcycles. "Electric what?"

"Motorcycles," Ewan said. "Harley-Davidson LiveWires. Completely silent. Environmentally friendly. Except for the part where we appear to have fallen through time."

"Does that happen often?" Constance asked, earnestly.

Charlie shrugged. "More than you'd think."

Ewan surveyed the scene: the mules, the equipment, Sir Archibald still holding his frog-horn like a misunderstood trumpet. "Are we interrupting something important?"

"Frog hunting," Sir Archibald replied. "Accordion Frogs. Rare. Possibly mythical. Hard to bottle."

Charlie perked up. "Amphibians? Love amphibians."

Ewan dismounted and crouched beside a stream. "Beautiful place. Shame about the altitude. Makes my head float."

Constance was mesmerised. Not merely by the absurdity, but by the strange serenity with which the visitors accepted the impossibility of their presence.

Tom approached the motorcycles, hands on hips. "What sort of horsepower do these things have?"

"Harley says about a hundred and five," Charlie replied.

Tom let out a low whistle. "And here I am getting twenty-eight out of a mule on a good day."

"Can't say I envy you," Ewan smiled. "Mules don't charge overnight."

"No," Tom said thoughtfully, "but they don't burst into flames either."

Charlie opened his mouth, reconsidered, and said nothing.

The air shimmered slightly.

Ewan checked something on the bike's screen. "We'd better go before the producers get worried. Time slips complicate continuity."

Charlie saluted them all with cheerful sincerity. "Good luck with the frog!"

And with a soft rising hum, both machines glided forward, rolled toward the ridge, and — quite impossibly — vanished with a faint crackle of displaced time, leaving nothing but a faint smell of ozone and bewilderment.

There was silence.

Sir Archibald cleared his throat.

"Well. That was... unusual."

Tom nodded slowly. "Happens sometimes in the mountains," he said, though he clearly believed no such thing. "Temperature inversion. Pressure drops. Motorcycling Scotsmen."

Constance couldn't help it; she laughed — freely, richly, helplessly.

It startled Tom, delighted her, and made Archibald frown in the way husbands do when their wives experience joy they didn't issue permission for.

Finally, Tom turned to her, still smiling.
"Shall we... continue the hunt?"

Constance felt the warmth of the Andes on her skin, the lingering absurdity of the encounter, and the far more troubling warmth that rose whenever Tom looked at her that way.

"Yes," she said. "Let's find your improbable frog."

They resumed the climb.

But for the rest of the day — and long into the evening — Constance would occasionally glance toward the trail behind them, half expecting two electric Harleys to reappear from a fold in the world, humming their impossible note.

[Taffey]

CHAPTER THREE
The Frog, the Storm, and the Unfortunate Incident with the Altar Llama

By late afternoon, clouds had gathered over the western ridge — the sort of clouds that did not drift or saunter, but rather assemble, like a committee preparing to deliver unwelcome findings.

Tom Briggs noticed them first.

"Weather's turning," he murmured. "Fast."

Sir Archibald, who had spent the last hour scanning a marshy patch of earth and muttering about "inadequate frogs," barely looked up.

"Nonsense. The sky has simply darkened for dramatic effect."

"Yes," Tom replied, "that's what storms generally do."

Constance stood on a slight rise, feeling the first tremor of wind coil around her ankles. There was a tension in the air — not unpleasant, but insistent, like the moment before an argument or a kiss.

"Tom?" she said quietly.

He followed her gaze. "We'd best find shelter."

"But what about the Accordion Frog?" Sir Archibald protested. "Some explorers," he said loudly, "would risk anything for scientific progress."

Tom looked at him evenly. "And some explorers, sir, know when a frog can wait."

With growing wind at their backs, they pressed on toward a cluster of stone buildings on a ridge — a small Quechua ceremonial site Tom had mentioned only briefly, calling it "a place we don't muck about in unless absolutely necessary." That alone, of course, guaranteed Sir Archibald's enthusiasm.

"Magnificent!" he declared on arrival. "Pre-Incan! Look at the masonry! Look at the—"

He froze.

There, beneath a low stone arch, stood an animal of striking composure: a tall llama, bedecked with garlands of woven ribbons, dried flowers, and — inexplicably — a small brass bell perched proudly on its head. The creature regarded them with the serene, faintly judgemental expression of a schoolmaster caught supervising a recess he did not approve of.

"What," Constance whispered, "is that?"

Tom sighed. "The village calls it the Altar Llama. They dress it for festivals. It's sacred."

"It looks," Constance ventured carefully, "like something assembled by a committee on short notice."

The llama blinked slowly, unimpressed.

Sir Archibald, already rummaging in his bag, produced a notebook. "Remarkable specimen! Perfect for behavioural study."

Tom grabbed his arm. "Sir, don't—"

Too late.

Archibald stepped forward.

The llama raised its head, narrowed its eyes, and without warning issued a shrill, trumpeting sound of deep cosmic disapproval.

Before anyone could intervene, it lowered its neck and charged.

The impact was spectacular.

Archibald went backwards, arms flailing, hat flying in a perfect arc before landing on the llama's head — right atop the brass bell — which made a dignified ding.

The storm broke at that precise moment, as though nature itself were unwilling to be outdone.

Rain hammered the stones. Wind lashed the ridge. The Altar Llama stood triumphant, Archibald sprawled in a heap, and Tom Briggs muttered something unprintable under his breath.

He rushed to Constance.

"Are you all right?"

She nodded, rainwater streaming down her cheeks. "Tom... that llama... it—"

"Yeh. It does that. Comes with the altitude."

Together they dragged Sir Archibald under the main stone shelter. The llama watched, chewing thoughtfully, as rain pelted the ceremonial plaza.

Once Archibald regained consciousness, he blinked at Constance and Tom in confusion. "Did I just get attacked by a small camel?"

"No," Constance said, "you were attacked by a large llama."

"Ah. Well then."

Silence settled, save for the storm's steady rumble. Tom crouched near Constance, close enough that she could feel his warmth in the chill air. The storm wrapped the three of them in a cocoon of isolation — no escape, no distractions, nothing to dilute the growing gravity between her and Tom.

Her breath caught.

His eyes met hers, steady, unreadable but alive.

Lightning flashed.

Thunder cracked.

Something shifted in both of them — unseen, unspoken, but undeniably real.

Then came the noise.

A mechanical growl rising above the wind — familiar yet impossible, modern yet out of place, like the soundtrack of a future century leaking into the present.

Tom stood sharply. "What in blazes—?"

A motorcycle burst over the ridge.

Not just any motorcycle — a tall, elegant adventure machine painted in desert tones and caked with the dust of continents. Its headlights cut through the storm, its engine note rising and falling with effortless confidence.

It skidded to a perfect stop just metres from the stone shelter.

The rider flipped up her visor.

Constance's mouth fell open.

Tom stared as if witnessing another visitation from the pantheon of improbably competent motorcyclists.

The rider smiled — calm, self-assured, utterly unaffected by the absurdity of arriving in 1920s Peru during an apocalyptic thunderstorm.

"Hi," she said brightly. "I'm Noraly."

Tom, normally the embodiment of rugged calm, looked momentarily poleaxed. His eyes widened — not in fear, but admiration. That annoyance in Constance's chest was sudden, sharp, and wholly uninvited.

Noraly swung off her bike with practiced grace, her ponytail flicking rain in an arc. "Sorry to drop in unannounced. Time slip. Happens when I try to film in bad weather."

"Are you—" Tom began.

"Yes," Noraly said, smiling. "From Itchy Boots. Though technically this is Alaska" pointing towards her bike.

Constance narrowed her eyes, unsure whether to be threatened or enthralled.

Noraly assessed the storm, the llama, the bedraggled trio. "Rough day?"

"The llama attacked Archibald," Constance said before she could stop herself.

Noraly nodded sympathetically. "They do that."

Tom, still openly fascinated, said, "Your motorcycle... that's incredible."

Noraly grinned. "So are you. All of you, really. I love seeing people push themselves out in the world. Especially women."
There was a lightness in her tone, warm and companionable — but with a faint, knowing undercurrent that made Constance wonder whether Noraly was hinting at deeper preferences.

Constance found her irritation dissolving — replaced by something closer to connection, almost conspiratorial.

Noraly pulled a small, weather-worn book from her pannier. "Here," she said, handing it to Constance. "My newest. Hot off the press in a century that hasn't happened to you yet."

Constance accepted it gingerly.

The cover read: Free Ride, by Noraly Schoenmaker.
The text beneath was entirely in Dutch.

Constance blinked. "It's... beautiful."

"Thought you might appreciate it," Noraly said softly. "You look like a woman who understands freedom — even if you haven't claimed it yet."

Before Constance could reply, Noraly lifted her visor, gave Tom a wink that made him sputter, and swung back onto her motorcycle.

"Enjoy the storm! Watch out for the llama!" she called cheerfully, then gunned the engine and disappeared into the rain with an impossible roar, leaving the three of them staring into the space she had occupied moments before.

Tom exhaled, still dazzled.

Constance felt the faintest curl of satisfaction as she held Noraly's book to her chest.

She didn't understand a word of it.

But she understood its message.

And she understood Tom's eyes when he finally looked back at her — drawn not to the departing apparition, but to the woman still standing before him.

[ZigZag]

Christ, who else is going to pop up in this time warped part of the Andes? I do sense some impending doom in Sir Archibald's future.

[Taffey]

CHAPTER FOUR
The Night at the Hacienda, the Frog's Song, and a Very Poorly Timed Revelation

The storm broke late in the evening, just as they returned to Hacienda Buenaventura. The courtyard smelled of wet earth and eucalyptus; rivulets ran down the tiled roofs like silver threads.

Sir Archibald stumbled inside first, muttering something about "llama-induced concussion" and demanding a poultice, preferably one that would not involve local herbs "with mystical aspirations." Tom assured him the housekeeper had something suitable that would calm both the injury and — with luck — the patient.

Constance lingered in the doorway, water dripping from her hair, her dress clinging to her shoulders. She felt the altitude more now: the strange lightness, the faint ache behind her eyes, the warmth that never quite left her bloodstream. Or perhaps that was Tom.

He brushed past her to open the shutters and release the storm's last gusts. The air between them changed — subtly but unmistakably.

"You all right?" he asked.

She nodded, though she didn't feel entirely steady. Not from the storm.

"Noraly," she said, the name slipping out before she could reconsider it.

He paused.
"Strange woman," he admitted. "Impressive rider, though. Never seen handling like that; never seen a motorcycle like that if I am honest."

"Yes," Constance said, with a touch more dryness than intended. "You noticed."

He looked at her then — properly, directly — as though seeing her not merely as a guest of the estate or the wife of a man with a frog fixation, but as someone whose mind and presence held weight.

"I notice a lot of things," Tom said quietly. "But not always the ones I'm supposed to."

Her pulse quickened.
That was dangerously close to a line neither of them had spoken aloud.

Before she could reply, a sound rose from outside — faint at first, then gathering into a strange, elastic melody. Something halfway between a harmonica and a man stepping unexpectedly on a cat.

Tom stood still.
Constance held her breath.

Sir Archibald, bandaged and irritably alive, burst from his room.

"THERE IT IS!" he cried. "Can you hear it!? That's an Accordion Frog!"

The sound continued: wheee-urrp... wahh-eee-ERRP... weeeEEE-arp...

Tom grabbed a lantern with theatrical urgency.
"Ah yes — that sound. Textbook. No doubt about it."

He angled the lantern toward the lower paddock.
"It's coming from down there, which is... fascinating. Absolutely fascinating."

Sir Archibald perked up. "Fascinating? Why?"

Tom adopted the solemn authority of a man who has never been this confident in his life.
"They don't usually come this close to the hacienda," he said, nodding gravely, as though reciting a line from a manual that did not exist. "Highly irregular behaviour for Euphonica compressa, the common accordion frog. A species known—" he glanced at Constance to see if she was watching "—for its impeccable sense of personal space."

Constance raised an eyebrow, the faintest smile tugging at her lips.

Archibald blinked. "You mean they avoid human habitation?"

"Oh, religiously," Tom said. "Practically monastic. If one has ventured this close, Sir Archibald, it suggests a disturbance of profound ecological significance." He paused, allowing the words to hang like incense. "Or," he added lightly, "it's an idiot frog. Hard to say without a sample. I'm guessing the truth must be out there..."

Constance let out a soft, involuntary laugh.

Tom gave the smallest, most conspiratorial shrug — just for her — before turning back to Archibald with exaggerated seriousness.

"In any case, sir, we must proceed with caution. Accordion frogs are famously sensitive to... well, anything, really."

Archibald nodded earnestly, completely taken in.
"Yes, yes — lead on, Tom. Extraordinary creatures..."

Tom stepped forward, whispering to Constance as they passed:
"First time I've heard one, mind you. But don't tell him — after what happened with the llama, it might put him over the edge."

"Come on!" Archibald demanded, racing toward the courtyard with all the coordination of a startled giraffe.

Tom turned to Constance. "Should we let him go alone?"

"I'll come too," she said, a mischievous glint in her eye that betrayed just how much she was sharing Tom's ruse.

"No," Tom started, then stopped when he saw glint turn to fire in her eyes. "All right. Stay close."

They followed Archibald into the moonlit fields. The storm had left the world shining; puddles glimmered like fragments of glass. The frog's call grew louder, stranger, and more insistent.

They reached the paddock's edge, where a fallen log lay near a small stream.

Sir Archibald crouched over it with triumphant glee.
"Behold!"

Tom raised the lantern.

There it was.

The Accordion Frog.

A plump, dignified-looking creature with a vibrant green body and a set of curious lateral folds that quivered each time it made its unearthly noise. It sat upon the log as though performing for a discerning audience.

"My word," Constance whispered.

Even Tom looked impressed. "Well F... before pivoting to "Didn't think they actually existed."

Sir Archibald, for the moment oblivious to Tom's confession barked. "Quick, Briggs! The Jar! Hand it to me before it—"

The frog emitted a startled WHOPRP! and sprang into the air with unexpected ferocity. It bounced off Archibald's forehead (eliciting a small yelp), landed on Tom's boot, and then launched itself at Constance, hitting her shoulder before leaping toward the stream.

Without thinking, she reached out and closed her hand around its surprisingly warm little body.

Tom blinked at her.
Sir Archibald stared as though witnessing a miracle.

"Constance," Tom breathed, "you caught the impossible frog."

She held it gently, feeling its heartbeat thrumming fast beneath her fingers. She had never held something so delicate and so absurd at the same time.

But in that moment, something shifted inside her — a clarity, a sense of capability she had not felt in years. Perhaps ever.

Then the frog croaked directly in her face with a noise like a bagpipe being assaulted.

She laughed — freely, loudly, wonderfully.

Tom's smile in the lantern light was soft, admiring, almost reverent.

Sir Archibald thrust the jar forward. "Quickly! The specimen!"

But Constance hesitated.

The frog wriggled, not in fear but insistence, as though it understood the choice before her.

Tom met her eyes.
He didn't say a word.
He didn't need to.

She lowered her hand and released the frog back into the stream.

Sir Archibald made a sound like a deflating balloon. "Constance! That was a specimen of international significance!"

"It was alive," she said simply. "And it wanted to stay that way."

Tom looked at her as though she'd just stepped through a wall he hadn't realised she could pass.

They walked back in silence, Sir Archibald muttering in despair, Constance's heart racing with something she dared not name.

Only when they reached the courtyard did Tom speak.

"Constance," he said quietly, "there's something you should know."

She waited — breath caught, pulse rising.

Tom looked conflicted, as if grappling with something heavy.

"It's about Sir Archibald," he said at last. "He—"

A roar of an engine cut him off.

Not a car but a sound like a tiny thunderbolt on two wheels.

A bright headlight flared near the gate.

A sleek, nimble bike slid gracefully into the courtyard — Noraly Schoenmaker again, returning through the time-slip on her Alaska, as casually as if she had popped out for bread.

Tom's unfinished revelation was swept aside.

Noraly dismounted with breezy confidence. "Forgot to say goodbye properly," she said with a grin.

Tom's attention flicked — involuntarily — toward her motorcycle.

Constance's jealousy flared.

Noraly noticed instantly and smiled — not unkindly. "Don't worry," she said softly to Constance. "Men are often distracted by machinery."

Then, with a brief, conspiratorial warmth that made Constance's pulse skip, she added:

"But I prefer the company of women who know their own mind."

Constance's breath caught.

Tom looked completely lost.

Noraly winked, tapped her book as if reminding Constance of its promise, and then vanished into the night with a whirr and a shimmer of improbable physics.

Tom stood speechless.

Constance felt a growing, dizzy sense that everything in her life was changing shape — the frog, the storm, the llama, Noraly's unexpected kinship, and the look in Tom Briggs' eyes that told her his revelation — whatever it was — would matter.

"Tom," she said very quietly, "what were you going to tell me?"

He swallowed.

And answered:

"Something that may change everything."