Page 114 of Flirting with Forever

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means they’re extremely angry, Miss Stratford. No one has ever defied their commands before, so flagrantly and for so long, though I must say, you’re getting close. Look, I don’t know how you think you ended up in your current life. But it wasn’t a matter of the former you just deciding you were going to be an accomplished art historian in your next reincarnation.”

She shifted. She’d never considered her former self at all.

“It took the generosity of whatever Guild you’re covered under,” he said, “and years of good behavior. In short, you earned it. Peter, it goes without saying, has squandered every iota of goodwill he possessed chasing you down. He won’t be an acclaimed artist in his next life. He won’t be a portrait painter. I doubt he’ll be a house painter. I don’t know what he’ll be, but you can be sure it will be monotonously boring, soul grinding, and as far removed from a creative life as the Guild can manage.”

“No painting?” she said, horrified.

She considered sadly what Peter’s existence would become without painting. He’d lost so much already.

“Mertons, you have to intervene. The man has paint in his blood. I’ve never seen him without a sketch pad within arm’s reach. You told me yourself he painted nonstop after he was dead. Oh, Mertons. He won’t have Ursula, he won’t have me. You can’t take painting away. You can’t do this to him.”

“It’s not me. It’s the Guild. They’ve had it up to here. First you and the time tube, then Peter and his damned quest. They’re tired of being ignored.”

She looked at the laptop and back at Mertons.

“What about a deal?”

“A deal? What deal?”

“Is the Guild as good as its word? If they promise to do something, will they?”

“It is the Afterlife, after all.” He waited expectantly.

“The time tube,” she said. “I’ll give it up. Show you the source. You can dig it up or drop dynamite down it or whatever it is you do to eradicate it.”

“And in return?”

“In return, you guarantee Peter the life of a painter.”

Mertons stroked his chin. “The life of a painter, eh?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t guarantee he’ll be at the top of his profession. I can’t guarantee he’ll be rich.”

“So long as he can paint, Mertons. He has to be able to paint.”

He frowned.

“What?” she asked. “What’s the problem?”

“It’s not a problem, per se.” He gave her a worried look. “I hope, Miss Stratford, you aren’t thinking he could be reborn here? You have to see that Peter will enter his new life as a babe, not as a man. By the time he is thirty, you would be, well—”

“No, Mertons. I wasn’t thinking that.” Such a thought had crossed her mind, but now even that possibility had been quashed.

“There’s one more thing. You won’t be able to use the tube as a way to shortcut your book research anymore.”

“I’m not going to write the book. Peter’s life will go unrecorded, at least by me.”

A flash of something—amusement? understanding?—rose in his eyes. “I see.”

“And in any case, when it started I only intended to buy the book, not travel through—” She caught herself. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t be able to write, especially if we’re talking fiction. I’m a researcher, and a novel’s like building a campfire. With a few good facts and the right spark, I can make a blaze that’ll knock your socks off.”

He grinned. “I’ll consider my socks forewarned. And that’s what you’ll do?” he asked carefully.

When Peter is gone, he meant. God, don’t let it be soon. “Yes.” She smiled with considerably more optimism than she felt.