by Shana Abe
“I love you,” I said to him, as the coming wave of the tide lifted his hair, dissolving indigo into radiance. “Whenever we’ve been, whenever we’re about to be, I love you. That’s our constant. No matter what, it will never change.”
Love you, he mouthed back, smiling, stepping closer to me, and the only reason I couldn’t hear him any longer was the song that surrounded us, an intensely soulful and beautiful song that had become more than music. It was the thread and fabric of the Weave itself, binding us together. It soaked into me, seared through me in undiluted joy.
Love you forever, river-girl, Alexandru said silently, and hand in hand we jumped the wave and swept ahead to find our fresh ending.
They melted away. It was like that, a melting, Lia thought, standing alone now in the studied sophistication of the castle parlor, her arms hugged to her chest to hold in the ache. She might have even glimpsed a flash of something like light in their final half-second before her. Better than light. It had texture, and feeling, and it had resonated of bliss.
Her very last sight of Honor had been of her blazing smile, aimed up at the young Zaharen prince.
But now they were gone. And there were, she reckoned, at least a dozen people pressed against the other side of the wooden door that led back to the main hall, holding their breaths, quiet as mice. She didn’t know how much they’d heard or how much they might have guessed, but it wouldn’t do to leave them unprepared. Their lives were changing soon, certain as the rising moon. Someone had to tell them.
She tightened the belt of the robe, picked up her valise, and walked to the door.
With her every step, she was bathed in yellow sun. And it felt good.
EPILOGUE
February 1789
Four Months Later
The ocean lapped at her dreams.
It was soft and ticklish, because the waves that hit the cove had to break through a long, bony reef of white and pink coral first, and the coral absorbed most of their force. By the time the waves broached the sugared shore they were little more than playful curls of foam, and bubbles left to swell and pop along the tide line at their retreat.
Beneath the waves would drift the sea turtles, peaceful in their rest, massive and silent and dark.
“What a smile,” whispered her husband in her ear, his breath also a tickle.
Lia opened her eyes. She saw first the section of oak timber crossbeam supporting the ceiling above her, a thick shadow against the paler plaster, all of it tinted pearly blue with Caribbean moonlight. Then Zane lifted up to one elbow. His hair fell across his face, and he shook it back without looking away from her.
“You were dreaming,” he said.
She rubbed a hand across her lids, languorous and warm. “Yes.”
“The future?”
“Yes.”
“And …?” he prompted, a single eyebrow arching, the word a deliberate stretch of sound.
She reached up to capture a lock of his hair, twirling it around her finger.
“It’s happy,” Lia said.
He rolled atop her, trim and muscled, bunching the sheets between them. The tickle of his next words transformed into a slower, more sensuous caress against her lips.
“My dearest heart,” her true love murmured, smiling his rakish thief’s smile. “I could have told you that.”
New York City, 1898
Paola and Lucy worked together at the shirtwaist factory, and had for the past nine years. Same shift, their machines bolted side by side, their heads bent at identical angles from seven in the morning until eight o’clock in the evening, scarred fingers shaping the stabbing course of the needle, Mondays through Saturdays and a half-day Sunday too, with only a single precious forty-minute break at three. They even pumped their floor pedals in mechanical unison, thump-thump-ta-thump, twenty-two shirts per girl per shift, or else.
There were times Paola feared she’d never be able to massage away the hot stony pain that yoked her shoulders. Still, they had it better than the girls on the night shift, who had to finish the same amount of work by the meager gas jets above the machines, set too high to be any sort of genuine help.
But the break:
Three o’clock, heads up, necks cracked, chairs shoved back. Three-oh-three, at the main door; a wait while the foreman sticks his fat fingers into their pocketbooks, rifling through their kerchiefs and pennies for any stolen scraps of lace. Three-fourteen, and if they had hurried they were at the edge of the park, moving at a brisk clip to their favorite bench, which was nearly always unoccupied because a prickly hedge had sprouted wild next to it and appeared to drape over its slats, discouraging all but the most determined of loungers.
Paola and Lucy were very careful to redrape the branches of the hedge back over the bench each afternoon before they left. The thorns were formidable, but not any worse than the sewing machine needles that would pierce clean through a hand in a blink.
And there they’d sit, eating the mashed brown bread and treacle from their luncheon tins, savoring the cigarettes Lucy stole from her father and smuggled to work in her bodice, which burned so harshly in Paola’s throat it left her with a cough every time.
A good cough, because it meant she was outside, under the sun, even if only for these treasured few minutes. Out of the enclosed stench of the factory.
Even in the rain, even in sleet, they sat outside and smoked.
But today was merely damp, with late spring clouds puffing up dark over the edges of the trees, too far away still to soak this afternoon’s break.
“Look.” Lucy nudged her hard in the ribs with an elbow. “There she is.”
Paola narrowed her eyes through the pall of blue smoke.
She walked alone, slowly down the park path, not seeming to mind the patches of wet and mud that pocked the sparse gravel, only stepping over them absentmindedly, like she missed them all without even trying. She was dressed well—she was always dressed very well, in garments much finer than anything the factory had ever produced. It had been clear from the instant they’d first noticed her, months past, that she was rich. Massively rich, society rich, the sort of rich that meant no holes in her stockings and no treacle for lunch, ever. Her complexion was unblemished, her hair such a bright, glinting red-gold it looked like actual strands of polished copper wound up in a fashionable puff beneath her hat.
Today she wore nearly all cream: a cream wool coat with black piping and pearled buttons from collar to hem; a cream felt hat with a wide, smart brim and the scarf hanging loose to wind around her neck. Cream gloves. Not a spot to be seen.
Paola nearly sighed with envy. Cream. The worst color on earth for practical wear.
Her coat was nearly shapeless, but it was clear anyway that the woman was heavy with child. She kept her hands in her pockets or else cupping her belly, emphasizing its roundness.
In Paola’s village back in Sicily, a woman so clearly close to her time would have been confined to her home, wealthy or no. It would have been shocking indeed to see her out strolling through town by herself; people would wonder if she’d been hexed.
But this was not Sicily. This was America, it was the rolling acres of Washington Square Park, and although the woman had the sort of blazing, unreasonable beauty Paola had only ever seen in printed fashion plates, they’d never once witnessed anyone in the park bother her.
“And there,” muttered Lucy, with another nudge, and jerked her chin toward a different path.
No, no one ever pestered the woman, and Paola suspected that this was the reason why … and the reason why she and Lucy took such pains to make it to the park each day by this time.
Because of him.
Like clockwork they would meet, the man and the woman, each drifting in from different directions, she with her daydreamy, pregnant grace, and he with a pace that was far more …
Paola frowned and drew at her cigarette, trying to think of just the right word.
Sleek. His pace was sleek, like the panther she’d
ogled once at a traveling circus her grandfather had taken her to when she was a child, a fearsome trapped thing walking circles behind the bars of its pen.
The man moved like that panther might have, had it ever had the freedom of space, swiftly, fluidly, as if the soles of his shoes barely scuffed the earth.
She glanced down at his spats, instantly curious. Also spotless.
Beyond his sleekness, beyond the excellent cut of his trousers and coat—for he was surely the source of all that wealth—and the peculiar but oddly fascinating way he wore his hair—long like a girl’s, tied back into a tail—was simply the overwhelming fact of his beauty. He was every bit the equal to her.
A true gentleman’s pale skin, shining dark hair, his firm jaw and his wintry gaze that had caught Paola’s once, had held her suspended and breathless and had seemed to cut through her more sharply than even the needles at work—
At her side, Lucy did release a smoky sigh. Paola waved her hand before them both to clear the view.
The man didn’t see her today. He had eyes for one figure only. They came together at the joining of the two paths and touched hands, and then the man leaned down to her and kissed her right on the mouth, right in public. Not a peck, either. A long, full kiss, their bodies pressed close.
For the entire duration of it, neither girl on the bench either moved or breathed.
When they pulled apart again, both the man and the woman were smiling. She said something and he said something back; he offered his arm and led her to the next-nearest bench, where they sat together.
He unbuttoned the top half of his coat, reached inside, and withdrew a folded paper. A newspaper, she thought. They bent their heads together and began to discuss whatever they were reading.
“That,” said Lucy suddenly.
Paola angled her gaze a fraction to regard her.
Her friend jerked her chin again at the couple, her gray eyes taking on a flinty cast.
“I want to be that loved.”
Paola smothered her grin and returned to her cigarette, allowing her lids to sink not quite closed as she observed le due bellezze pericolose, the two dangerous beauties, inhaling the last sweet dregs of tobacco down into her lungs. When it was finished, she tossed the butt to the gravel at her feet and flicked the ashes from her skirt.
“Cara. We all want that.”
The man and woman were rising. They were leaving together, just as they did each afternoon, walking leisurely now, because the woman was so very rounded.
They met a bend in the path and faded off behind the line of trees.
Lucy jumped from the bench. “C’mon.”
Paola didn’t have to ask where; they’d left their newspaper on the bench.
It was a morning edition, the usual blocks of tiny print telling tales of politicians and land barons gobbling up the world. But the page had been folded to hide most of the print. It showed instead all of an advertisement, a lavishly illustrated one.
“What, a ship?” said Lucy, studying it hard. “Are they taking a journey? What does it say?”
Lucy’s mother had died of cholera when she was still an infant and her father had never bothered to send her to school; Lucy could not read. Paola’s luck had run slightly better. She’d had lessons all the way until the age of nine, and even long words could be sounded out. She ran a finger down the scripted lettering.
“It is an announcement for an ocean liner going to Europe. The Nikita Regina, departing New York for … Liverpool, all cabins outfitted in the finest comfort guaranteed, turbine engines of the most … so-phis-ticated design. It leaves next week.” She dropped the hand holding the paper to her side, staring out at the clouds.
“Oh,” Lucy said, sounding deflated. “Well, it was a lovely fancy. While it lasted.”
“Yes.”
The sun was already starting to tilt against the tip-top crowns of the trees; in the long spring light the countless green buds of summer leaves to come flamed into perfect gold. Just beyond them a rainbow began to form, the colors growing truer and firmer as she watched.
A pair of birds soared through it, free as the wind, and for a very brief instant Paola allowed herself the luxury of imagining what it might be like, to fly like that, to sail through clear, enchanted colors and sky.
A lovely fancy, indeed.
Did they live or did they perish?
Which ripple of time stretched through the dark sparkling universe with the most profound force?
In some, the drákon thrived, grew vibrant in their secret worlds, bred stronger and stronger and lived to dance with their particular mesmerizing elegance in and out of the human race, changing histories, changing destinies, all unseen by the lesser beings.
In some, war lived, and nothing else.
Réz and her prince leapt ahead into a future that had not been written. Their bonded hearts forged their way, and through war or peace, they loved. Réz was right: That never changed.
In the center of it all, the Dragon of Time opens his eyes and cranes his monstrous head, searching for his meal, never sated.
But in our deep spreading ripple, the drákon dance among us still.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SHANA ABÉ is the award-winning author of twelve novels, including The Smoke Thief, The Dream Thief, Queen of Dragons, and The Treasure Keeper. She lives in the Denver area with five surly pet house rabbits, all rescued, and a big goofy dog.
The Time Weaver is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by Four Rabbits, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
BANTAM BOOKS and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
eISBN: 978-0-553-90771-1
www.bantamdell.com
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