by Amii Lorin
TWISTED TIME
Amii Lorin
2 Time Slip Novellas
* * *
Footsteps in the Snow
Prologue
The Laughing Fox Inn, near Eagle, Pennsylvania, 2014
The electric candle flickered in the window, reflecting not only the dancing flame, but also a pale, sad face, framed by a lacy white curtain of sparkling snowflakes.
Faith Shelby breathed a sigh, momentarily clouding the cold, night-darkened pane with her warm breath.
It was Christmas Eve, almost Christmas morning. Where was the sense of inner joy, the quickening excitement, the anticipation she usually felt on this special night?
Gone... all gone, Faith mused, unmindful of the single tear trickling down her cheek. She was alone. The Laughing Fox Inn, with the date 1752 chiseled into the keystone above the recessed entrance door, no longer rang with the sounds of happy, chattering patrons. The waiters, waitresses, kitchen staff and bartenders had called holiday greetings to Faith before leaving to hurry home to spend what remained of the evening with their families.
The dining room was shrouded in silence. The tables were stripped of their red, green, and white holiday cloths, the Formica surfaces with their wood grained-look scrubbed clean. The tabletop holiday decorations, plastic sprays of dark green holly spilling out over the top of small white pitchers set in shallow bowls, were packed inside cartons and stacked in a corner.
The only illumination came from the modern lights designed to look like old-fashioned candles placed on the sills of the uncurtained windows, the dying flames in the wide stone fireplace set into the wall opposite the bank of windows, and the tiny twinkle lights woven through the artificial holly garland festooning the mantel and doorframes and decorating the majestic blue spruce set near the wall to one side of the fireplace.
Reaching into the deep pocket of her crisp white apron, Faith withdrew a plain round watch and a leather cigarette case. She pressed the button on the side of the watch to illuminate the small window. The hands stood at 11:17. Almost Christmas. Sighing, she flicked open the cigarette case, then immediately closed it again.
No, she thought decisively. She was trying to quit... she would quit! Emotional upheaval was no excuse to continue with a habit she knew wasn’t healthy.
Faith stuffed the watch and case into the pocket, then sat, tired and dejected, smoothing her palm over the soft apron material.
It was so quiet. The inn was closed, permanently, as of this last, festive night. A big white and red for sale sign had been staked into the ground in the front yard by the road. The realtor had made an appointment with Faith for the day after Christmas, to show the property to a prospective buyer.
Faith felt as though an integral part of herself was being torn from her body, her soul. Giving up the Inn, her birthright, was robbing her life of all meaning.
But she had no choice. Orphaned for several years, and the last of her line, Faith had no other family to turn to for help. And she was teetering on the edge of financial disaster. It wasn’t that Faith was an inept business woman. She was smart... but also soft hearted. There had simply been too many times when dollars that should have gone into the hands of creditors had wound up in the hands of the sick, the needy, the desperate.
Faith couldn’t find it within herself to regret the loss of as much as one of those dollars.
Now, the future of The Laughing Fox, whether as a public inn or a private residence, lay in the hands of the person who eventually purchased the historic property.
Faith’s future lay in the hands of God.
She was not afraid. She was young, healthy, a good worker. She’d survive. Losing everything would hurt for a long time, but time would pass, and time would heal.
Memories crowding in on her—happy memories, sad memories—Faith turned from the window to glance around her at the familiar room, imagining she could hear the echoes of over two hundred years of her ancestors’ voices, whispering to her from the plaster walls, the wooden beams, the natural stone.
Tears stung her eyes and a pang of sadness clutched at her chest. It did hurt to let go, to lose the last remaining link with her family. Her umteenth-great-grandfather, William Shelby, had built The Laughing Fox with his bare hands.
The solid building, the scents, the textures, the events that had taken place within its walls, its very spirit were a part of Faith, the last of the Shelby line.
Blinking against the hot sting of tears in her dark brown eyes, Faith raised her gaze to the two portraits hanging on the wall above the fireplace mantel, upon which resided the carefully preserved pieces of a hand carved wooden crèche, a family heirloom handed down to Faith from her mother’s great-grandmother.
They were not very good portraits. The oils used had been applied with a heavy, inexpert hand. Very likely the pictures had been given in lieu of payment for a meal and a place to sleep for a night or so. In addition to the inferior quality of the paintings, the smoke from hundreds of years of fires in the hearth had begrimed the surfaces, making the features of the subjects dark and indistinct.
Faith didn’t need to see the face of the woman on the canvas. It was her namesake—Faith Shelby, who had lived in the eighteenth century. Faith had never figured out why on earth her mother had chosen to name her after the woman. She wasn’t even a blood relative, but a homeless orphan, and from all indications, a slightly demented orphan at that.
The tale handed down through the years was that William Shelby’s wife had found the girl wandering around the Inn stable yard, dazed and babbling, and had brought her into the house. Being both generous and good-hearted, the Shelbys had given the girl a home, treating her like one of their own, a sister to their two sons, for whom apparently no portrait was ever commissioned.
A faint, sad smile shadowed Faith’s soft mouth as she gazed at the portrait of the woman, and then down the length of her own body. The colonial serving woman’s costume she wore in her role of hostess in the Inn was an exact copy of the clothing worn by the girl in the painting, up to and including the white cap perched atop her long, loosely curled auburn hair.
Faith shifted her gaze to the other portrait. She didn’t know the man’s name. If anyone in the Shelby family had ever known who he was, it had been long since forgotten. It seemed that at some point in the past, some Shelby had hung the painting on the wall, more than likely because it balanced the portrait of Faith, and fit in nicely with the colonial ambience.
A sigh of longing and regret whispered past Faith’s lips. From as far back as she could recall, she had been strangely drawn to the dark portrait, to the face of the man whose features were so handsome, so aristocratic, that even the inept artist had managed to make him look incredibly appealing.
That strong masculine face, those fine features, those deep, compelling eyes had haunted Faith throughout her growing up years. To her mind, he was the stuff of dreams.
Staring intently at the portrait, yet no longer seeing it, Faith felt tears spill from her eyes.
Sentimental ditz, she chided herself, swinging away. If she wasn’t careful, she’d find herself curled in a corner, bawling like a baby, when what she should be doing was taking down and packing up the Christmas decorations.
Faith felt a painful catch in her throat as she stared at the tree. It was so beautiful, the most perfectly shaped tree she had ever had at the inn. It would be a shame to take the tree down before Christmas, or to pack away the garland and the crèche—all the bright and shining symbols of the season. Besides, it had been a long day, and she was tired.
She made a quick decision to wait, at least until late in the day on Christmas—or even early in the morning the day after—and dismissed the task from her mind.
Crossing the dining
room, Faith headed for the enclosed stairway that led to the second floor living quarters. She came to a sudden stop as her gaze brushed over, then came to rest on, the outdoor clothes hooked over a row of sturdy pegs set into the stairway wall.
Maybe what she needed was a breath of fresh cold air. Before the thought was complete in her mind, Faith was reaching for her fake fur jacket hanging on the central peg. But, instead of the jacket, her hand settled on the dark, thickly woven wool shawl draped over the last peg.
Experiencing a mild sense of surprise, Faith lifted the voluminous square of material. She hadn’t a clue as to why she had reached for the shawl. It was a prop, nothing more. Like her costume, and the ones worn by the other waitresses, the shawl was part of the decor, artfully draped over the peg for effect.
Obeying her impulse nevertheless, Faith flipped the large square around her shoulders. The garment was surprisingly heavy and warm. Hugging the warmth to her breast, she walked to a narrow side door and stepped outside into the snow-covered side yard.
It wasn’t a large yard, just a small private area bordered on two sides by flower gardens, on the third side by an herb garden, and on the fourth side by a thick stand of stately trees.
The snow was falling harder than before; the wind moaned through the bare tree branches; the cold bit to the very marrow of Faith’s bones.
She barely noticed the elements. Lost in memories of happier days, of family Christmas stories told and retold, of laughter and love lived within the solid walls of her beloved inn, Faith walked to the edge of the yard and the scant protection of the trees. Turning, she noted the deep indentations of her footsteps in the snow then raised her tear-bright eyes to look back at the inn. Viewed through the whirling snow and the mist blurring her vision, the electric lights in the windows looked like real wax candles.
Inside Faith’s mind she heard a memory echo of her mother’s voice, explaining to a four-year-old Faith her reasons for placing the candles in the window.
“They’re for the Magi, to light the way.”
The way. Faith sniffed, coughed, and lost her tenuous grasp on control. Raising her hands, she buried her face in the snow-dampened corners of the shawl.
“Oh, God, dear God, help me. Give me the strength to let go,” she pleaded between broken sobs. “I need guidance to light my way ...”
Chapter 1
“Faith, child, what in the good lord’s name are you doing wandering around out here?”
“What?” Faith blinked and lifted her face from the folds of the shawl... the dry shawl! How ... what... ?
Who?
Brushing the ends of the shawl over her eyes, Faith focused her sight on the woman crossing the yard to her. She was a complete stranger to Faith. Middle-aged, rounded, with a gentle, compassionate face, she was attired in a costume only slightly different from the one Faith herself was wearing.
“What?” Faith repeated, feeling disoriented, confused. Offhand, she couldn’t recall another inn close by where the employees dressed in period costume.
“I asked what are you doing out here in the stable yard, child?” the woman said. ‘The wind’s rising and it’s getting a mite chilly out here.”
Chilly? Faith thought. Try cold, pretty damned ... Faith’s thoughts fractured. It wasn’t cold! As the woman had pointed out, it was ... merely chilly!
A sense of something’s being very wrong filled her mind as Faith sent a quick glance around the yard, and felt her world tilt on its axis.
The snow was gone! The ground was dry, clear. Swept along by the wind, crackling leaves tumbled over the cobblestone yard.
“Cobblestones!” Faith exclaimed, gaping at the rounded stones beneath her feet. “How did they get here?” she demanded, raising her eyes to the woman. “And what happened to all the snow?”
“Snow, dear?” The woman frowned; her eyes darkened with concern. “What snow?”
Panic sprang to life inside Faith’s mind. What was going on here? How could it be possible for all that snow to just disappear in the space of a few seconds? It was ... more than freaky; it was flat-out scary.
Faith swallowed, but still her voice came out on a dry, croaking spurt. “There was a foot or more of snow here moments ago!” she exclaimed, looking around at the familiar, yet unfamiliar, scene. It was her home, where she’d grown up—and yet it was different. She didn’t understand what had happened. The confusion sent her mind into shock.
“But there is no snow, my dear.” The woman stepped closer, hand outheld to offer comfort or ., .
Faith stepped back. “There was snow!” she cried.
“It started falling early this afternoon!”
“Oh, child,” the woman murmured, shaking her head. “There is something dreadfully wrong with you. It was a beautiful afternoon: warm, pleasant, a perfect late September day.”
“September!” Faith stared at the kind-faced woman, alarm exploding inside her. The woman was not well, possibly even crazy. She gulped a deep breath. “You .. . you’re mistaken,” she said in a soothing, calming tone. “It’s December, Christmas Eve... almost Christmas morning.”
“Christmas!” The woman stared at her in obvious astonishment, then an expression of utter sadness and pity filled her face. “Oh, my dear child,” she said, reaching out to her again. “How long have you been wandering the countryside alone, on your own?”
Unsure of the woman’s mental condition, Faith backed up once more. Maybe she was harmless, but...
“You poor thing,” the woman was going on. “Let me take you indoors, child, out of the chill night air. It is warm inside, and there is food.”
Aha! Faith thought, certain she had solved at least part of this confusing puzzle. Very likely this woman was one of the growing number of homeless souls in the country, living as best they could under appalling conditions. Her period clothing had probably come from a rubbish heap behind a costume store.
Faith’s soft heart melted as rapidly as the snow had appeared to do so. But the question of the sudden disappearance of the snow would have to wait awhile to be answered. First things first, she decided. The woman was obviously cold and hungry, hoping for a safe place to rest for the night. The inn was safe, sturdy, strong, and Faith knew the freezer, fridge, and pantry were still full. There were; hams and turkeys, steaks and prime ribs, along with all the traditional holiday trimmings. Faith had planned to donate the foodstuffs to local charities.
“Yes,” she said, extending her hand to grasp the woman’s. “Let’s go inside.”
“There’s a good girl,” the woman said, her expression changing to one of relieved satisfaction. “Come along, then, my dear.” Holding tightly to Faith’s hand, she turned and made a determined beeline for the side door to the brightly lighted Inn.
Brightly lighted? Faith’s steps faltered. The only lights she’d left on were the electric candles set in the windows and the tiny lights strung on the garland and the tree. Unless .. . Frowning in concentration, Faith tried to remember if she had flipped on the wall switch for the hanging wagon wheel lights before stepping outside. No! She couldn’t have, for she distinctly recalled clutching the shawl to her with both hands!
“Coming—” the woman began when Faith hesitated, then went on—”Faith, child, I never asked your name.”
“Huh?” Faith stared at her, thoroughly confused. Hadn’t the woman just said her name? On the spot, Faith suspected that the poor thing was further around the bend than she had originally thought.
“Your name, child. What is it?”
“Faith,” she replied, shaking her head, hoping to rattle her marbles into their proper order; events were zipping right along, and Faith was fighting to catch up.
The woman gave her an odd look, then sighed. “Faith, you say?” A sympathetic smile curved her lips. “I see.”
Well, I sure wish I did, Faith thought, attempting to decipher the strange look on the woman’s face.
“And where are you from, Faith? Do you live somewhere ne
arby?”
It was Faith’s turn to sigh. Telling herself to be patient, she said, “I live here, right here, in the Laughing Fox. I always have.”
“Indeed!” The woman seemed momentarily taken aback. Her ample bosoms heaved on a deep exhalation, and she muttered, “Poor girl’s daft.”
At least, that’s what Faith thought she heard. But the woman didn’t allow her time to decide one way or the other. Tugging on Faith’s arm, she pushed the door open with her other hand and literally dragged Faith into her own home.
Or was it her home?
Faith stood just inside the threshold, her mouth agape, her mind awhirl. To be sure, she had entered The Laughing Fox... and yet, it was not the Inn she knew.
What was going on here? Faith demanded in silent confusion. She had been outside for at most a few minutes; not long enough, not months long enough for anyone to have made so many drastic changes in the place.
Where were the twinkling holly garlands? Where was her beautiful tree? And what had happened to her precious crèche pieces!
Stunned, her disbelieving eyes darting about, Faith moved like an automaton, allowing the woman to steer her to a bench set at a window table—a long, rough-hewn, unfamiliar table.
“Now you sit there and rest... er, Faith. I will bring you something warm to eat.”
Faith wasn’t hungry; she was. .. puzzled was too mild a word. Other words flashed through her spinning brain. Confused. Astonished. Dumbfounded. Amazed. Stupefied. All good words, none of them able to describe her strange and frightening feelings.
What was happening to her? Like the plaintive sound of a child’s voice keening in the darkness, the cry resounded through Faith,
Why was everything so suddenly changed? How had everything changed?
Hanging on to a modicum of her composure for all she was worth, Faith reined in the rapid movement of her shock-widened eyes to look, closely and hard, at the individual differences within the room.
