1

The sound in my dream wrenches me awake.

“Huh, what?” I flail around in the dark until I find the cord of my bedside lamp. I switch on the light, whining, still trying to figure out where I am. The numbers on my digital clock inform me that this is a very unsociable hour. My heart is racing. Theair-raid siren blares from my phone, which vibrates facedown on the side table. My anger builds. Suddenly, it all makes sense. Only one person would call me at this hour, the woman who earned this dramatic ringtone.

“Seriously? It’s five a.m., Gabrielle! This better be important.”

“I’m good, Golden Balls, thanks for asking.” There’s a boozy slur in her voice. “Howyou doin’?”

“Fine, thanks,” Annoyingly, my British mental programming forces me to respond politely, which makes me even more irritable. The fact that she saved me from aguilt-ridden nightmare is beside the point.

Gabrielle Green is a touchy American time traveler who works for The Continuum, the organization based in the future that sends time travelers back to fix the past. I had the dubious pleasure of accompanying her on a mission to 1873 Paris a few weeks ago. I nearly died. Twice. She’s pushy, annoying, and rude, and she always manages to brush me up the wrong way, but occasionally her cold black heart is in the right place.

I rub my face vigorously and swallow my annoyance. “OK. I’m awake now. What’s up?”

“Oh, you know, making friends with a bottle of bubbly, minding my own business. Gimme a minute, will ya?” I hear muffled voices in the background, then raucous male laughter. She shouts, “What’s your problem?” without moving her mouth away from the microphone. I yank the phone from my ear.

“Bridgeman? Are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here. Where are you?”

“I was over at Bruce’s house the other night, and—”

“Who’s Bruce?”

“Hang on, I need to get away from these guys.” She breathes heavily, apparently walking, and then resumes. “He’s a singer, you’ve heard of him. If I told you who he was, I would have to kill you, or at least drug you and leave you for dead in the Nevada desert. Anyway, I was at his place the other night, and we’re on the wrong side of a bottle of scotch, and he’s getting allteary-eyed. I’m thinking either he’s going to make a move, or he’s getting choked up about his latest divorce, or both, but no. Turns out Bruce was coerced into selling an antique from his personal collection.”

“Right.” I rub my hand wearily across my eyes, trying to figure out where this is going. “What did he sell?”

“One of his horses. He collects them—not real ones, obviously. Antiques. He sold it to a collector ‘under duress,’ his words. I’m like, Bruce! Why the hell did you sell it if you didn’t want to? Anyway, he did. It was old. Chinese. Yang dynasty, I think.”

“Tang dynasty?”

“That’s what I said.” She sighs heavily. “It’smega-ancient, apparently. Some kind of kimchi—no, wait, that’s not right.”

“Mingqi.” Now my interest is piqued. I’ve read about the objects the Chinese used to bury with their dead, but I’ve never