Hidden beneath our masks, we pass by groups of people who seem to be playing games and performing plays. I watch as a woman in a beaked mask waves her arms, causing children to scatter. Completely absorbed in the pantomimes around me, though I don’t understand the Venetian dialect, I jump at being tapped on the shoulder.
I turn around, expecting to find Mother or Father with a signal that it’s time to return to the yacht-gondola. My breath escapes me.
Looking down at me is a person wearing dark pants and a cloak similar to the one worn by the mask vendor. He pulls back his hood. Beneath a crown of curls, a wooden mask covers the area from his brows to his chin. His mask is plain and simple and looks much less expensive than mine. I wonder whether that’s why I’m so intrigued by this character—why I want so badly for him to remove the mask and reveal his face to me.
“Ciao, Siora!” The stranger’s voice is deep, yet more like a boy’s than a man’s. Not knowing for sure is eerie, as is being addressed by someone and not being able to see his lips move.
“Hello,” I say, grateful that my mask hides signs of fear and embarrassment—at least those that show on my face. I imagine how useful it could be in other situations.
He bows and swishes his cloak. “Welcome, Siora, to the Carnival of Venice.”
“That’s kind of you to welcome me and to use the English language. And who might you be?” His pause prompts me to rephrase. “My name’s Shirlyn. What’s your name, or rather what are you called?” I say, trying to remember the sentence structure of romance languages.
“I am Romaso. A gondolier.”
I dodge a beaked nose that turns in our direction. “How wonderful!” Father’s voice resonates through his mask. “Was your father a gondolier as well?”
Romaso dips his head, as if Father’s question shames him. “I have not met my father or mother.”
“Then how did you become a gondolier?” says Father, seemingly oblivious to the boy’s pain. “It is my understanding that the trade passed on from father to son.”
Straightening his shoulders, Romaso lifts his head again. “My friends, who I call my brothers, are the gondoliers who raised me. They tell me that my father was a good friend of a gondolier who had no children. He gave his trade to me.”
“Well then, it sounds like you’ve made excellent connections despite your loss. That’s quite a fortunate and unusual circumstance.”
“Father,” I whisper, “no more, please. Can’t you see you’re embarrassing him? This silhouette from the past must have feelings, just like any person living in our present.”
Father clasps his hands behind him. “I mean no harm, dear. Or do you mean to say I’m embarrassing you by embarrassing this young man?”
I puff air from my cheeks. My nose tingles underneath my mask as I search for an appropriate response. I search the square for ideas to help me change the subject. “Do you like paintings?” I say, directing the question to Romaso.
“Yes.” The way he answers leads me to imagine a smile underneath his mask, which makes me want to see his face that much more.
“Would you like to look at the paintings with me?” There are more than a couple of vendors in the square with paintings on display. I don’t know whether they’re the artists who created them, but I figure Father wouldn’t mind it if I found an original painting from Venice to bring home for the family collection.
“Yes, Siora, I would like that.”
“Do you mind, Father?” I say.
Father tilts his head. Through the holes in his mask, his eyes dart back and forth between Romaso and me. “Yes, but don’t be gone long.” He removes a handful of coins from his bag and tucks them in my hands. He lowers his voice. “Stay within sight of either me or your mother so we can let you know when it’s time to leave. Remember how frightening it was when our camel ran away and we thought we might be stranded in Ancient Persia?”
My hand absently grips my locket. “Of course, I do.” How could I forget Balthazar and his gift to me? After Twelfth Night, the day that traditionally celebrates the magi’s visit to the child, we wrapped the star in tissue paper and stored it along with the other Christmas decorations. At the time, the gift held so many memories for me that I could no longer stand to look at it.
As we walk away, I tell Romaso about my travels to the other city-states, everything except for the time-travel part. We stop at the first stall we see with paintings. He points out a still life of fruits entwined with flowers. “So beautiful,” he says.
“It is.” I smile. “What do you think of this one?”
He looks down at my fingertips as I trace along the edge of a canvas. The artist has painted daylilies scattered across a golden plate. “I have not seen flowers like this in Venice,” he says.
“I’m not surprised.” I laugh. “Daylilies come from another part of the word, from countries in Asia. This artist must have been inspired while traveling.”
“Daylilies,” he says, testing out the word. “They are beautiful.”
“I think so too.” He’s not much taller than me, but I need to lift my chin to meet his eyes. “Aren’t you curious what I look like without my mask?”
He tilts his head back and laughs. The sound of it is richer than chocolate and almost musical. “Eyes do not hide, Siora. Yours are soft like cinnamon.” He frowns. “What is wrong?”
I say nothing, wondering what I’d said with my eyes to give him that impression. Had he sensed my disappointment that he didn’t want to see me? Or that he didn’t offer to show his face to me? Stalling, I look around the square to find Mother and Father in their 1930s clothing and Venetian masks looking around for me. I wave to Mother to let her know we’re doing all right. She points in the direction of the yacht-gondola, needlessly reminding me that we’ll be leaving soon and that I am running out of time.
Clearing my throat, I turn back to Romaso. “Will you show me your face?”
He removes his mask to reveal a round face of olive complexion. I see his brown eyes more clearly now; they’re dark with liquid centers. The lips I imagined smiling behind the mask earlier are curved in an impish grin. Now able match a face to his voice and accent, I’m more charmed than before. Standing there, soaking in his features, I already feel loss.
“Your eyes, Siora. Again they tell me something is wrong. How may I help?” His brow is creased and his lips now curve in the opposite direction.
I untie my mask. “I know I’ve just met you, but I will miss you,” I say. “My family and I will be leaving today, well before nighttime.”
“You are going?”
“Yes. Home to England.”
His lips pinch into a deeper frown. “Wait,” he says, holding up his hands. “Before you go...”
I stand speechless as he leaves me standing at the stall and stalks off. He stops at a booth halfway across the square. The vendor at the stall turns to me. I can’t tell what he means by it given that his face is masked. Perhaps he wants me to move on since I haven’t bought anything. He’s been so quiet the entire time that I wonder how much he overhead of the conversation between Romaso and me and how much of it he understood.
When Romaso returns, he’s breathless. “Your family,” he says. “I saw them—in their strange costumes—looking for you. They will leave soon.”
“I know.” I swallow a lump in my throat.
“Before you go,” he says. “I have a gift for you—my Shirlyn.” His term of endearment makes my heart beat faster. “My friend gave this to me to give to you.”
Romaso hands me a journal bound in red leather. I flip through its pages of thick parchment before closing it again to read the words etched on the front cover. “What does this say?”
“Se vedemo.”
“You did this?”
“My friend let me carve it and also the flowers.”
I smooth my fingers across etchings of daylilies that surround his words. Se vedemo. “What does it mean? Is this how you say good-bye?”
Romaso presses out his lower lip. His eyes are focused as if he’s searching for the right words to help me understand. “Se vedemo is not a good-bye. It is a way of saying ‘we see each other again.’”
Tears swell the insides of my eyes. “Thank you. I adore it, Romaso.” I stare at his gift, knowing we’ll never see each other again. Our lives will be kept apart in separate times and places. My short time spent in Venice is better than any birthday gift I could have imagined. “I can’t wait to write about all the places I’ve visited. I promise to write in it each week, as if I am writing a letter to you.”
His smile sets my heart ablaze. But something feels wrong. A feeling of déjà vu passes through me and chills my blood. I’ve been in this situation before. His gift reminds me of Balthazar and the star.
I clench my fists at the ridiculousness of the TSTA’s rules against leaving Daily Reminders in others’ pasts. Why should the time travel agency have any control over me? It’s not fair for me not to give him a gift in return. From my clutch, I remove a freshly sharpened pencil in order to finish something I started months ago.
My lips pull up at the corners, into something I hope is the sweet smile intended for Romaso rather than the sneer I feel toward the TSTA. With pencil in hand, I unclasp the chain to my locket and pop open the front panel. I look at myself looking back at me for a brief moment before sliding the portrait out of its frame to write the three letters that didn’t get written last time.
—lyn
After sliding the portrait back inside its frame, I hold the locket out to Romaso. “I want to give you a gift too.”
When I place the locket in his hands, he smiles at my picture. “Shirlyn,” he says, reading my signature, though his pronunciation makes it sound more like Sheer-lean.
I plant a kiss on his dimpled cheek. “Keep my locket with you for always, and never forget me.”
Romaso’s cheeks flush. He averts his eyes from mine, clasping the chain around his neck. He looks at my photograph inside the locket one more time before slipping it underneath his shirt. Hesitantly, he reaches out to touch my cheek, but instead, his fingers trace along the freckles on my nose. His lips form that impish grin again before he presses them to my right cheek and then to my left. “Se vedemo, Shirlyn.”
“Se vedemo.” I look up to see Mother and Father walking toward us. “I must go,” I say, retying my mask.
“There you are,” says Father. “Thank you for keeping Shirlyn company, Romaso. I’m sad to leave such a lovely place so soon, but for now I’m afraid we must say good-bye.”
Romaso dips his head and smiles.
Wrapping his arm around Mother, Father turns to me. “I would say our timing today has been excellent. Are you ready to return home, dear?”
“Yes.” I look up at Romaso’s beautiful face, knowing that my locket is nestled against his chest—near his heart where it will remain with him for always. “I’m ready,” I say. Unlike Balthazar, I have no way of predicting the future. But I am certain that I’ll never be forgotten again.
About the Author
Chess Desalls is the author of the YA time travel series, The Call to Search Everywhen. She’s a longtime reader of fantasy and sci-fi novels, particularly classics and young adult fiction. Her nonfiction writing has led to academic and industry publications. She’s also a contributing editor for her local writing club’s monthly newsletter. The California Writers Club, South Bay branch, has awarded two of Chess’ stories first place for best short fiction. When she’s not reading or writing, she enjoys traveling and trying to stay in tune on her flute.
For more information about upcoming books, please visit Chess’ website at www.chessdesalls.com. You can also connect with her through Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, Pinterest, Instagram, and her blog.
Want to Read More by Chess Desalls?
The following books are available in e-book, audiobook, and print editions. Find copies on Amazon, iTunes, Barnes & Noble, and Audible. You may also ask your local bookstore or library to place an order.
Travel Glasses (The Call to Search Everywhen, #1), a YA time travel science-fiction fantasy
Valcas uses an altered pair of sunglasses to help Calla escape to a different place and time. He offers his further protection in exchange for a promise. Intrigued by Valcas and the possibility of time travel, Calla accepts. That is until she learns that his search for her was no mere coincidence. Calla sets off on her own, taking the Travel Glasses with her. Torn between searching for her estranged father and reuniting with the rest of her family, she tracks down the inventor of the Travel Glasses in hopes of discovering more about Valcas’ past and motivations. With Valcas hot on her trail, Calla hopes to find what she’s looking for before he catches up. The Call to Search Everywhen is a serial series of novel-length installments. Travel Glasses is YA fantasy filled with metafiction and other literary twistiness. It’s a thought-provoking narrative about trust, relationships, reality, and illusion.
Insight Kindling (The Call to Search Everywhen, #2), a YA time travel science-fiction fantasy
Calla faces charges against her for changing the past. Her use of the Travel Glasses resulted in the creation of two writings that affected the lives of Edgar, the inventor of the Travel Glasses, and Valcas, their prior owner. Now Calla must explain her actions before the Time and Space Travel Agency. The hearing does not end well. The travel commissioner finds Calla guilty as charged and forces her to choose between two harsh penalties. Despite the risk of becoming lost herself, Calla accepts a dangerous travel mission that may help her find her father. She teams up with a group of talented travelers. While working with them, she soon discovers that she has a special travel talent of her own. Pursued by the sentient being of white light that’s been tracking her father’s bloodline, Calla fears her newfound talents may not be enough to protect her and her teammates before they complete their mission.
Turn the page to sample the first chapter of Travel Glasses.
TRAVEL GLASSES
The Call to Search Everywhen, Book One
1: The First Fall
THE DAY I met Valcas began within the confines of the grounds surrounding my family’s lakeside cottage. Wild grasses crunched beneath my feet as I stomped through overgrown cattails and dodged piles of musty fallen leaves. The air was clean and brisk, thanks to the cloudless sky and the freshwater Lake Winston. It smelled of autumn, and that nearly made me gag.
I swallowed back the sick feeling by pumping my legs harder. Mom had been away for so long that Uncle Al was on my case again about making friends. An online friend would have been enough to make him happy, but I’d abandoned the last of those when I became anti-tech. My offline friends knew me as Calla. The biggest losers I knew called me Cow-la. And so I ran.
Running gave me plenty of time to brood, something I’d mastered during my seventeen years of life. Just like the seasons, my reasons for brooding seemed to grow and change with me. The one topic that never grew old was my father, Basileios Plaka. His name was serious and unusual, much like my real name, Calidora. I had so many questions about him.
Mom avoided the Dad topic by working herself to death. Uncle Al told me that I looked like my father except that I’d inherited my oversized dark eyes and pale skin from Mom. My father and I shared the same brown-black curls, round cheekbones, sharp chin and small build. It was no wonder that I often felt as if Mom couldn’t bear to look at me, and that was unfair because I knew that I had nothing to do with her meeting my father, getting pregnant and having me.
A run around the lake usually softened the bladed edges of the painful longings that I carried with me and made them more bearable. But, today, there was something about the crisp air and decaying leaves that choked me each time I inhaled.
“Back to school time,” I huffed, reminding myself. Tourist season had ended weeks ago, leaving the lake empty and quiet.
With the backs of my sleeves I wiped away sweat beads slipping down my forehead and across my brow. I sto
pped in front of the dock, a weathered brown-gray structure in need of repair and several coats of paint. Rows of sun-scorched irises lay trampled nearby. I wrinkled my nose. Interning at the lake made it my job to dig these out before landscaping the rocky area that would become the new picnic grounds.
As my breathing slowed, I pictured wooden picnic tables encircling a brightly colored jungle gym swarming with children. Teens would ditch their younger brothers and sisters to hang out with their new best friends, all while I watched from afar. At least that wouldn’t happen until the spring, after I started my first semester of college. By then I hoped to have piles of homework so I could stay inside.
I turned away from the dock and bent down to stretch my legs. Tension melted out of both hamstrings and then dashed back in again, in knifelike spasms, as something slammed into me from my right. The blow chilled me more than the time I’d fallen into the lake through a weak patch of ice. My legs flew up from underneath me as that something lifted me up and then dragged me across the ground. I landed on my left shoulder, five feet from where I’d been stretching.
More stunned than injured, I sat up. My clothes were streaked with dirt and grass stains, but I was not bleeding. I hadn’t seen the ground, the trees or the sky during the impact. All I remembered was a bright white flash of light as sharp as the blow that I felt. I sat there dumbfounded until I heard approaching footsteps behind me, from the direction of the dock.
“Here, let me help you,” a smooth voice whispered as a young man offered his hand. “Quickly, now.”
My brain groggily put the voice together with the hand I held. I looked back at the dock. A yellow and black Jet Ski sat in the lake that was empty just moments ago. I pulled my hand away.
Wrapped in the Past Page 6
