by Renee Duke
The Tangled Rose
Time Rose, Book 4
By Renee Duke
Digital ISBNs:
EPUB: 978-1-77299-227-4
Kindle: 978-1-77299-228-1
WEB: 978-1-77299-229-8
Print ISBN: 978-1-77299-230-4
Copyright 2016 by Renee Duke
Cover art by Michelle Lee, Copyright 2016
Cover rose image by Marion Sipe, Copyright 2013
Cover model photography by Summer Bates, Copyright 2015
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
* * *
Dedication
To my father, Archie Duke,
and all the veterans of World War Two.
Acknowledgements
The author would like to thank the following for providing translations, historical information, insights, personal experiences, and medical expertise: Ruth Sinkevicius; Valentina Rist; Professor David Dendy, M.A., Department of History, Okanagan College; Angela Gerstner of the Deutsches Museum’s Visitor Services; and Kathy Jones, retired nurse.
Family support throughout the creative process was very much appreciated, too, as was input from my editor, Nancy Bell, and my beta readers M.D., Linda Rogers, and Ruth Sinkevicius.
Special thanks to Werner Fischer, co-owner of Gasthaus On The Lake in Peachland, B.C., who graciously allowed us to shoot the cover at this enchanting pub-restaurant. Thanks, also, to my cover artist, Michelle Lee, my photographer and touch-up artist, Summer Bates, and my cover models, Antonella Feeney, Teryl Bates, Gabriel L’Heureux, Joshua Lundquist, Holly Womacks, and Isabella Harmel.
* * *
’Tis for youth to call its own,
By speaking words in proper tone.
And up to five times be guided,
To those whose fate be not decided.
For divers lives must come to blend,
Ere the roses’ peregrinations end.’
Rhyme on the box containing
the Time Rose medallion
Chapter One
“Fröhliche Weihnachten. Fröhliche Weihnachten. Fröhliche Weihnachten.”
“How many more times are you going to practice saying that?” Paige Marchand asked her brother Dane.
“I think I’ve got it now.” He tucked the airline holiday brochure containing the phrase back into the pocket of the seat in front of him.
“They do all speak English, you know. If you just say, ‘Merry Christmas’, they’ll get it.”
“Our relatives speak English. Other people we meet might not. I want to be able to do a proper Christmas greeting. It’s polite to talk to people in their own language. Especially in their own country.”
Thirteen-year-old Paige, and eleven-year-old Dane, were due to land in Munich, Germany in less than half an hour. Their father, Canadian filmmaker Alan Marchand, was already there, working on a docudrama. Their English-born mother, Britannia Hollingsworth Marchand, had taken them out of school a few days before the start of the Christmas break so they could appear in some of its background scenes. They often acted in their father’s films, and would this time be portraying ‘young foreigners’ visiting Pre-World War Two Germany. Having married an historical romance writer whose family was mostly comprised of historians, many of Mr. Marchand’s own projects dealt with historical subjects. Upon completion of this one, he had promised Paige and Dane a day of skiing in nearby Austria before they all headed to England to spend a traditional British Christmas with their English relatives.
Some of those relatives were travelling with them now. The Marchands had briefly broken their Vancouver-Munich flight with a stop-over in London, and resumed it in the company of Mrs. Marchand’s sister, Augusta Hollingsworth Taisley, Augusta’s husband, Gareth Taisley, and the couple’s nine-year-old son, Jack. Jack was going to be in the docudrama as well, along with two young German relatives, Zacharias and Alina Bauer. Zach and Alina’s English grandmother, Regina Ziegler, was some sort of cousin to Mrs. Marchand and Aunt Augusta. Having moved to Germany shortly after her marriage to German historian, Ludwig Ziegler, she had raised her family in a small town near Frankfurt.
“Is ‘Merry Christmas’ all you can say in German?” asked Jack, who was sitting with Paige and Dane, about three rows behind their respective parents.
“Nein,” Dane replied with a grin. “In addition to the German word for ‘no’, I can say ‘Ja’, ‘yes’, ‘Guten Morgen’, ‘good morning’, ‘Bitte’, ‘please’, and ‘Danke’, ‘thank you’. I also know that ‘Auf Wiedersehen’ means, ‘good-bye’, ‘Liebchen’ means something like ‘dear’ or darling’. Achtung!’ means, ‘Pay attention!’, ‘Hände hoch!’ means, ‘Hands up!’ and ‘Das ist verboten’ means, ‘That is forbidden’. I got the last three from old war movies.”
Jack rolled his eyes.
“Yeah, well, you only speak German because your parents had an au pair who taught it to you when you were little,” Dane said defensively. “But, thanks to Dad and our French Canadian grandparents, we speak French quite fluently.”
“So do I. Priska taught me French as well. And Italian. Being from Switzerland, she knew all three. How are your Latin lessons coming along?”
“Well…facile non est—it’s not easy,” said Paige. “I think we’re starting to get the hang of it, though. Dad found us a really good tutor. He works with us three times a week. We expect to be as good at it as you before too long.”
“I’m not as good as Mummy. Or Granny and Granddad. But they specialize in the study of Ancient Rome and have to do a lot of translating.”
“What are you going to specialize in when you become a historian?” Dane inquired.
Jack’s scholarly abilities went far beyond a flair for languages, and his cousins knew he planned to follow family tradition and pursue a career involving history.
“I’m not sure yet. I’ve come to like several eras.”
“Yeah, us, too,” said Paige.
The young Marchands’ interest in Latin was more recent than Jack’s. The three children were in possession of an ancient medallion that could transport them through Time, and believed it would one day take them back to the time of the Roman Empire, when Latin was still in common use.
They had already been to fifteenth-century England, where they helped two medieval princes elude royal assassins, and also to Victorian England, where they helped a pair of street waifs escape from Jack the Ripper. They had even been to a primitive period in the far distant past of Canada’s Okanagan Valley, where a mysterious, almost ethereal, syilx girl named Skookaweethp had helped them. Thanks to her, and a long-secreted object, they had been able to get the better of a sinister Armenian sorcerer who feared they would one day travel to his time and free a young Armenian girl enslaved by the Romans. A girl he did not want them to free.
Her name was Varteni, which meant ‘rose tree’. A few months earlier, they had come across a book entitled The Little Rose Tree. It had been written by Rosalina Wolverton, a Victorian-era relative and fellow time-traveller who claimed the Wolvertons and their offshoots belonged to what she called the Line of the Restorer. Young members of this line were supposed to move through Time and seek out children in possession of Keeper Pieces, which were items of jewellery made from the same gold statue as the medallion. They’d been doing so for centuries, with each set of seekers working to pave the way for the final seekers. And, according to a rhym
e another former time-traveller had penned, Paige, Dane, and Jack were the final seekers.
The rhyme stated:
When generations five remain alive,
Deliverance is near.
And the rose tree will its role fulfil,
If all can persevere.
As yet, however, the final seekers were still seeking. While in the Okanagan Valley, in what Skookaweethp had called the mid-time—with some trials past, and some still to come—they’d been told there were other ‘lost ones’ they had to connect to first.
“Shall we be going anywhere ‘interesting’ while we’re in Germany?” Jack asked, changing to this very subject. He spoke quietly, so as not to draw the attention of the people around them. Had his parents and Mrs. Marchand been sitting closer, he would not have wanted them to overhear either. Time travel with the medallion was only supposed to be discussed with those who had achieved it. And his mother and aunt had not.
“We can try,” Paige said, equally carefully. “The setting for Dad’s docudrama is one that might well put us in line with a place we can gain access to.”
“A place Granddad isn’t likely to approve of,” Dane cautioned. “Or Uncle Edmond, either.”
“Grantie Etta will talk them round,” said Paige.
Their maternal grandfather, Avery Hollingsworth, and his older brother Edmond were both former medallion users. As was the children’s great-great-great aunt, Rosetta Wolverton, a still remarkably capable old lady of one hundred and five.
Their time trips, though eventful, had not been quite as perilous as those taken by Paige and the boys, whose safety Grandad had questioned even before he’d known there was a sorcerer involved. Learning there was a sorcerer involved had increased his fears, and even unnerved the hitherto blasé Uncle Edmond. Grantie Etta was concerned, too, but seemed to have more confidence in the children’s ability to carry out what she considered their family duty. She was sure to support their desire to make another time trip, even if that trip took them into Nazi Germany.
In modern Germany, they landed in mid-afternoon on a clear, but chilly, day and were met at the airport by the Taisley’s former au pair, Priska. Now married to Cousin Regina’s son, Klaus, she and her husband lived in a small Munich apartment with their sixteen-month old daughter, Tatjana.
“Tata is with my mother- and father-in-law,” Priska said when Aunt Augusta asked after the child. “They arrived this morning and will be staying with us during your visit. I wish we had room for all of you as well, but…” She shrugged apologetically.
“The guesthouse you’ve booked us into will be just fine,” Mrs. Marchand assured her. “Alan’s already been there for several days. He told me it was very nice. It’s run by friends of yours, isn’t it?”
“By the parents of friends. It is nice. A very clean guesthouse, with good food. It is called Gasthaus Volkmar. That is the owner’s name, Volkmar. Come.”
Priska led them to the airport’s S-Bahn station.
“My car is too small for so many, so we must take the train into München. We go first to the Hauptbahnhof, or, main terminus, and then, because of the luggage, will take taxis to Gasthaus Volkmar. It is in a good location, close to a U-Bahn station. Our rapid transit system goes most everywhere. It will take you to Marienplatz and other places of interest.”
“Ah, yes, Marienplatz,” said Aunt Augusta. “Munich’s famous Mary’s Square. That’s the place of most interest to me this trip. I’ve been to a lot of your city’s attractions, but never to the Christmas market. I’m really looking forward to seeing it.”
“So am I,” said Mrs. Marchand.
“The Christkindlmarkt in Marienplatz is perhaps the best known,” said Priska, “but there are smaller markets, also. Emma and I will take you to all of them.”
Emma was her sister-in-law, mother of Zach and Alina.
“Are Zach and Alina already here?” Dane asked.
“No. She and Horst will bring them tomorrow. As with you, their school is not yet on holiday, but they are good students and have been allowed to leave early to be in your father’s film.”
“Jack’s school was, thankfully, equally accommodating,” said Aunt Augusta. Unlike Canada, both England and Germany fined parents who took children out of school without what school authorities considered ‘good reason’. “What time do you expect them?”
“If they catch the earliest train out of Frankfurt they should arrive mid-morning.”
“Sweet,” said Dane. He’d met twelve-year-old Zach and ten-year-old Alina at Grantie Etta’s birthday party back in the summer and liked them both.
“Bitte?” said Priska, slipping into German in her puzzlement.
“‘Sweet’, used in that context, is a slang expression conveying high-level approval of something,” Mrs. Marchand informed her as their train pulled in.
“Ah.”
Less than an hour later, they were standing on a cobbled street in front of Gasthaus Volkmar. The high wooden gates were open and, beyond them, three low steps went up into a cobbled, two-level courtyard that, in better weather, contained tables and chairs. There was also a small wishing well and a variety of shrubs covered with Christmas lights. The guesthouse itself stood in a ways, an attractive old three-storey wooden building with balconies and shuttered windows. A huge Christmas tree stood to the side of it, reaching almost to the roof.
“A most impressive Tannenbaum, is it not?” Priska inquired. “At Easter there will be a different type of tree. An Osterbaum, an Easter Egg tree. Another German custom, but not one that has been adopted by other countries to the same extent as Christmas trees.”
Inside, two medium-sized Christmas trees flanked the beautiful, almost life-size nativity scene in the entrance area. As they stopped to admire it, a short, stout, middle-aged man with glasses came out from behind a desk to greet them.
Priska made the introductions.
“Herr Volkmar, this is Herr Taisley, Frau Taisley, and their son, Jack. My little Jonty of long ago. I have told you of him, I think. And this is Frau Taisley’s sister, Frau Marchand, and her Kinder, Paige and Dane.”
Herr Volkmar made a little bow. “Welcome. Excuse please my English. My wife, her English is more good. But I do my best, ja?”
“Your best is quite good, Herr Volkmar,” Aunt Augusta assured him. “Much better than my German.”
“Or mine,” said Mrs. Marchand. “Or my husband’s. I imagine he went off early this morning. Did he leave a message?”
“Ja. Very early they go, but a message he leaves.”
He went back to the desk and returned with a note.
“Danke,” said Mrs. Marchand, taking it and scanning the contents. “They expect to be filming all day and won’t get back here until supper time,” she informed the others.
“They?” Uncle Gareth queried. “Who are the others?”
“Jeff Brockton and Tarkan Demir, Alan’s AD—assistant director—and DoP—director of photography. You probably saw them flitting about at Rosebank when Alan was doing his documentary on those medieval letters you found. ”
“I thought the people in that film crew were all local hires.”
“Most were. Most of the ones here are. The only other Canadian is the PA—production assistant—who accepted a last-minute invitation to stay with relatives while here. A PA’s basically just a slave, who does anything and everything, and this one speaks fluent German, which Alan considers a bonus for this trip. Jeff and Tarkan have worked on several of Alan’s projects. Jeff is very good at taking care of all the day-to-day business, and Tarkan is very good at pulling everything together and creating the look and feel Alan’s after.”
“Paige has a crush on him,” said Dane.
“I don’t!” Paige snapped.
“You don’t?” Mrs. Marchand sounded surprised. “I’m sure I would have at your age. He’s devilishly handsome.”
“M-um!”
Aunt Augusta came to niece’s rescue. “My goodness,” she said, �
�what with film people, and us, and, tomorrow, Emma and her family, our party seems to be taking over your little guesthouse, Herr Volkmar.”
“Nein, nein. You do not take over. Six rooms you have, but we have, still, six more. All full. It is a busy time of year.”
“Yes, I imagine it is.”
“I will let you get settled,” said Priska. “I do not, for long, like to leave Tata with my parents-in-law. They are not so young, and now that she walks, she is into everything. They do not say, but I know, for them, this is tiring. We will, all of us, come tomorrow, after the others get here, and take you to the markets. If you do not have too much of the jet lag,” she added, looking at the Marchands.
With only an hour’s time difference between England and Germany, she knew the Taisleys would not have that problem.
Chapter Two
The next day, Mrs. Marchand was feeling the effects of jet lag, but Paige and Dane were not.
“Must have built up a tolerance to it, like your old man,” Mr. Marchand told them at breakfast. “You’ve been travelling the world with us since you were toddlers. After all the time zones we’ve dragged you through, you’ve finally learned to automatically adjust your body clocks.”
“Dad might be right,” Paige said later, when she and the boys were sitting under one of the indoor Christmas trees awaiting the arrival of Zach and Alina, “but I think the absence of jet lag comes from all the time eras we’ve been dragged through.”
“Unless it has something to do with the Arcanus Piece,” said Dane. “Ever since we brought it back from Skookaweethp’s time, other things have been better, too.” He turned to Jack. “According to the latest tests, neither of us has life-threatening allergies anymore. Or even minor ones.”
“And I don’t get travel sick anymore,” Jack revealed. “Speaking of Skookaweethp, did either of you dream of her last night?”
