by K. C. Dyer
SHADES OF RED
For my sister, the Auntie Lisa,
and for Shadow, the Anti-Delaney.
Eagle Glen Trilogy
SHADES OF RED
kc dyer
Copyright © kc dyer, 2005
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.
Editor: Barry Jowett
Copy-Editor: Andrea Pruss
Design: Jennifer Scott
Printer: Transcontinental
National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data
Dyer, K. C.
Shades of red / kc dyer.
(Eagle Glen trilogy ; 3)
ISBN-13: 978-1-55002-545-3
ISBN-10: 1-55002-545-7
1. Time travel--Juvenile fiction. 2. Children with disabilities--Juvenile fiction. 3. Inquisition--Spain--Juvenile fiction. 4. Great Britain--History--Henry VIII, 1509-1547--Juvenile fiction. I. Title.II. Series:Dyer, K. C. Eagle Glen trilogy ; 3.
PS8557.Y474S43 2005 jC813'.6 C2004-907319-2
1 2 3 4 5 09 08 07 06 05
We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and The Association for the Export of Canadian Books, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit program, and the Ontario Media Development Corporation’s Ontario Book Initiative.
Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credit in subsequent editions.
J. Kirk Howard, President
Printed and bound in Canada.
Printed on recycled paper.
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I spend a lot of time alone in the dark with a glowing machine. A lot. And in spite of my secret fear of the resultant unnatural relationship that appears to be developing with my computer, there are fortunately a number of other generous and wonderful people who have helped give life to this novel. My deepest thanks go out to Dundurn publisher Kirk Howard and to editors Barry Jowett and Andrea Pruss for their sharp eyes and the clear vision they brought to this story. Special appreciation goes to the writers who held my hand through the process: Pamela Patchet Hamilton, Kathy Chung, Trudy Cochrane, Deborah Anderson, Bernice Lever, Moira Thompson, and the members of the North Shore Writers’ Association, Canadian Authors Association, and CWILL. Thanks also to the global village of writers who have lent their time and expertise as readers of this work as it progressed: Linda Gerber in Japan, Kate Coombs and Lauri Klobas in California, Pamela Capriotti Martin in South Carolina, Marsha Skrypuch in Ontario, and the members of the CompuServe Literary Forum in all their eclectic and far-flung glory. Muitos agradecimentos to Humberta Araújo for her invaluable help with Portuguese dialogue. Gracious and dignified thanks also to all my non-writer friends who put up with my daily eccentricities whilst never rolling their eyes in my presence. And final thanks, as always, go to Meaghan for her critical acumen and her help in naming this book and to Peter for his unflagging support and unconditional acceptance of a mother who does not quite fit into the category of normal.
For the readers of this series and for the teachers and librarians who direct these readers, I hasten to note that more information about the history behind the stories, including study guides and further arcana, can be found at my website: www.kcdyer.com.
A bleak birthday dawns as grief gnaws at the heart,
A loved one heads straight for the flames.
Ancient wrongs still afire with no peace in sight,
Back to school and yet nothing’s the same.
A mentor is missing, an old face is new,
And all is not as it should be.
Classes run, pencils scratch, but still floating near,
Is the ghost of a lost enemy.
Secret under the stairs found by curious eyes;
A labyrinth leads through time’s door.
The slip of a leash; empty hands reach to clasp,
And the past is the present once more.
Friends are scattered like seeds, need again to unite,
But all hope dwindles down to a spark.
A priest keeps his counsel, his history concealed;
A menorah brings light in the dark.
Inquisition has spread, and the ash in the air
Tastes of nothing but death on the tongue.
Fear burns in the fires of a black Lisbon night
And chimes as each death knell is rung.
A hasty return leaves questions unasked,
Answers, while sought for, not found.
A trip into a trip, an unwelcome friend,
A new kind of illness abounds.
A monarch, a maiden with snapping black eyes,
And a brother and sister not kin.
Religion reforms. An absolute reign.
A journal holds secrets within.
Not the words of a witch, but the dream of a queen,
Brings to light one clear truth from the past.
Like a kiss lightly blown or a hero’s last smile,
Bids farewell to a father at last.
Traveller no more, once a boy anger-filled,
Now a monk through the fire redeemed.
Death of a consort, one more woman scorned
Clears the way for a ginger-haired queen.
Scarlet blood, rusted death, crimson cloak, rosy hope,
Twisted time spirals back and ahead.
And reflects in the eyes of a girl and a dog,
As they seek out still more Shades of Red.
CHAPTER ONE
The first grey light of dawn crept in through the bedroom window and rolled across a neatly ordered desk onto the rumpled bedclothes. Darrell, sitting awake in the bed, drew her left leg up to her chest and watched as the light rose in increments as fine and steady as the ticking of a clock. She lifted her arm and stared bleakly at the watch on her wrist.
7:17 a.m.
January sixth.
For just over seven hours she had been fourteen years old.
Under normal circumstances, this would have been cause for some celebration, but as Darrell flopped back down in her bed, she’d never felt less like celebrating. Clear evidence of just how far from normal circumstances had become.
Without turning her head she reached over to her bedside table and felt around until she found her latest notebook, given to her as school ended for the holidays. Given to her by one Professor Myrtle Tooth.
The morning light in the room was too dim to allow for reading, so Darrell flicked on her bedside lamp and flipped through the book. Only the first couple of pages had been filled, but the brevity of her notes didn’t make for any easier reading.
I killed Conrad Kennedy.
Looking at the words, Darrell realized that though she no longer felt sleepy she was still incredibly tired. But it was her birthday, and every fourteen-year-old shoul
d be able to enjoy a birthday. Tomorrow she would be heading back to the place she thought of as her second home, Eagle Glen Alternative School. A place peopled with eccentric and extraordinary teachers and attended by her two best friends in the world. She should be happy, excited, filled with anticipation.
Instead, she found herself suffocating under an emotion she thought she’d put behind her forever.
Anger.
Darrell grabbed her pen.
I may have killed him, she wrote, but I should NOT have been the one in charge of keeping him safe.
The phone tucked beside her bedside lamp shrieked itself awake, and Darrell’s notebook flew onto the floor as she jumped in shock. She ripped the receiver from its cradle.
“What?” she snapped.
“Hey, whatever happened to hello? The sun’s up, so I thought you would be, too.”
“I’m fourteen, Uncle Frank. Don’t you know that teenagers like to sleep in?”
“Yeah, I know that. I like to sleep in myself when I don’t have to pour concrete, but that’s what I’m doing today, so no sleeping for me.”
Darrell could hear the smile in his voice. Uncle Frank. Always ready to see the bright side. It drove her crazy.
“Happy birthday, baby. Can I still call you baby now that you’re a year older?”
Darrell sighed. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“You know I’m coming over to make you a special dinner tonight, right?”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Well, girlie, you don’t sound so thrilled about it, I hafta say.”
“Oh, I’m thrilled, Uncle Frank.”
“Baby girl, I can hear your eyes rolling right through the phone. Cheer up by dinnertime, okay? Are you blue because you’re heading back to school tomorrow?”
Darrell shook her head. “No, I’m okay. See you tonight.”
“Yeah, yeah. I can tell when you’re feeding me a line, you know that? Anyway, I’ve got to go. Wet concrete waits for no man. Veal parmigiana.”
“What? Is this some new, trendy way to say goodbye?”
“No, goofy girl. I’m cooking veal tonight. It’ll melt all your troubles away. Ciao, baby!”
Darrell looked at the receiver for a moment before replacing it on its cradle. Right. Eating politically incorrect baby cattle was going to solve her problems.
She dragged herself out of bed and leaned over to pick up the fallen notebook. She could close the cover on the words, but her anger and fear were not so easy to put away. Shivering, she started to get dressed.
This can’t be happening.
The doorbell rang a second time, and Darrell’s mother clattered down the stairs in high heels — evidence that the unbelievable was happening. When your mother is a doctor who spends all day on her feet, whose only concession to fashion is to trade her tattered Birkenstocks for Hush Puppies — when the day comes that a mother like that runs downstairs to answer the door wearing high heels, stilettos no less, it is but one more sign indicating the end of the world.
The end of the world as Darrell knew it, anyway.
Her birthday had started out bleak and somehow managed to get worse. Even a call from Kate hadn’t helped. The last thing Darrell wanted to do was to set up a detailed plan for spring break when there was still snow on the ground.
“Thinking about spring is what you’re supposed to do in winter,” Kate had said. She’d also asked Darrell if she was mad at her mom and a bunch of other things besides, none of which Darrell had been in a mood to discuss. Kate, using her best be-cheerful-at-all-costs voice, had promised to meet Darrell at school the following day, and Darrell had only just remembered to thank her friend for the bouquet of balloons that gently bobbed in the hall.
Even a special delivery package of birthday brownies from Brodie hadn’t helped.
Janice Connor slowed her trajectory by grabbing the scratched and worn newel post at the bottom of the stairs and peered into the darkened living room where Darrell was doing her best to hide from parental attention.
“What happened to the candles I lit?”
Darrell shrugged. She’d pinched them out at least fifteen minutes earlier. Trust her mother to have been too busy to notice.
“The one by the window was making the curtain smoke,” she said, as innocently as she could manage. “I was worried they were a fire hazard.”
The doorbell rang a third time, the chime taking on a frantic note.
“Coming!” called Darrell’s mother in a bright, artificial voice, but she didn’t make a move toward the door. Instead she smoothed her dress nervously and peered again into the living room. “You’d better just put the lights on then, kiddo,” she said resignedly. “So much for ambience.”
Darrell felt her temper flare. “Who cares about ambience, anyway?” she snapped. “You just don’t want this guy to see the piles of your stuff behind the chair. If he’s going to be your boyfriend, don’t you think he ought to see how we really live?”
“Darrell! Women my age do not have boyfriends. But he is my friend, and I’d like him to be yours, too.” Her mother’s voice took on a wheedling tone as she shuffled a pile of books and papers farther into a dark corner. “Please just try to be nice, okay?”
Darrell rolled her eyes as her mother fluffed up her hair and scurried away. She was just leaning over to flick on the lamp when a blast of cold air swirled into the room. The cold condensed into a solid lump of ice somewhere just north of her stomach. She shivered.
The click of heels announced her mother’s return.
“David, I’d like you to meet my daughter. Darrell, this is my friend Doctor David Asa.”
Darrell could hardly bring herself to lift her head. Lethargy settled around her shoulders like a heavy shawl, and she fiddled with a piece of chalk pastel she’d found stuck under the lamp.
“Hi, Darrell.” His voice, warm and deep, jarred her into looking up. Strange hearing a voice like that in this room — in this house that had been home to two females for so long. But when she did finally raise her head, Darrell was relieved to see that the man in front of her did not look at all familiar. His hair was blonde and stuck up from his forehead in a gawky way. In his hands was a small lumpy package. His glasses were completely fogged from the warmth of the room, so she couldn’t see his eyes, but she could see enough of him to realize he was a stranger. And as far as she cared, he could stay that way.
“Darrell?” The frantic note in her mother’s voice was back. “Can you say hello, please?”
“Hi.” Darrell stood up suddenly and, avoiding her mother’s eye, lunged for the stairs. “I just remembered some packing I have to do for school,” she blurted and shot up the narrow staircase, taking the steps two at a time. “Nice to meet you,” she called over her shoulder.
Her mother’s embarrassed voice, stumbling through some sort of apology, faded into the distance as Darrell closed the door to her room and collapsed onto her bed. Her fully packed suitcase and backpack sat neatly by the door, ready to go. Desperate to take her mind off her mother’s friend, Darrell pulled the notebook off the bedside table and flipped open the cover.
It did the trick. Her eyes were drawn to the words neatly printed across the top of the page, and her stomach twisted with anguish.
How do you live with yourself when you’ve killed someone — even if that someone was your sworn enemy?
She closed the book, unable to bear the sight of her own written confession. This had been the worst Christmas holiday she’d ever had, and her mother’s new boyfriend just capped it. Well — not actually the worst. That had been reserved for the Christmas three long years ago — the one spent still recuperating from the biggest loss of her life. Recuperating but never recovering.
Darrell lay back on her bed and willed herself not to remember the events of that time, but it was useless. Memories flooded through her, and she could taste bitter tears at the back of her throat. She rubbed her leg, tired from taking the steps so quickly, and rolled over to look
out the low window. The elderly oak standing guard over her bedroom was bare of leaves now, the snow that had fallen on Boxing Day still clinging to its branches. Snow was uncommon in a Vancouver December, but this year had been cold, and the snow had fallen and stayed and fallen again. A few traces remained, mostly in frozen lumps under bushes.
That year had been snowy, too. It had fallen on Christmas Day, but she hadn’t seen it. The medication she had been given had done its job after doctors removed forever the troublesome joint that had once been her right ankle. But nothing could block out the pain of the loss of her father — and so she slept most of that Christmas, away from snow and presents and anything that brought the memory of his smile to her heart.
The front door slammed again, and another blast of cold air swirled up the stairs to announce the arrival of Uncle Frank. Darrell sat up on her bed and hurriedly yanked off her prosthesis. Sure enough, within minutes she could hear pounding feet on the stairs. Her door shot open and the cheerful, heavily moustached face of her uncle peered inside.
“Don’t you ever knock? What if I’d been getting dressed?”
He chuckled. “Hey, the number of times I looked at your bare bum when I changed your diapers makes me think I wouldn’t be seeing anything new.”
Darrell raised her eyebrow skeptically. “Uh, I am fourteen, you know, Uncle Frank.”
“I know. And I’m supposed to treat you like an adult now, right? All the more reason for you to be downstairs being nice to your mom’s friend.” He wagged an admonishing finger. “Your mom’s really nervous about this, you know. She wants you to like this guy. So what are you doing up here?”
Darrell glanced away uneasily and touched her prosthesis. “It’s — uh — it’s only that my new leg is bugging me for some reason. I need to adjust it or something.”
“Really?” Frank shot a sideways glance at his niece and reached down for the prosthesis. “Okay, let’s have a look.”
Darrell pointedly gazed out the window into the dark night as Frank examined the leg in his calloused hands. “Very cool machine you’ve got here, Darrell. What’s this one do?”
