by Dima Zales
In the moonlight, he looked even more stunning. His hair thick and curly. His long lashes framed his deep brown eyes and his mouth turned down. Rock in hand, his build and stance reminded her of Michelangelo’s David.
He must have felt her stare. “My lady?”
“How—why are you here?” Had he followed her?
“I would ask you the same.”
“It must be after midnight.”
He looked up at the moon clouded behind wispy fog. “Yes. Midnight. You have until midnight.”
6
The Gypsies had their own language and enjoyed a wandering, insular culture. They didn’t mix or mingle with mainstream English society. Gypsies or Romas were said to have heightened psychic abilities, born with such gifts because of their close, respectful relationship with nature and the spirits of the elements. Supposedly, they could grant good fortune and hand out life destroying curses, but could they cause delusional dreams?
—Petra’s notes
Petra stood, brushed off her dress and wondered what he meant.
“Where are you heading at this late hour?” he asked.
“I’m going home.” Her voice shook, and the unexpected emotion surprised her. I can’t remember the way. I’m lost, she wanted to add. She held her voice steady. “My parents will be freaking out.”
“Freaking?” He looked confused, but then his eyes turned sympathetic. “Yes, of course. Your father, your brothers, how would they take to your wandering in the dead of night?” He fell in step beside her. “With a strange man?”
How did her father feel about her wandering in the night? He’d never said, nor had he mentioned his thoughts on her roaming the woods with a guy who didn’t live. What was he? Ghost? Vampire? Zombie? And why would he call himself a man when he was so young? She should be nervous, yet she was glad for his company, relieved to no longer be alone. “Tell me your name and then we won’t be strangers.”
He bowed slightly. “I’m called Emory Ravenswood.”
She mimicked him with a curtsy. “And I am Petra Baron.”
“Baron. You’re a baroness.”
She shook her head. “No. I don’t think so. Not anymore, or at least, not the last I knew.”
He squinted at her, clearly puzzled. “No brothers?”
She shook her head.
Emory took a step closer. “Just one mean tempered sister?”
Petra swallowed. “Stepsister.”
“And she made the journey from Royal Oaks with you?”
“I thought so.” Petra walked on as if she knew where she was headed and yelped when she stubbed her toe on a rock.
Emory reached out and took Petra’s arm, sending tingles through her body. She decided that he felt real enough. So he wasn’t a ghost, a poltergeist, or hallucination.
“But now you are undecided?” His brow crinkled and he let go of her. “When was the last time you saw her? You were searching the square this morning.”
Petra bit her lip, wondering how much to share. She was glad she wasn’t alone, but that didn’t mean she wanted to confide in the guy who does not live. “I haven’t seen her since the fortuneteller’s tent.”
“The tinkers!” Emory’s face lit with understanding. “They are not to be trusted.”
Did she hear him right? “Oh, and you are?”
He laughed. “You distrust me?”
“Trust,” Petra channeled Laurel, “can’t be given, it must be earned.”
A smile tugged at his lips. “And what must I do to earn your trust?”
You and I both know that I do not live. She needed to know what that meant, but she didn’t know how to ask. If it was tacky to ask after someone’s digestion, religion, politics or their bank account, it had to be at least equally rude to ask if they were dead. Especially someone who looked so red-blooded and hot. She shivered.
Emory slipped off his coat and put it across her shoulders. It felt warm and smelled of leather.
“Thank you, but a jacket doesn’t buy trust.” She slipped her arms into the sleeves of his coat anyway. “Won’t you be cold?” Could a dead person feel temperature? He couldn’t be dead. Was it possible that there was more than living or dead? Could there be various states in between? It sounded too creepy. She couldn’t ask, so she thought of a different question. “You didn’t tell me where you’re going.”
“For a walk.” It sounded like a question.
She laughed. “To where?”
“Would you believe I’m following you?” Emory moved closer and folded down the coat’s collar.
“Yes.” Petra took a step back, out of his reach.
“So where are we going?”
She swallowed. “I’m not sure.”
“In that case, perhaps you should follow me.” Emory reached past her and pushed back a branch from a pine tree. He headed deeper into the forest.
She balked. “Where are you going?”
“I’ve been under the impression that you have not known your destination for some time now.” She heard the laughter in his response.
Petra stamped her foot. She knew her destination. What she didn’t know was her current location in the time-space continuum. But she couldn’t tell him that. “I’m not just going to randomly follow you.”
“Following you was getting us nowhere except here.” He gave a long and exaggerated sigh. “Very well, suit yourself.” he let the branch snap back at her face.
Petra stepped away, and stared at the shadowy woods in front of her. Remembering the huge dog snorting through her hair, she shivered again. “Wait!” she called and hurried after Emory.
She caught up to him in a shaft of moonlight that pierced the forest’s canopy. “Your coat,” she began, breathless as she fumbled with the buttons.
“You keep it,” he said, putting a hand over hers.
She sniffed. “So, where are you going?”
He headed into the dark and spoke over his shoulder. “To my home to consult a map. I want to find Royal Oats.”
Royal Oaks. Petra thought about correcting him, but decided not to bother. She watched his back disappear into the woods. Putting one foot in front of the other she wondered if this was one of those no going back moments, one of those situations where one choice completely obliterates another. Like trying to return toothpaste to the tube, or taking back words. Some paths couldn’t be doubled back, or as Grammy said, some bells couldn’t be unrung.
She could still make out Emory’s broad back.
Follow him or remain alone, in the dark, at the edge of the wood? She didn’t know if following Emory would prove to be a course-changing decision, but she trailed after him anyway. He took a twisty path, and she did her best to keep up.
After what seemed like forever, they emerged from the woods and Petra took a deep breath when she saw that they stood at the edge of a cliff. She pushed her hair back from her face as an owl swoop over a noisy river. Trees, dark shifting shadows, protruded from the stone bank, and moonlight sparkled on the dew clinging to a stone building hugging the embankment.
Is that his home? she wondered, nerves worming in her belly.
She stopped at the cliff’s edge when a gray, shaggy dog approached, wiggling a friendly welcome. Although not much smaller, he seemed totally different than the beast that had just snuffled through her hair. She allowed the dog to smell her hand before she scratched the fur between his ears. He sat and lifted a paw, a trick she’d taught to Frosty. They shook—hand to paw.
“How do you do?” she asked him.
He answered by wagging his tail, scattering fallen leaves on the path.
The windows of the house were dark, but a trail of smoke curled from the chimney. It would be possible for his family to be asleep; it was certainly late enough. But the house wore an empty look. “Do you live alone?” she asked.
“Just Cherub and I.” Then, as if sensing her nerves, “You have nothing to fear here, my lady.” He climbed onto the porch and paused, waiting for her. Two c
hairs stood to the side of the solid front door, and sawdust surrounded the chair that faced toward the river.
Petra took the step onto the porch. She wasn’t allowed in a guy’s house unless his parents were home. Until this moment, she’d thought that rule lame, easy to break and difficult to enforce. But this is a dream, or something worse. In her real life she’d never go into a deserted house with a stranger in the middle of the night, but this definitely was nothing like real life. Her heart quickened.
“Where’s your family?” she asked.
“They passed on.”
Dead? “All of them?” Of course, she knew people sometimes were orphaned and had to live with relatives or grandparents. In her world a foster care system existed, but she didn’t know what became of orphans in 1610. She had a brief vision of starving pickpockets, Oliver Twist workhouses and scrawny kids picking through bare fields gleaning left behind potatoes. Emory didn’t look like he was starving. And he definitely wasn’t a kid. How old was he?
“I only know one person who’s died.” Her voice sounded small.
She wasn’t sure what she believed about an afterlife. At her mother’s funeral, the pastor had spoken at length of God and His kingdom, but Petra didn’t know how she or her mother fit into that kingdom. But she did believe that when she died, she’d see her mother again.
“Just one?” Pain and puzzlement flashed across Emory’s face. “No babes, sailors, a child?”
A chill ran up Petra’s spine. “Not a baby or a child. That would be terrible.” She paused. Although, depending on who you’ve lost, it can be terrifying whatever their age, she thought, remembering her mother lying still and silent in the hospital bed.
“How did your family die?” she asked, thinking of Dad, Frosty, Zoe, and even Laurel.
“Death comes early here. Perhaps where you’re from–”
Instinctively, she reached for his hand and squeezed it. “I’m so sorry.” She knew that in earlier generations life expectancy was shorter. A scratch could become fatally infected, childbirth was often deadly, and a cold could lead to pneumonia.
She held onto Emory’s hand a little tighter, anxiety mounting. In the moonlight he looked like a Greek god.
Death had followed those guys too.
Emory pushed open the door, still holding Petra’s hand. Coals in the grate glowed orange and red, casting large shadows. Stacks of leather bound books shared the shelves with cooking utensils. A trestle table, two benches and two chairs were all made of ornately carved wood. Maps in a variety of sizes of stained parchment nearly covered three of the walls. The fourth wall had two windows and the door through which they had entered. Another wall had a second door that presumably led to a bedroom.
He moved his hand to the small of her back. She felt its heat through the satiny dress, and her heart sped up. She’d never been so completely alone with anyone. At home, even alone, she was surrounded by neighbors within screaming distance and help was a telephone call away. Here, if she were to call out here, who, other than Cherub or perhaps a squirrel or two, would hear a cry for help?
“Are you tired, my lady? ‘Tis the middle of the night.” Emory closed the door behind the wiggling dog.
Cherub thumped his tail against the floorboards. It was so quiet. No ticking clocks. No humming refrigerator. No distant traffic or airplanes. She heard her own heart and hoped Emory couldn’t hear it as well. “Not really. That sleeping potion messed me up.”
Emory laughed and repeated slowly, “Messed me up.”
“It’s not funny.”
“Anne meant you no harm.”
“Do you?” Petra wondered, standing in the center of the room, unsure where to go or what to do, ready to run if necessary. And yet, she watched Emory and wondered if he felt the same tingling from their touch. “She could have killed me.”
Emory smiled. “But she didn’t.”
Petra sniffed. “How do you know her?” The thought of Emory and Anne as a couple made her uncomfortable. She remembered them going through her things and frowned.
Emory motioned for her to sit at the table. “I have known Anne since she was a child.”
He made it sound as if he was way older than Anne, but that couldn’t be true. “You were childhood friends.”
She hadn’t realized how tired she was until she sat. She took off the tiara and set it near her elbow. Wiggling her exhausted toes, she fought the desire to kick off her slippers. She needed to keep them on in case she needed to run away.
“Something akin to that.” Emory reached for a scroll propped against the wall. “How did you know Geoffrey?”
“Geoffrey?”
“Anne’s brother who recently died. You did not know? Anne thought you had met.”
Petra shook her head.
“Geoffrey fought a battle for light and truth.”
Light and truth? What does that mean? It sounded religious, and she’d learned in AP Euro about all the wars fought over religion. “Was he on a crusade?”
“Of sorts.” Emory untied a string on a scroll and unrolled a massive map on the table. “I’ve never heard of Royal Oaks, but perhaps you can recognize it.”
Petra put her elbows on the table, propped her head on her hand and studied the map while Emory weighed down the corners with smooth, round stones. Nothing looked familiar; many of the names lacked vowels. She doubted she’d be able to pronounce, let alone recognize, any of them. Her gaze strayed to maps on the walls.
“Those are all of lands much further away,” Emory said. “I thought since you arrived by horse you must not have come from far.” He took two other maps, and smoothed them flat.
Each of the three intricate maps had not only squiggly roads and winding rivers but also pictures of things like landmarks – a burnt stump, a cathedral, an inn. She studied them, impressed by the precision and detail. Emory stood behind her. She looked up at him. “Where did you get these? They’re amazing.”
Emory flushed. “I made them.”
“You? How?” She felt his warmth. “Did you copy them by hand? It must have taken hours.”
“By hand?”
“I mean, did you draw them yourself?”
He shifted as if uncomfortable. “I keep a journal and make sketches as I travel. In the evening hours I draw.”
Morocco, Asia, the Holy Land. “You’ve been to all these places? On your own?” She’d thought him close to her age. Besides, how could someone in this century travel so far? “Was your dad a sailor? Did you apprentice on a ship?”
He smirked. “Something akin to that.”
“Did you start sailing at age four?” she blurted, hoping she didn’t sound rude. She imagined a trip across the ocean with the tide and winds the only engine, taking years. “How old are you?”
“I don’t know my birth year,” he admitted and because he sounded a little sad, she let it go. Perhaps the I do not live meant I will not die and he had lots of time to travel and draw maps. She caught sight of Jamestown, Virginia, sitting on the edge of a giant mass of borderless wilderness. He would never believe she came from the other side of nothing, just like she didn’t believe that he’d traveled the world in some sort of perpetual youth.
He prodded. “Does anything remind you of your home?”
She shook her head and leaned against the table, frustrated and discouraged.
Cherub, who had been resting by the fire, bolted upright and ran to the door, barking.
“Who would come now?” Petra sat up, alarmed, and looked out the window. The moon had climbed high over the river’s bank.
Knocking shook the door.
“Worry not.” He placed his hands on her shoulders, and his warmth spread down her back and settled around her toes.
The rapping increased to pounding and the door shook.
Cherub barked louder and faster, fighting not to be drowned out.
Petra watched the door. “You should see what they want,” she said, although hoping that he wouldn’t.
“Sit, my lady. Study the maps.” He pushed his fingers through his hair. “Perhaps you can find the way home while I dispose of my caller.”
He stepped outside without her seeing who had knocked. She sagged against the chair, giving in to exhaustion and the heat of the fire. Like the chair from the Three Bears fairy tale, this chair wasn’t comfortable: The back was too straight; the wood was too hard; the arm rests were anything but cushy. Still she found her head nodding.
Petra snapped to. She straightened her spine, pushed back her shoulders and rolled her neck. She wouldn’t fall asleep. Again.
Can you sleep in dreams? Sleeping would make for a very boring dream. A dream within a dream? That would be new.
Petra looked around the room. Straw-strewn floor. Hand-carved furniture. Not one single modern convenience.
Sure, she’d always had a good imagination. Still, if this were all a hallucination or a dream, wouldn’t something be off? Then again, nothing makes sense in dreams, it doesn’t have to. The creature in the woods, the sleeping drug, the cockfight. Definitely nightmarish. But Emory? He was a part of a magical dream. The best part.
In dreams, can you smell? Taste? Touch? Petra didn’t think so, yet here she smelled the parchment and ink from the maps. Tea had stung her throat. She flushed remembering Emory’s touch and raised her hand to her cheek.
Petra stood and crossed the room. The dog followed her to the cupboard. “Shh,” she told him.
She didn’t mind if he watched, but she didn’t want Emory to see her.
Cherub sat and cocked his head, staring at her with large, brown eyes. Petra pinched herself. It hurt and left a small red welt. She put a finger between her teeth and bit. Ow. Pain, she definitely felt pain.
She picked up the knife from the cupboard and held it above her finger. Gripping the handle, she paused. She hated blood – the sight, the smell – especially her own. She wiped the blade on her skirt, remembering the cockfight. She took the knife to the fireplace where coals glowed in the grate and she stuck the blade in a small flame until the point turned black.
