by Diane Story
“Thank you, Fern, it’s been in my family for generations. A bit too big for one man, though. Let’s forget the formalities, call me Rowen, alright?” Pulling out a chair, he beckoned her to a small black wicker table where iced lemonade was waiting. “Tell me Fern, are you anxious to see the wardrobe?” The way her short sundress pulled up over her thighs when she sat down didn’t escape him. He was tempted to tell her how eatable she looked in that lime green dress, but knew better. He had a job to do, or rather, they had a job to do.
“I’ll have to admit that I’ve been impatient all week. Can we see it before dinner?” Fern took the glass he handed her and set it down. She didn’t particularly care for lemonade.
“I’ll take you up as soon as we drink our lemonade. My housekeeper seems to get offended when my visitors don’t accept her gifts of food and drink.” He studied her from behind the rim of his glass as he drank his, relieved when she put hers to her lips. Those full pouty lips that he found attractive, lips that were made for kissing. Blinking away the thought, he waited for her to finish.
Fern struggled with the taste, but somehow managed. Smiling the best she could, she set her glass down. “Wonderful lemonade. I’ll have to tell your housekeeper it was the best I’ve ever had. I’m ready to go now.”
“Well, let’s go in then. No use in waiting.” He looked at his watch and breathed a sigh of relief. It was a quarter to eight, he’d been correct to assume she would be early. From everything he’d studied about her, she always was a stickler for punctuality. “I had it put in my private quarters upstairs, Fern. I hope you won’t mind visiting a strange man’s bedroom.”
Yes, you are a strange man Rowen Nichols, Fern thought to herself. But not scary strange, so following him to his private quarters wouldn’t bother her. “Not at all, Rowen. After all, I’m only here to look at the wardrobe, aren’t I?” She followed him up the long flight of stairs, and then turned with him at the top. The house was eerily quiet except for the distant echo of a radio playing downstairs somewhere and the padding of their footsteps in the deep pile of the carpet. The doors to his room were carved into the huge shapes of ancient flintlock pistols. They were breathtaking. “They’re beautiful, Rowen, do you collect antique guns?”
“I belong to an elite group of sharp shooters, Fern. We shoot only flintlock pistols. It is a passion handed down through the last several generations of men in my family. Come on, let’s go in and see the wardrobe.” He stepped aside after opening the doors to let her pass. The sweet scent of her perfume as she crossed in front of him made him want to close the door and lock it behind them, then he remembered her reason for being there and had to once again mentally kick himself.
Fern noticed right away that his room was decorated in the same theme as depicted on the doors and many of the other rooms she’d chanced a look at on their way through the long halls. The bed was canvassed under red velvet swags hanging down each side of the four posters and the curtains on the walls were the same. She couldn’t decide if it was the darkness of the room or the sudden pounding in her head, but she was having a difficult time focusing on the wardrobe. It stood just adjacent to his bed and the doors were wide open. The whispers started almost immediately, loud and strong, stronger than ever before. It was maddening to her that Rowen seemed to not hear them.
She felt like her lips were barely moving as she spoke. And the room was beginning to spin, something was wrong. “It fits perfectly in this room Rowen, as if it belongs.” She was trying to walk but her legs felt shaky, what was wrong with her? “Mr.…uh, Rowen! Do you mind if I sit a moment? I seem to be a little dizzy.” She felt her purse drop to the floor next to her sandal-clad feet.
“Here, let me help you.” Rowen took her by her hand and led her to his bed. He caught her just as her knees gave out. Lifting her up into his arms he looked into her eyes one last time before her eyelashes fluttered slowly down to rest on her cheeks. “Just relax Fern, let it happen. You’ll be awake soon...after the sleeping pills wear off.”
She reminded him of Brandywine, his favorite ale. Pure, yet smooth and never, ever bitter. Which was ironic, considering she was born to kill. He wasn’t one to take what wasn’t given, but he had to see if her full lips were as tasty as they looked. Bending his head, he kissed them softly, murmuring against them before pulling away. “It’s time to go, Fern. It’s time to face your destiny, and mine.”
He dressed her in a Mantua, with a wide cotton collar that sloped over her shoulders. The waist was narrow and the skirt, bell-shaped. The sleeves, although wide, were three-quarter length. The outer gown pulled back from the skirt front. Over the top he placed a cape to keep her head covered. In his haste he kept the vision or her voluptuous body tucked away where it belonged. He couldn’t let her go to his head, it was much more important that he keep his mind sharp, he couldn’t afford idle thoughts of lust right now.
For him he chose a brown jacket trimmed in white cotton at the sleeves. A white shirt peeked out below the jacket, which gave it a more elongated appearance. Brown was the color most commonly worn. Only the wealthy wore colors or black, and since he didn’t want to draw unnecessary attention, they both wore brown. The high-heeled shoes, which looked like those one would see on a five-year-old tap dancer, except much larger, replaced his Birkenstocks. He refused to wear the wig; instead, he pulled his hair to the back of his neck and tied it with a string of rawhide. He’d started growing his beard the day after the auction, but it was still just a dark shadow on his chin; he hoped it would be enough.
After throwing a canvas sack full of supplies over his shoulder and making sure his pistol was secure under his belt, Rowen picked Fern up then turned to face the wardrobe. It didn’t take long for the whispers to start again. They had almost deafened him when Fern first walked into his room, removing any doubt of her true identity from his mind. But they had subsided when she fell asleep. “Aw, there you are.” Lifting her as close to his chest as he could, he stepped up and walked through the doors, jumping just slightly when they slammed behind them.
CHAPTER TWO
“Wicca, get off my feet, kitty. Come on now!” Fern tried to ignore the weight of her cat against her legs. She hadn’t opened her eyes yet and was trying not to. She still had a headache from the night before and would just as soon stay in bed. Besides it was the weekend, and she always slept in on the weekend “Come on, Wicca, get up off mommy’s feet. I’m going to have to put you on a diet, you fat cat, you’re getting much too heavy.” With a twist of her feet she pushed until she felt him move, or at least that was what she thought. When she heard the heavy thud of his body hit the floor, she cursed.
“I’m sorry Wicca, come here kitty, you can lie next to me.” Patting the blanket, she waited for him to jump back up. He must be sulking under the bed. Rising up to look for him, she stopped when she felt the folds of material wrapped around her legs. Snickering, she pushed the blankets back and sat up. “Mommy must have been a little sauced when she got home last night, Wicca, and put on her winter flannels instead of her cool silkies.”
Groaning and holding her head, Fern let her legs dangle over the edge of the bed. It wasn’t until she actually let her eyes open to scan the candle lit room that it all started to come back. Last thing she remembered, she was standing in Rowen’s bedroom looking at the wardrobe. And because she was fairly certain she wasn’t in her own bedroom, she decided this room must be part of his house. But where was Rowen? And why had she been sleeping? Did the Master kidnap her?
She jumped when she heard someone approaching from outside the room. Staring at the door, her heart slammed hard against her ribs, was she in the company of a madman? The whinny of a horse outside the window broke her concentration. Slowly she crept to the window and peered over the sill to the vast fields below.
* * * *
Rowen was trying to get back to Fern before she woke up. He’d been searching the house to make sure no one was home. He knew she would be waking up anytime and he
didn’t want her to be alone. He took the narrow stairs two at a time until he stood outside the door. Opening it slowly he entered the room, swearing softly under his breath when the door handle clicked behind him. He didn’t want to wake her before he was ready. He had a lot to explain, and wasn’t sure how she was going to react. Creeping softly across the room, he peered into the bed. She was gone. Glancing around in desperation, he started to turn but was stopped by the cold hard barrel of his pistol. It was pushed against the base of his skull.
“I don’t know what sort of sick game you’re playing, Mr. Nichols, but I’ve had about enough of it. I want you to tell me where the hell I am, then take me the hell home.” She must have been shaking because the barrel of the gun was rattling in her hand. Fact was, she was scared to death.
“Put the gun down, Fern! I’ll explain, after you put the gun down.” Rowen had no idea if she had the barrel cocked. And as hard as she as shaking, any wrong move on his part could be disastrous. He gave himself a quick mental reminder to never leave his pistol behind again. He left it on the table next to the bed, thinking she could use it if she found herself in danger while he was gone. His good intentions did not include her shooting him. “Come on Fern, please.”
“Give me one good reason why I should trust you, Rowen?”
“Because you don’t have any other choice but to trust me right now, Fern. Did you look out the window? If you did, you would know by now that you aren’t home, and in fact, you aren’t even in the same century. So I repeat, give me the gun, Fern.”
Slowly Fern pulled the gun away from his skull and placed in on the table behind her. When he turned to face her she could see the anger she’d caused shining in his eyes. “Alright, I’m listening.”
Another mental note, watch Fern’s temper. He was right; when her hair fell down around her face and neck it did look like flames from a wildfire. He hadn’t met many redheaded women quite as alluring as she was; there was not one flaw on her creamy white skin. “Come sit down Fern, I promise not to touch you.”
Fern followed him to sit on the opposite side of the bed. Her temper was beginning to flare again, so she mentally counted backwards from ten to one hoping to divert some of it. “First, Rowen! I want to know where I am. I didn’t see any cars out front when I looked out the window. It looks like everyone is dressed in these ridiculous outfits, including yourself.” She let her eyes wander over his body as she spoke. “So I can only assume it is some sort of joke or you’re in some serious mental trouble. Second, why did you bring me here? And third, how did I get dressed in these clothes? Oh, and lastly, to humor you, what century are we in?”
“This will not be easy for you, Fern. Besides not believing me, you probably will think I am insane. But I have no choice as we don’t have much time, only ten days, to be exact. So here it goes.” He watched her expression change from anger to amusement.
“All right Rowen, get on with it.” She was growing impatient.
“Take my hand Fern, walk with me to the window.” He held his hand out, waiting for her to join him. With her hand placed firmly in his, he led her to the window and pulled the curtains back. Looking at her sideways, he watched as her eyes started to adjust to what she was seeing. It was just getting dark, but there was enough light for her to see what he wanted her to see. “As you can see Fern, this isn’t Salem, Massachusetts 2004. What you are looking at down there is our hometown, but not the one you see everyday. Look at the people closely, and the children. That place out there is Salem, Massachusetts, but the year is now 1692.”
The master was crazy! As soon as she could escape she would make a beeline for the first police station she could find. Maybe they could get him some professional help. “Go on Rowen, I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” She squeezed her lips together to keep from laughing.
Leaving Fern to stare out the window, Rowen paced as he spoke. “Seventeen generations ago, our ancestors lived here. As they do now. Your ancestor was a woman by the name of Mary Wilds, and my ancestor was a man by the name of Jonathan Nichols.” He tried not to look at her as he told her the story; he knew how outlandish it all must sound. It made him feel somewhat stupid to repeat it out loud after keeping it a secret all these years. “Mary and Jonathan were in love. But couldn’t be with each other because Jonathan was already married.” He continued, and then frowned when her body shook from laughter. “Fern, I need you to try and listen without laughing. This is a very serious matter.”
“Alright, I’m sorry, Rowen. I’ll try.” Fern put on a serious face then bite her tongue in an almost futile effort to stop her giggles.
“According to records passed down from generation to generation, Mary was accused of witchcraft by Jonathan’s wife Sarah, when she discovered the affair. To make matters worse, Jonathan was the village magistrate, sworn to bring all accused witches to face punishment. Because Sarah was with child, Jonathan knew he had no choice but to bring Mary in to face her accuser.”
“Rowen, please! How am I supposed to believe this?” Fern stopped laughing and was becoming concerned that she might be in serious trouble. Rowen could even be dangerous.
He rejoined her by the window, “Let me finish this, please.” He continued when she kept quiet. “Mary was not a witch, but her mother was. A few days after Mary was found guilty, she was taken to the center of the village and hung. Mary’s mother was so outraged, that she brought a curse upon Jonathan and Sarah. That curse was to be carried out by Mary’s descendent, you, Fern! Jonathan didn’t fear the curse because he thought Mary didn’t have any children. But she did. She’d become pregnant and had given birth several months before her execution. Jonathan didn’t know this, because her mother sent her away until the child was born, lest she be burned for adultery. As far as the records show Fern, your descendents were never told of the curse. But then you grew up in an orphanage, didn’t you. Do you remember your parents?”
“No, I was just a baby when I was taken to the orphanage.” It was a part of her life she never spoke of and she didn’t intend to start now. “All right, you’ve gotten me curious enough to ask, Rowen, what is the curse?”
“The curse incites the seventeenth generation of Mary and Jonathan. You and I are those descendents. Tomorrow is June 6th, according to legend you will fall into a spell and go through the wardrobe. The wardrobe belonged to Mary, it was a gift given to her by Jonathan in 1691. After you pass through the wardrobe, you will seek out Sarah and Jonathan and kill them before Sarah can accuse Mary of witchcraft. Then you will return to the future, oblivious of what you have done. If this is allowed to take place, Fern, I will cease to exist.”
“How is it that you know of this, Rowen? Wouldn’t Mary’s mother make sure to pass this down to me first?” Fern couldn’t believe she was actually listening to his story. She could be in real danger, but the seriousness in his voice made her want to hear more.
“You forget, Fern, Mary was sent away to give birth. Before her mother Elizabeth could get to the child, she was hung as a witch. The curse was passed down through my family.” He watched her expressions change as he told her the story. “Now you know why you were hearing the whispers in the wardrobe, Fern. You are its rightful owner.”
Glancing at the wardrobe where it now sat against the wall of the bedroom, Fern noticed how new it now looked. “All right Rowen, let’s say this is true. How do you plan on keeping me from killing Jonathan and Sarah? If it is a curse, then surely there is a way to break it.”
“I’ve already stopped you from killing them, Fern. By bringing you here on the fifth of June, I have broken the first part of the curse. You had to be in the future, our future, to fall into the spell on the sixth of June. The only problem we have now is stopping Elizabeth from bringing the curse before it happens. If we don’t, then we will have to live this all over again seventeen generations from now.” He looked at her from underneath his eyelashes. “There is only one way to finish it for good, Fern.” He turned away from her. This was
the part he had to lie to her about.
“Well, don’t keep me in suspense, you’ve gone this far. You might as well tell me all of it.” Fern was thinking she must be insane for falling into his game. She watched him turn away and remove the white gloves from his hands, one finger at a time.
“The only way for the curse to be broken for good, is if you and I fall in love before the day of Mary’s execution. Hatred is the only thing to bind the curse, without it, the curse will cease to exist.” At the sound of footsteps, he swore. He watched the door as it swung wide on its ancient, but new hinges. This house belonged to Mary’s mother. They’d come through the wardrobe into Mary’s room. If anyone were home, they would soon be found out. “Damn it woman, you cannot go running off like this.” Picking up the bag and gloves, he went in pursuit of Fern.
When Rowen reached the bottom stair he peered around each corner to make sure no one was there. Finding it quiet, he proceeded down the hall, and almost to the front entrance when he found her. She was standing in front of the fireplace, staring at a painting of a woman. He had to take a deep breath to halt the words in his throat. The woman was Fern, or at least she looked like Fern.
“This is Mary, isn’t it, Rowen?” Fern asked as she stared at the painting.
“It could only be! Fern, this house is Mary’s home. From the descriptions written in my family’s journals, that painting could only be her. It was also written that the seventeenth descendent would have a likeness to Mary. I had no idea it would be so strong.”
They both stood looking up at the painting in disbelief. The fire from the candles lit on the hearth were casting light up on it, giving it a ghostly appearance.
“We really are here, aren’t we, Rowen?” She turned to him, confusion and fear written on her face.
