by Kristy Tate
“Come, Emory, be reasonable. Not every event is a ruse of heaven or hell. The longer you live, the more you will learn that to be true.”
Emory used an angry whisper. “You and I both know I do not live!”
“Hush, man.” Rohan looked right and left, clearly not wanting to be overheard. “Anne said the girl knew Geoffrey.”
“She lacks the look of a zealot.” Emory motioned toward the thing on the floor. “And by all saints, what is that?”
“Let’s see what it can do.” Rohan picked it up and lumbered toward a chair. Sitting, he set the thing in front of him.
Emory watched while Rohan pressed buttons and used the tones to create a song. After a few minutes of mastery, Rohan began to sing along with his tune.
“Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hill and valley, dale and field,
And all the craggy mountains yield.”
The lyrics made Emory uncomfortable, and he wondered if his friend had intentionally chosen the song. He sat beside Rohan and pulled the thing to him. He fiddled with the buttons until the device began to ring as if it possessed a hundred bells.
Rohan stopped singing and stared with an open mouth. “Zounds.”
***
Hours later, Petra woke. A cool breeze blew through the room carrying noise – crickets, a cow lowing, and a distant dog barking. She lay on her side, a scratchy wool blanket pulled to her shoulder and a feather pillow beneath her head.
Daft? Petra bit back a snort and fought the urge to spit out her SAT results. A flush of anger washed over her, but she held her tongue and body still.
How dare they look through her purse? How dare they drug her, study her, and discuss her as if she were an alien object, an insect on a pin, a brainless cockroach. She bet they didn’t know cockroaches were one of earth’s hardiest creatures, capable of surviving without food, water and even air for prolonged periods. And a dreamer or a time-traveler, even one caught in a nightmare, was much more clever and competent than a cockroach. A dreamer/time-traveler could accomplish anything, survive any physical hardship. Maybe.
Hoping she was alone, Petra opened her eyes and saw rough plastered walls, a three legged table beneath a window without glass, and the moon and stars.
We both know I do not live. What does that even mean? She didn’t know, she didn’t care, and she wasn’t going to stick around to find out. After listening for sounds of movement in the house, she crawled from the bed. Her arms and legs felt heavy, detached, as if they belonged to someone else, and she needed extra humph to make them move. Standing in the center of the room, she plotted her escape. The door didn’t have a knob, but a latch, a latch that would rattle if touched. She tried to think of where Anne and her father slept as the cottage appeared to have only two rooms.
This Anne, even though she looks like Robyn, is not your friend, she told herself as she listened at the door, trying to make sense out of the craziness. Would time continue in Royal Oaks while she was in Dorrington? Was her body here or there? Was she even really here?
And where was Zoe, what was happening at home? Had Zoe returned, reported her disappearance? Their parents would be furious about her abandoning Zoe at the fair, but at some point they would start to worry, right? Had that point arrived? They’d call Robyn, and her other friends.
They’d call the police.
She had to get home before she ended up on the eleven clock news.
Hearing nothing from the other side of the door, she padded to the window. The shutters had been left open, but beyond the cottage gate the world looked dark and frightening. Tall pines swayed in the wind and threw dancing shadows across the road.
The wind screeched through the gaps of the wooden walls of a shed, as if to say “one good huff and away you go.” A second structure on tall wooden legs stood beside the shed. Much too small and humble to be a barn, it had seed scattered outside the door. Chicken coop? She would have to walk past the roost, or coop, or whatever. Would chickens make noise? Did they sleep at night? Other than the KFC variety, Petra had never given chickens much thought.
There’s a fox in the hen house, Grammy Jean would say when they were playing cards if someone tried to be tricky. Petra’s grandmother, who spent all of her life in California, had once been on Hollywood’s silver screen. If Grammy had lived to be seventy-something without ever seeing a chicken coop how was it that Petra, at 17, was now wondering about disturbing a herd—or was it a flock? of sleeping chickens?
She thought again of the Girl Scout advice. When lost, stay put until someone finds you. Preferably someone without a sleeping potion. Okay, Girl Scout wisdom didn’t always apply. Petra drew a deep breath. She wouldn’t wait for the nightmare to end. She’d find her way home.
The wind teased at her hair and she remembered her tiara. Looking around, she spotted the faux diamonds sparkling on a bedside table. She scooped it up and pinned it on, thinking that if dollar bills hadn’t any value, glass stones the size of pennies might come in handy.
Across the road lay the inky, black woods. She’d never been outside where there hadn’t been a string of streetlights to dim the stars and moon. She thought of the crowded boardwalk that hugged Newport Beach, the lights over Royal’s tennis courts, the fireworks bursting over the Angel Stadium. She’d never walked alone at night before.
Petra swung up onto the window ledge. Shivering, she dropped back into the room, grabbed the wool blanket off the bed, wrapped it over her shoulders and then slid out the window into the dark.
Without her purse.
Petra stifled a curse. Not that anything in her purse had any value in this Renaissance world, at least nothing worth the risk of climbing back into the room. Petra brushed off her skirt and pulled the blanket over her head like a cloak. Trying to remember the way to town, she followed the dirt road down a steep hill that led to a fog bank.
The wind that had blown through the trees surrounding Anne’s cottage had blown itself out. Mist swirled around the structures and trees lining the road.
Wrapping the wool blanket tighter across her shoulders, Petra tried to be brave, but random thoughts haunted her—highwaymen, wolves and other monsters, like dragons. When she first heard hooves beating down the road she thought it might be her own heart, still she veered into the forest’s shadows. The horses passed, but Petra remained in the woods, convinced she’d be safer among the animals than among men.
Unless there were wolves.
She didn’t know if England had wolves, but the creatures were common enough in fairy tales. A blood-thirsty pack wouldn’t have surprised her. Back home, coyotes, lean and rangy, roamed the canyons. They knocked over trash cans and scoured the neighborhoods for small dogs and errant cats. No one loved coyotes, but no one, other than pet owners, really feared them, either. A toot of a horn or a get-out-of-here shout typically scared them away. But wolves, at least the ones she’d seen in the zoo, were different. More solid. Menacing. From the edge of the woods she could still see the road, and if someone passed, she could easily fade into the thick woods, but if a wolf approached from the woods, she could run down the road. In her slippers.
A dense, cottony fog hung in the pines, blocking the moonlight. Petra tried singing softly, and night birds answered. Something skittered in a nearby thicket. A twig snapped. She wondered where she was and how far from home.
Suddenly a skin pricking sensation told Petra she wasn’t alone. What’s not a wolf? she thought, a red fox, a raccoon, skunk, or a possum? Harmless night creatures. Panic caught in Petra’s throat. She leaned against a tree, feeling the scratchy bark through the thin fabric of her dress. The fog disguised the forest, turning each tree, shrub and stump into an ogre, troll or ghost. Someone, no something, hid in the dark, watching her. She was sure of it. Petra limped away from the tree, scolding herself for being tired, scared, and hysterical. Perhaps the sleeping draught hadn’t worn off. Hunched beneath the blanket, s
he trudged along on wet noodle legs.
She thought she heard another twig break. She swallowed and chose a stick off the ground and swung it as she walked in what she hoped was the direction of home. Her head thudded with every footfall, but she held it high, careful not to demonstrate weakness or fear. Another twig, closer this time, snapped. Clutching the blanket with one hand and the stick in the other, she broke into a run, praying for a straight path. Heavy breathing followed.
The ground became uneven and rocky, and Petra realized she was running in a dry river bed. She stumbled, mindful of her ankles, feeling every rock and pebble through her insubstantial, worthless slippers. Behind her, someone so close she imagined his breath on the back of her neck. Scrambling out of the riverbed and up the steep bank, she sprinted up an incline into a pasture and saw a roofline poking through the fog. As she raced toward it, her foot caught on something and she pitched forward.
The blanket flew and became lost in the dark. She felt exposed and naked without it. She scrambled blind, looking for her stick.
Hot breath that smelled of old meat blew down her neck. A wet muzzle brushed through her hair. Petra shuddered as waves of relief and terror washed through her. Not a highwayman, not a pack of wolves. She curled herself into a ball, tucking her head into her folded arms. The dog growled and pushed against her shoulder. The animal sounded a tiny bit like Frosty attacking a new chew toy.
Something zinged past her head. Another landed near her foot. The dog yelped.
Petra sat up to watch the biggest dog she’d ever seen lope into the forest. Thicker than a St. Bernard, taller than a Great Dane, a wolfhound? She’d never actually seen one before.
Hot Horse guy from the stables, the same guy she’d heard while pretending sleep, emerged through the fog.
His gaze flicked over her in concern. “Did you see him, then?”
Petra brushed her hair from her face and tugged her dress into place. “Of course I saw him. He had his nose in my hair.” She studied the guy, remembering his words, we both know I do not live. He looked alive. Tall, strong, broad, most definitely alive.
His face twisted in pity. “I’m so sorry.”
“Well, no harm done, thanks to you. Good aim.” Still angry about his making fun of her and rummaging through her things while she slept, she added grudgingly, “I owe you.”
Emory’s laugh sounded bitter. He picked up her tiara, brushed it off and set it gently on top of her head. “You mustn’t waste your time with repayment.”
In the moonlight, he looked even more stunning. His hair thick and curly. His long lashes framed his deep brown eyes and his mouth turned down. Rock in hand, his build and stance reminded her of Michelangelo’s David.
He must have felt her stare. “My lady?”
“How—why are you here?” Had he followed her?
“I would ask you the same.”
“It must be after midnight.”
He looked up at the moon clouded behind wispy fog. “Yes. Midnight. You have until midnight.”
Chapter Six
The Gypsies had their own language and enjoyed a wandering, insular culture. They didn’t mix or mingle with mainstream English society. Gypsies or Romas were said to have heightened psychic abilities, born with such gifts because of their close, respectful relationship with nature and the spirits of the elements. Supposedly, they could grant good fortune and hand out life destroying curses, but could they cause delusional dreams?
—Petra’s notes
Petra stood, brushed off her dress and wondered what he meant.
“Where are you heading at this late hour?” he asked.
“I’m going home.” Her voice shook, and the unexpected emotion surprised her. I can’t remember the way. I’m lost, she wanted to add. She held her voice steady. “My parents will be freaking out.”
“Freaking?” He looked confused, but then his eyes turned sympathetic. “Yes, of course. Your father, your brothers, how would they take to your wandering in the dead of night?” He fell in step beside her. “With a strange man?”
How did her father feel about her wandering in the night? He’d never said, nor had he mentioned his thoughts on her roaming the woods with a guy who didn’t live. What was he? Ghost? Vampire? Zombie? And why would he call himself a man when he was so young? She should be nervous, yet she was glad for his company, relieved to no longer be alone. “Tell me your name and then we won’t be strangers.”
He bowed slightly. “I’m called Emory Ravenswood.”
She mimicked him with a curtsy. “And I am Petra Baron.”
“Baron. You’re a baroness.”
She shook her head. “No. I don’t think so. Not anymore, or at least, not the last I knew.”
He squinted at her, clearly puzzled. “No brothers?”
She shook her head.
Emory took a step closer. “Just one mean tempered sister?”
Petra swallowed. “Stepsister.”
“And she made the journey from Royal Oaks with you?”
“I thought so.” Petra walked on as if she knew where she was headed and yelped when she stubbed her toe on a rock.
Emory reached out and took Petra’s arm, sending tingles through her body. She decided that he felt real enough. So he wasn’t a ghost, a poltergeist, or hallucination.
“But now you are undecided?” His brow crinkled and he let go of her. “When was the last time you saw her? You were searching the square this morning.”
Petra bit her lip, wondering how much to share. She was glad she wasn’t alone, but that didn’t mean she wanted to confide in the guy who does not live. “I haven’t seen her since the fortuneteller’s tent.”
“The tinkers!” Emory’s face lit with understanding. “They are not to be trusted.”
Did she hear him right? “Oh, and you are?”
He laughed. “You distrust me?”
“Trust,” Petra channeled Laurel, “can’t be given, it must be earned.”
A smile tugged at his lips. “And what must I do to earn your trust?”
You and I both know that I do not live. She needed to know what that meant, but she didn’t know how to ask. If it was tacky to ask after someone’s digestion, religion, politics or their bank account, it had to be at least equally rude to ask if they were dead. Especially someone who looked so red-blooded and hot. She shivered.
Emory slipped off his coat and put it across her shoulders. It felt warm and smelled of leather.
“Thank you, but a jacket doesn’t buy trust.” She slipped her arms into the sleeves of his coat anyway. “Won’t you be cold?” Could a dead person feel temperature? He couldn’t be dead. Was it possible that there was more than living or dead? Could there be various states in between? It sounded too creepy. She couldn’t ask, so she thought of a different question. “You didn’t tell me where you’re going.”
“For a walk.” It sounded like a question.
She laughed. “To where?”
“Would you believe I’m following you?” Emory moved closer and folded down the coat’s collar.
“Yes.” Petra took a step back, out of his reach.
“So where are we going?”
She swallowed. “I’m not sure.”
“In that case, perhaps you should follow me.” Emory reached past her and pushed back a branch from a pine tree. He headed deeper into the forest.
She balked. “Where are you going?”
“I’ve been under the impression that you have not known your destination for some time now.” She heard the laughter in his response.
Petra stamped her foot. She knew her destination. What she didn’t know was her current location in the time-space continuum. But she couldn’t tell him that. “I’m not just going to randomly follow you.”
“Following you was getting us nowhere except here.” He gave a long and exaggerated sigh. “Very well, suit yourself.” he let the branch snap back at her face.
Petra stepped away, and stared at the shadow
y woods in front of her. Remembering the huge dog snorting through her hair, she shivered again. “Wait!” she called and hurried after Emory.
She caught up to him in a shaft of moonlight that pierced the forest’s canopy. “Your coat,” she began, breathless as she fumbled with the buttons.
“You keep it,” he said, putting a hand over hers.
She sniffed. “So, where are you going?”
He headed into the dark and spoke over his shoulder. “To my home to consult a map. I want to find Royal Oats.”
Royal Oaks. Petra thought about correcting him, but decided not to bother. She watched his back disappear into the woods. Putting one foot in front of the other she wondered if this was one of those no going back moments, one of those situations where one choice completely obliterates another. Like trying to return toothpaste to the tube, or taking back words. Some paths couldn’t be doubled back, or as Grammy said, some bells couldn’t be unrung.
She could still make out Emory’s broad back.
Follow him or remain alone, in the dark, at the edge of the wood? She didn’t know if following Emory would prove to be a course-changing decision, but she trailed after him anyway. He took a twisty path, and she did her best to keep up.
After what seemed like forever, they emerged from the woods and Petra took a deep breath when she saw that they stood at the edge of a cliff. She pushed her hair back from her face as an owl swoop over a noisy river. Trees, dark shifting shadows, protruded from the stone bank, and moonlight sparkled on the dew clinging to a stone building hugging the embankment.
Is that his home? she wondered, nerves worming in her belly.
She stopped at the cliff’s edge when a gray, shaggy dog approached, wiggling a friendly welcome. Although not much smaller, he seemed totally different than the beast that had just snuffled through her hair. She allowed the dog to smell her hand before she scratched the fur between his ears. He sat and lifted a paw, a trick she’d taught to Frosty. They shook—hand to paw.
