Stealing Time

would lose their connection to astatus symbol that had become integral to their socialexistence.
And they might have to start leaving partiesbefore midnight.
The host had installed new chandeliers,Marisa noticed, since she’d last been here, perhaps six months ago.Six electric candles and twenty crystal teardrop pendants.Twenty-one if you counted the central ball which hung a couple ofinches below the rest. It lit the moulded plaster ceilingbeautifully, with soft roses intertwined and reflected across theroom. The same old painting hung from the back wall; a mass ofcoloured flecks from orange and brown rising upwards to merge withblues and greys and eventually ending in white. Marisa could neverquite decide whether it was actually the work of a famous artist orsimply a framed version of something one of their kids had broughthome from kindergarten.
Eventually the host started to tap herguests on the shoulder, one by one, and murmured their approval forthem to approach the marble table and select their products. In lowvoices they asked Marisa the same questions they’d asked last timeand she gave them the same answers. It was a ritual to fill theirdays, this hushed presenting and purchasing. In truth, they couldhave placed their orders electronically and she would have leftthem at the door. But how else were idle, wealthy women to filltheir days?
“Do you ever sample the wares yourself?”asked one woman, a short, mousey thing, probably aroundtwenty-five, though it was hard to tell underneath all that make-upand plastic surgery.
Marisa shook her head slightly. “No.”
The woman wrinkled her nose, offended tofeel she’d been rebuffed in a moment of attempted comradery.
“Well. Perhaps you should,” she saidtersely. “You look like you could do with a little more sleep.” Sheordered two purple boxes. Marisa held up the invoice on herscreen—donation to the Minor Miracles Foundation. The woman noddedand hovered her screen close to Marisa’s until it buzzed.
“May your time be plentiful,” she said,bowing almost imperceptibly. It was a phrase and gesture she’dadded to the ritual early on.
It worked. The woman’s icy demeanour melted,and she bobbed a little in return, then giggled and turned away tore-join her coterie. Marisa struggled to avoid an eye roll,blinking slowly instead. When she opened her eyes again, she wasconfronted by a sharp-faced woman wearing a long, scarlet dusterjacket. Marisa frowned slightly. She didn’t remember seeing thisparticular customer before. The woman pointed to the jadeboxes.
“Three of them,’’ she ordered.
Marisa bit her tongue and bent down to pickand pack the stock. She felt, rather than saw, the woman attempt topeer over the table at her.
“How do they work, anyway?”
“I’m afraid I can’t divulge that, ma’am,”said Marisa, staring off towards a side window as she held out thebag in one hand and her screen in the other.
The woman hesitated. “I don’t particularlyfancy putting anything in my body when I don’t know what it’lldo.”
“It’s very complicated technology, but it’sperfectly safe. I’m sure your friends would tell you, if you careto ask them.’’
“As it happens, I have a PhD in complicatedtechnology. Maybe you could give me a basic rundown? Will itinterfere with my Time Chip, for starters?”
Marisa regarded her directly. The woman’seyes were almost the same jade as the time tab boxes, maybe a shadeor two further towards blue.
“They speed up your bodily functions,including your brain’s perception of time. You’ll feel normal, buteverything around you will appear as though it’s in slow motion.Anyone watching you will see mostly just a blur. It’s why werecommend you partake of your time tabs in a secluded, securearea.”
The woman narrowed her eyes. “But it won’tdeduct extra time from my Time Chip?”
Marisa shook her head slightly. “No, you’llmove through time itself at the same pace.”
The woman tapped Marisa’s screen with herown and took the bag.
“I had to be sure. Marguerite over there wastrying to tell me that they slow down time. They thought maybe itput you in a bubble.”
It was Marisa’s turn to peer around thestranger at the gaggle of women behind her.
“Yes. They don’t have PhDs in complicatedtechnology though, do they?” she murmured.
The woman snorted, gave her a half-smile,and stalked away.
Half an hour later Marisa had packed up herwares, walked briskly down the terraced front stairs, and sank intothe front seat of her car. She deposited her briefcase onto thefloor of the passenger side. Then she called Varya.
“All done. Made enough to keep the CureFactory running for another couple of months. Tomorrow morning I’mgoing to the shelter to hand out a few tabs to cleanse mypsyche.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
Marisa noticed that Varya didn’t laugh, asshe usually did at this point in their monthly soirée ritual.
Marisa’s finger wavered over the ‘call end’icon. “How’re you travelling?”
Silence.
“Need me to do anything to prepare forDaniel?”
“No, thanks,” said Varya. “It’s undercontrol. Just waiting now.”

Chapter twenty-three
Varya
Time seemed to slow exponentially as Varya paced backand forth in Zoe’s apartment. Her friend sat and sobbed while theyboth waited.
It took thirty-six hours for Daniel toreappear. They spent the first hour waiting for the police toarrive. The second and third hours consisted of answering thedetective’s questions. Yes, he went to school this morning. No,they hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary. No, there hadbeen no troubles at home. Yes, he was in good health and of soundmind.
Then came thirty-three hours of trying notto check the news media, pretending there weren’t journalistswaiting outside the apartment block, preparing food only to pick atit rather than eat it. Thirty-three hours of waiting for the policeto call. Thirty-three hours of waiting for Daniel to come home, totell them he’d just gone to a friend’s house and forgotten to tellthem.
During those long hours, Varya and Zoe madeplans. Zoe called her most trusted colleagues at the hospital andasked for their cooperation and silence. Varya ensured ongoingaccess to discreet transport for Daniel between Zoe’s home, thehospital, and her own apartment.
Daniel knocked on the door of his home atfive minutes past four o’clock in the morning. The street wasquiet, the journalists had gone home or were sleeping in their carson the street.
Varya shook Zoe awake when she saw his faceon the building’s front door monitor. She opened the apartment doorbefore he could knock and stepped aside