"Wise move," Mazzare said.
"Friedrich," Nickel said, "would you be willing to be my secretary for a while this evening? And Meester van Donck as well?"
"Of course, Father," Spee quickly agreed. Van Donck nodded his agreement as well.
"Then, with Your Eminence's permission, might we use this room as our offices for the evening?"
"Yes, of course," Mazzare said. "I will send somebody with refreshments while you work. And now, if you will forgive me, I must see the prime minister." Mazzare swept out of the room.
Friedrich marveled at how different his friend from Grantville had become. Well, not different, exactly, he mused, but the cardinal's hat sat well on him.
Nickel's cough brought him out of his reverie. "So Friedrich, we need to write to Baving, and to the other senior members of the order, and tell them that it is the father general's orders that the Society of Jesus will support the properly elected pope, and that is Pope Urban VIII. You know what to say. Van Donck, come with me, I have other writing for you to do." Nickel moved down the table a ways.
Spee pulled out a piece of paper, and got one of the new metal pens from the inkstand. As always, he began his first letter the same way.
"A. M. D. G," he wrote.
Ad Maiorem Dei Gloriam—to the greater glory of God . . .
"Friedrich Spee von Langenfeld, priest of the Society of Jesus, this seventh day of August, in the year of our Lord 1635 . . ." he wrote.
Suddenly, he felt a chill. August the seventh, 1635. His mind raced back to his first morning in Grantville, over three years ago, now. He remembered standing in the kitchen of Larry Mazzare's rectory, with the Catholic Encyclopedia in his hands. Standing, trembling, almost unable to read the words on the pages open before him. After three years, he found he could recite them verbatim. "A poet, opponent of trials for witchcraft, born at Kaiserswerth on the Rhine, 25 February, 1591; died at Trier 7 August, 1635."
He could not believe he had forgotten. His pen dropped to the table.
"What is wrong, Friedrich?" Father Nickel asked, hurrying back up the table.
"Ah . . . nothing, really, Father," Friedrich gave a huge sigh. "Just a personal realization."
"And what was it?" Nickel pressed.
"In the original time line, before Grantville came to us," Spee said heavily, and then paused. "In the original time line, today I would have died in Trier of some plague contracted from nursing soldiers in the hospital. I had forgotten the date."
"Ah," the provincial said. "It must be a shock. To know what might have been."
"I am sure you know about yourself, too, Father," Spee said, looking Nickel in the eyes.
"Yes, and I sincerely hope that I do not become general of the society twenty years before I did, eh, before I would have . . . ach, there are not the right tenses to discuss this time travel!" Nickel grimaced.
"Friedrich," he said, gently, "this is why I believe that we are not inspired by the devil, no matter what Borja and Baving and del Rio would like the world to believe. Because Grantville exists, Trier has not been overrun, and one of our great hymnists can still write to the greater glory of God. And you were spared yet again, in the cathedral this morning. Now write, for we have an important task, and you have been spared by God to do it."
Friedrich Spee von Langenfeld walked back from the cathedral after the Sunday mass where he had conducted the premiere of his new music. He had noticed that there were many smiling faces, and he'd noticed that the cardinal's foot was tapping in time to the music during the performance.
Spee started whistling as he walked down the heavily graveled street to his lodgings. American music certainly was strange. He'd had the cardinal explain the lyrics of many songs to him, but he still was puzzled, especially by one song in particular. It was beginning to drive him crazy, because the melody was so hard to get out of his head. Like right now, for instance.
He found himself whistling the chorus over and over. "Singin' this'll be the day that I die."
Command Performance
David Carrico
Magdeburg
Friday, October 14, 1633
Franz knocked on the door, and waited impatiently for someone to answer. Marla made a slight grunt, and her hold on his arm became a fierce clutch. He leaned over to her bowed head, and said, "But a moment more, and you will be out of the rain and able to sit." She nodded her head slightly, and he straightened.
At that moment, the door opened and a young woman looked out at them. "Yes?" she said in accented English.