Free What Time Devours by A. J. Hartley

force that the backing cracked. A heavy woman who had been peering at the board flashed him a look of alarm and backed hurriedly away.
    Thomas walked back to the Coq d’Or, his head low and bullish.

CHAPTER 14
    “Where’s my beer?” he said to the startled barkeep. “I was sitting there. I had to step outside for a minute and . . .”
    “I’m sorry, sir, I just dumped it. Thought you were gone.”
    “Well, I’m back,” he said. “And I’m thirsty, and I’m a teacher, which means I can’t afford to take two sips of a six-dollar beer and then throw it away.”
    He was still hissing mad, and knowing that he was taking it out on the bartender didn’t make him feel any better.
    “Let me get you another,” said the bartender. “It was one of the Goose Islands, right?”
    “The Honker’s Ale,” Thomas nodded.
    “I’m partial to the Wheatmiser, myself,” said the bartender.
    “Maybe I’ll try that next,” said Thomas.
    “It’s got a punch,” said the bartender.
    “So do I,” said Thomas.
    “I see that.” The barman grinned.
    “Sorry,” said Thomas. “Strange day.”
    “They all are,” said the bartender, putting the freshly poured beer in front of him. “Enjoy.”
    “Cheers,” said Thomas, sipping and savoring. “Good. You know anything about champagne?”
    “Some,” said the bartender. “Our selection’s limited, though. What did you have in mind?”
    “Ever heard of Saint Evremond Reims?”
    “Reims is a town in France, in the Champagne region, specifically,” said the bartender, pleased to have the answer, or part of it. “You know the French don’t think that anything from outside that region can be called champagne? If it’s from California, it’s just sparkling wine.”
    “What about Saint Evremond?”
    “Probably the house, like Moët or Krug, you know? But I’ve never heard of it. Maybe they produce primarily for the French home market, like Mercier.”
    “Thanks,” said Thomas, impressed.
    “We even now?”
    “The moment you poured my replacement pint,” Thomas grinned.
    “Never get between a Shakespearean and his beer,” said a voice to his left.
    Thomas turned. It was a woman, slight, professional looking in a brown pantsuit. Her hair was a straight chestnut tied back in a disarmingly girlish ponytail, but her eyes were cool and mature. She was probably in her midthirties, but the smirk, like the ponytail, took a decade off her. She looked attractive. And familiar.
    “Actually, I’m a civilian,” he said.
    “I thought you said you were a teacher,” she said.
    “High school,” he said.
    “Oh,” she said. “I’d say something encouraging about your attending the conference, but that would be patronizing, wouldn’t it?”
    “Probably,” he said. “And I’m not actually attending the conference.”
    “Your lapel badge would suggest otherwise, Thomas,” she said.
    “Oh,” he said. “Yes. I was just stopping by.”
    “Hear any interesting papers?” she said, then caught herself. “Wait. Don’t answer that. You walked out during questions after mine, so don’t be too honest.”
    He smiled, recognizing her.
    “A bit over my head,” he said. “I’m sure it was very smart.”
    “What does that have to do with anything?”
    “Coin of the realm here, isn’t it? Smart, I mean.”
    “That’s the official story,” she said, flashing that slightly impish grin. “We’re all incredibly clever and saying deeply insightful things, and if you don’t understand them, then you obviously aren’t clever or insightful and don’t really belong. It’s a bit like the Emperor’s New Clothes.”
    “I remember,” said Thomas, adding, “I was a graduate student for a while.”
    “In Shakespeare?” she said. “Where?”
    “Boston University.”
    “Who did you work with?”
    “Dagenhart,” said Thomas.
    “My God, did you really?” she said, clearly delighted. “Randy Randall Dagenhart! He’s here, you know.”
    “Yes, I saw