The yacht-camel’s large eyes are closed. It looks so peaceful with its head resting on top of the sand.
Father’s feet barely touch the ground before he leaps to the yacht-camel to inspect it. He pats it all over until the animal’s eyes flicker open. After a series of adorable yawns, the yacht-camel looks around and blinks. Dust falls from its long lashes. The poor creature looks bewildered.
“How did it end up here—asleep under the sand?” I say. “I’ve never heard of camels burrowing like scorpions.”
“They don’t.” Father rubs his chin. “From a more technical standpoint—and physical appearances aside—I suspect that since the animal’s still a TSTA vehicle, it sensed something was amiss and self-directed to a safe, hidden place.”
Father mounts the yacht-camel, which I assume means it’s time to go home. Just now I realize how much larger it is than the magi’s camels. When Mother moves to join him, Caspar gargles words in our direction.
“Well, isn’t that nice?” says Father. “He’s inviting us to rest with them. It seems this side-adventure has worn him out.”
Mother sighs. “I could use a rest too. Edgar, please tell them that we accept their invitation, but that we must be leaving shortly afterward. I’m not sure what else you expect to find here.”
Father’s shoulders droop as he translates Mother’s message. He turns to us. “At least I’ll have more time to speak with the men before we go.”
The magi pull blankets from their camels and spread them on the ground. Remembering the stench of camel versus the pleasant scent of myrrh, I already know where I want to sit. Gingerly, while looking up at the sky, I step toward Balthazar’s blanket, taking care to brush off my stockings before sitting down. His bright smile confirms that he’s pleased with the seating arrangement.
Mother and Father sit close together with the older magi, all of whom appear to be in a lively discussion except for Mother who seems to endure the barrage of unfamiliar sounds while patiently waiting for Father to fill her in with bits of translation.
Moments later, we’re passing around figs, canteens, and loaves of flatbread. I’m certain Father didn’t pack them, so I can only imagine we’re sharing food the magi took along with them on their journey to Judea. Everything tastes dry, including the water, and I start to miss home—especially the Christmas feast we would have had with succulent poultry and gravy, pudding and pie.
I reach underneath my robe and inside my skirt pocket where I find my orange. I pull it out to peel it and divide it into sections.
Balthazar watches me. His lips are pulled into a smile that makes my fingers less adept at orange peeling and more prone to shaking.
“Half of this is yours,” I say, holding out part of an orange.
His smile widens as he accepts my gift and takes a bite. A bead of juice escapes from the fruit and trails along his lips. I find myself unable to breathe until he wipes the distraction away.
We continue nibbling at orange sections as we gaze up at the sky, which seems neither light nor dark under the brilliance of the Christmas star. I squint, trying to find a sun or another star around it. But the Christmas star eclipses everything.
Chapter 9
I turn to Balthazar, wishing there was some way to figure out what he’s thinking. I want to know more about what it’s like to be a mage, and, as silly is it may sound, I want to tell him what the holidays are like back home—what it’s like to ice skate and make angels in the snow.
I consider drawing pictures in the dirt and sand, but Father’s warning about leaving a Daily Reminder in the past resonates inside my head, making me hesitate. Perhaps my picture would leave in imprint in the past and change it in a way that would affect the future. This, of course, doesn’t worry me nearly as much as being punished by the TSTA.
Sighing, I search my robes for my velvet clutch purse. I pull free the pins I’d used to attach the handle to my skirt pocket so I wouldn’t have to carry it.
Balthazar watches me with interest as I open the clasp and flip through the clutch’s contents. Slipped between several pound notes, I find a holiday card that my dear friend, Frances, gave me before classes ended for the Christmas holiday. Bright red houses with roofs covered in snow sit below a sky of falling snowflakes. The windows of the houses are golden and warm. Puffs of smoke float from chimneys.
Smiling, I hand the card to Balthazar, eager to see what his reaction will be. He runs his fingers over the card as he studies it. The skin of his hands is dark and smooth, like the planes of his face, which now holds a curious expression. Instead of looking awed or confused at my holiday card from the future, he looks thoughtful. His eyes twinkle as he hands it back.
This was not the reaction I expected. I force a grin to hide the disappointment bubbling up inside me. After witnessing his ability to manipulate the sand and predict the location of errant creatures, I’d wanted to impress him too. I don’t have a pair of eyeglasses like Father to mesmerize the mage or any fancy instruments to trade.
Balthazar squeezes my hand as if he senses what I’m feeling. My eyes open in wonder at his attempt to comfort me. With his hand still covering mine, he raises his opposite palm toward the desert. Sand and dust lift from the ground, hovering in the air until the cloud that forms is much larger than what covered the yacht-camel. Slowly, he turns his palm to face the sky and pulls back his fingers as if inviting the cloud to join us on our blanket.
I gasp when the cloud responds by moving toward us, not wanting to end up covered like the yacht-camel had been. Balthazar tightens his grip on my hand as I move to bolt from the blanket. He shakes his head, the way he did when I wanted to jump from the camel. He’d proven himself trustworthy by warning me about the scorpions, and possibly also snakes which, fortunately, we hadn’t stayed around long enough to discover.
My body goes rigid at the thought of them. I hold my breath as the cloud settles above us.
“Balthazar.” There’s no mistaking Caspar’s gruff voice, tinged with alarm. He garbles additional words that I don’t understand.
I look back at the adults whose attention drifts back and forth between us and the cloud.
Balthazar says something with a frown. His voice is a deep rumble, and his eyes are sad.
“What’s he saying, Father?”
“Caspar fears the dust cloud Balthazar has created is putting you in danger.” Father’s voice is calm, as if he doesn’t share Caspar’s concern. “The young mage, however, says that he’s surprised any of us would think him devious enough to harm such a...” Father’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows before answering. “Beautiful girl.”
My cheeks redden at the compliment.
“Do you know what he’s doing, Shirlyn?” Mother sits prettily on the blanket next to Father. Her voice is calm, but also tight. She presses her fingertips to the crease in her forehead.
“No,” I admit, shrinking from the cloud above us that swirls and widens. “But he protected me from the scorpions and he found our yacht-camel. I don’t see any reason not to trust him.”
Mother and Father exchange a glance. Then, both of their mouths drop open.
I follow their gaze back up to the cloud as it begins to break apart and disintegrate. Grains of sand and dust stick together, forming soft shapes. Some are roundish blobs, the way the snow looked on the holiday card I showed Balthazar. Others look more like stars. I blink as the stars sprout branches and turn into crystalline structures, each with six points.
“They’re snowflakes,” I breathe. Every one of them is an individual work of art.
Balthazar smiles at me as he stretches out his fingers. When he waves at the shapes, they start to fall, softly and lightly like the heavens opened up a bag of down feathers. Shimmering under the light of the Christmas star, the snowflakes change color from tan to white. I hold out a palm to catch them, shivering slightly when I realize they are cold. I watch, speechless, as the flakes melt to water droplets on my skin, just like real snow.
/> “Isn’t that wonderful?” says Father. “I’ll bet the other magi are surprised to discover that they have an elemental mage among them.”
“An elemental mage?”
“He manipulates earth, as we’ve now seen more than once. What I find extraordinary is his ability to change earth to ice. I would have expected a water elementalist to freeze water droplets into snowflakes. But this—it surpasses my comprehension.”
“Father, what do you know of this? I thought you were convinced that there is no magic that can’t be explained through science.”
“I’m not disputing that now, Shirlyn. Perhaps this mage’s abilities are rooted in science. I’m sure there’s a connection somewhere. Just like the magi’s prediction for the Christmas star, time travel through the Everywhere and Everywhen, and our ability to interact with silhouettes.” He looks up at the falling snow. “All of it has a sense of magic, whatever the source.”
Chapter 10
I fidget next to Balthazar as the last of the snowflakes melt away. I want to write my name on the holiday card and give it to him. I want him to remember his time with me and the falling snow under the Christmas star.
The adults are huddled together again. We will be leaving soon, and I fear I’ll miss my chance. I feel the outline of a pencil through the velvety fabric of my clutch. I drum the clutch with my fingers, uncertain about what I know I want to do. The threat of the TSTA looms over me. I would disappoint my parents, all for the attention of a boy from the past who I would never see again.
Sighing, I slip the clutch back inside my robe and re-pin the handle. My hand moves to my heart where my locket lies heavily against my chest.
“Balthazar,” I say, trying to pronounce his name the way Melchior does.
He turns to me. His eyes glow as if I’d paid him a meaningful compliment. Carefully, I pull the locket through the collar of my robe. I hold it out to him without removing it from my neck. His eyes linger on the silver object for a long moment before he reaches out to touch it. The fringe of his head wrappings brush my forehead as he inspects it further. His fingers find the knob at the side of the locket. He presses it, causing the front to open.
I hold my breath, not just at his closeness but in anticipation of his reaction once he sees my portrait inside.
His gaze shifts from the locket up to my eyes. Heat blotches my cheeks as he trails a finger across the chain to where the clasp rests at the base of my neck. I gasp at the sensation of tingles forming a path along my spine.
Balthazar pulls back immediately, as if the chain had caught fire. He averts his eyes, appearing troubled as if he’d hurt me.
“I’m fine,” I say. After taking a breath to regather my senses, I remove the locket from my neck. It’s a precious gift, but I want him to remember me. I pull the photograph free from the back frame. My heartbeat pounds against my eardrums as I consider signing my name underneath my portrait.
Balthazar regards me as I fumble for the pencil inside my clutch. His eyes are alight with curiosity, and so dark that I can see the shape of the Christmas star flashing inside them.
“My name is—” I point to the portrait and then to myself. “Shirlyn.”
He responds by repeating my name in a way that’s both touching and thrilling. I nod nervously as I being to write my name on the photograph.
Shir—
A hand falls down firmly on mine, blocking me from finishing my signature. “Shirlyn, stop! Goodness.” Mother hovers above me, holding a box of dried fruit. I hadn’t heard her sneak up on us. “Edgar, we must leave. Immediately.”
“What’s the matter, dear?”
Mother’s eyes flash. “I thought I’d see whether Shirlyn would like anything more to eat, only to find that she almost left a Daily Reminder in the past with this— This—” Her lips pucker. “Silhouette.” She says the last word as if she intends to shatter my dreams, which in a way she does.
A whirlwind of activity ensues. Words are exchanged with the magi. I feel myself being pulled away. The locket dangles from its chain, which I hold in my hand. My portrait is once again nestled inside the frame, and the pencil is gone.
“Father, I didn’t mean—I only wanted—” I press my lips together and bite my tongue. Because I did mean to leave a written memory of me in Balthazar’s past in violation of TSTA rules. I snap the locket shut. Mother and Father saved me from the time travel agency’s punishment.
I choke back tears while trying not to breathe in the stench of the yacht-camel.
Below us, still on the desert floor, Balthazar appears to be suffering a reprimand of his own, given by the elder magi. I frown from the injustice of it all. He did nothing wrong. My only comfort also pains me: he’ll forget all about the reprimand when he wakes tomorrow. It will be as if he never met me. His life would go on, as it had in history, because it already happened and I was not part of his past.
Sulking, I pull down the visor of my helmet, certain that I’ll never see Balthazar again. I hope that memories of him won’t trouble me for a long time afterward.
Through the visor, I look up at the Christmas star. Its brilliance enlivens my spirit. This, I want to remember for always. “It really is beautiful,” I say.
Mother closes her arms around me. “Yes, and well worth the visit,” she says, her voice soft again.
“I hope it was, given all the trouble we nearly caused.” Father sighs as he shakes his head. “Most TSTA infractions lead to convictions, Shirlyn. The fines and penalties are harsh. Those who can’t pay are jailed and kept far from their families. It was fortunate that your mother was able to stop you in time.”
I keep my chin raised toward the star, trying not to look over at Balthazar as Father prepares the yacht-camel for our journey home. The mage’s smile would only make things worse, even though he’s done nothing to deserve an unfriendly good-bye. I close my eyes tightly, fearing that I may give in at the last moment, perhaps to do something stupid, such as toss my locket to him once the yacht-camel is in motion. Maybe half of my signature will be enough of a Daily Reminder for him to remember me.
Despite my better judgment, I glance over at where the magi continue their heated discussion. Balthazar stands, frowning with his fists resting at his hips. He looks so upset that in a moment of reflex I lift my visor and wave to him.
His expression softens. “Shirlyn,” he calls out.
Instead of waving back, he stalks off to his camel, pulls a cloth from its trappings, and then drapes it across his arm. When he returns, he bends to the ground and scoops up dirt with both hands. After taking a couple of steps backward, he tosses the dirt into the air. Keeping his palms facing upward, he raises his arms, and the dirt that hovers above his hands moves up toward the Christmas star.
The sand glimmers and glows underneath the star’s light. This time, the sand presses together into a single object that warms the air with fiery oranges and reds. I squint, unable to see what form the sand is taking this time. It’s neither shield nor snowflake, and it is much smaller than any of the dust clouds Balthazar manipulated before.
Balthazar lowers his right hand until the object centers over his left. Then, smiling, he places his right hand in front of the object, shielding it from my view.
“Can you see what he’s making?” I manage before Mother shushes me.
Balthazar turns, keeping the object hidden, and pulls the cloth from his arm. When he turns back around, a flash of gold disappears beneath the cloth, which he folds into a small package.
He reaches up and hands the cloth-covered mystery to me.
“Thank you,” I breathe, stunned.
When I pull at the corner of the cloth, Balthazar shakes his head. He points to the star and then to the package.
“I don’t understand,” I say.
He places the gift in my hands and presses them closed. His hands surround mine. After he releases his grasp, I continue to hold on to it, tightly, along with the locket, my previous intentions forgotten.
He urges the camel forward. As the animal picks up speed, the sky and everything underneath it glows bright white. It’s as if the beam from the Christmas star has expanded and invited us inside. It’s so beautiful, so dazzling, that we jolt to a stop before I have a chance to close my eyes.
Chapter 11
Twentieth-Century England
White light fades. Its brightness and warmth are gone. The world spins before me, feeling as if something is missing. My thoughts turn to the Christmas star that no longer burns above us.
“Is that it? Are we home?”
“Yes, dear,” Mother’s voice rings out from somewhere to my left.
“Stay low,” Father says. “Prepare for the impact of our arrival.”
I blink at our surroundings before curling into a ball on the ground. We’re back inside the wheelhouse, aboard the yacht instead of on top of a camel. My heart sinks. I can’t get the image of a sleeping yacht-camel out of my mind. I already miss Ancient Persia—everything and everyone—we left behind.
Floorboards creek as the bottom of the compartment shakes furiously and the wheel spins from side to side. I keep Balthazar’s gift and the locket pressed against me as we bob and bounce about. The cloth gives off scents of wood and spice. I breathe deeply and sigh. It’s as if Balthazar did everything within his power to make sure I would remember him.
***
I battle a spell of nausea during the drive home to the estate. I complain as little as possible about the cramping in my stomach. I want to keep my thoughts to myself should anyone tease me about being lovesick as opposed to seasick. Bouncing around in the yacht like that almost made me lose my figs and flatbread.
Mother hands me a ginger mint to help soothe my stomach. I pop the candy in my mouth; its spicy tingle burns my tongue.
Wrapped in the Past Page 4
