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BVC Announces The Time Seam by Sylvia Kelso!

The Time Seam by Sylvia Kelso
The Time Seam
Blackston Gold #2
Sylvia Kelso

A family lawyer, a time-traveler, a looming environmental disaster …. perhaps, a field of gold.

Dorian Wild has a car, a good apartment, a junior partnership in a law firm, and a solid relationship. Then a seeming ghost walks out of an elevator floor and re-balances a miner’s panning dish on top of her head.

Suddenly Dorian Wild also has danger, tragedy, mystery, break-ins, mayhem, an unscrupulous megacorp on her trail, and a whole new concept of reality. Especially when it involves a nineteenth-century Irish activist called Jimmy Keenighan, who has ended up in her time and place for reasons neither of them understand. The Time Seam brings their escalating cycle of dangers and discoveries to a climax, and a close.

About the Author: Sylvia Kelso lives in North Queensland, Australia, and writes mostly novels, in fantasy, SF and mystery/time-travel genres, with alternate North Queensland or analogue Australian settings. Two of her novels have been finalists for best fantasy novel in the Aurealis Australian genre fiction awards.

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Chapter 1


Dorian phased slowly back to wakefulness: where am I, when, how. Why?

Blackston. The Park Street Motel. Coming up to see George, confront him about Ben Morar. Screw him down, find out definitively: why did he sell out, and now, what do Pan-Auric plan? Where is this damn mine Chris found?

Did he sack Chris or not?

I sent the report. Her memory rushed back with almost the original rage. I got nothing useful out of him and I sent the report to Dani, I talked to Anne and Laura, then I went uptown for lunch. And in the street …

The historical pageant. People dressed like the old times, like that time. Old Blackston, where the time-fold took me. But it was here and now. This time, old Blackston came to me.

Now I’m in bed in the Park Street Motel, and he’s in the room across from me. Breathing. Talking. Living flesh and blood. Not just a ghost, a time-collision any longer. Jimmy. Jimmy Keenighan. A name, a life, a connection I never expected. Now I do know why we kept colliding. I do know, why me.

Physical answers, a bruising recollection. And then the cause of that strange split in her inner landscape, half lingering sweetness, half painful as a day-old bruise.

I kissed someone last night. He wanted it, and I wanted it. Whatever happened then.

And it’s only five weeks since Chris …

Was I unfaithful to Chris?

No. The answer came without need to think. Chris gave himself whole to whatever he did: he’d have taken us to the limit too. Living together, kids. Marriage, probably. But he’d never expect—he’d never want to hold me, once that tie was gone.

“What, hang around years playing widow for me?” She could hear every nuance, every turn of phrase. “If someone else turns up, don’t dither about old times, kid. Just go for it.”

I’ll do that, Chris.

That is, memory qualified ruefully, if I get a chance.

That was blackmail, she admitted, last night. I was too mad and hurt and—scared—to do better. To get past the knee jerk at that blasted outworn Catholic morality and try to explain. Just because he kissed me and he was drunk, it doesn’t have to be guilt and panic and rejection. And I have a say in it. Things are different now.

She relived the sulfurous hush that had seen them through the bathroom dance and the final getting to bed. And lying there, tired out, twice-over aching, listening to him not-breathe, trying not to do it herself. Can we ever get past that? Ever get the old understanding back?

It’ll take a lot of time. And care. From both of us.

She opened her eyes and found the bed next to the window empty, sheets flung back in the full morning light.

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