“Aren’t you going to open your package, dear?”
I look down at my lap. My robe is gone, stored in the yacht with Father’s costume collection. My skirt flows past my knees; a single row of buttons lines the front of it. The handle of my clutch is pinned at my side, through the skirt’s pocket. Since I’d already refastened the chain to my locket around my neck, I’m left holding Balthazar’s gift.
“Not yet,” I say, taking a closer look at the cloth that wraps the gift. The textile is woven and embroidered with threads that are cream, red, and gold. Through the bumpy fabric, I feel a dense, metal object. “I think I’ll place it under the Christmas tree.”
Mother smiles as she wraps an arm around me. “Don’t wait too long. I’m not sure I can handle the suspense.” After sneaking a glance at the front of the car, she lowers her voice. “Your father won’t admit it, but I know he is dying to know what’s inside that package.”
“I don’t see why,” I say with a laugh. “I doubt Balthazar gave me an astrolabe or another scientific instrument.” I pinch at the gift through the cloth. Whatever’s inside could very well be made out of metal. “At least I hope it’s not an astrolabe,” I whisper, “but if it is, I will give it to Father.”
Mother raises her eyebrows. “And what if it’s jewelry?”
“Honestly, I hadn’t considered that.” I kiss her cheek. “If it is jewelry, then perhaps I’ll let you borrow it sometime.”
Mother’s laugh tinkles softly as she peers across me out the window to my right. It’s darker outside than when we left this morning. At least I assume it’s the same day. I’ll find out soon enough, when we return to the estate. I may be able to tell how many hours we’ve been gone based solely on Mona’s comments about how long ago the table was set.
Shadows stretch across snowdrifts in shades of white and blue. We pass a cluster of carolers with red cheeks and noses. They jingle bells, and their mouths are open in song like characters in my favorite Dickens novella. Electric bulbs shaped like candle flames shine through windows. Along a row of houses, children stand in doorways, their large eyes staring at us as we pass by.
“Now remember,” says Father, turning around and breaking the magic of the Christmas scene. “Do not tell your school friends about the yacht’s ability to travel through time. I’ve gone through a lot of trouble to keep it as hidden as possible from the local citizens of Folkestone. That is why the yacht and the Pipette are kept on the far end of the harbor in a private area that is secluded from the other watercraft. Only Mona and Attwater know of the yacht’s true purpose.”
“Of course, Edgar,” says Mother. “We wouldn’t think of disclosing your secret.”
I murmur my agreement, but not because I wouldn’t think of it—such thoughts have already passed my mind. I long to tell Frances about the adventure. If she only knew where the holiday card she gave me had been and who had seen it! But, seeing as she is a school friend, I will not tell her as per Father’s request.
“Excellent.” Father pats Attwater on the shoulder before resettling himself in his seat.
I wrap my coat more tightly around me as we turn the bend up to the estate. My mouth drops open. The light in my bedroom still shines in my window. “Do you see that?” I say to Mother, pointing. “The light was on when we left for the harbor. Why hasn’t Mona extinguished it?”
“I asked her to light it when we left, dear. She promised to leave it on until midnight so that we’d know whether or not it was still Christmas Day when we returned. Since your room faces the road in the direction of your father’s workshop, we can see it before the driver leaves us off in front of the house.”
“I see,” I say, rubbing my eyes. “I am happy Christmas isn’t over.” At the idea of pies and puddings, my stomach grumbles, seemingly renewed—cramping and seasickness forgotten.
***
Warmth from the fireplace adds to the contentment of a full stomach. Surrounded by Mother, Father, and Mona, I stare at the cloth-covered package nestled underneath the Christmas tree. It looks worn and plain compared to the brightly colored paper and ribbon covering the gifts around it. But it radiates charm and mystery, as if the songs of ancient times had been woven into it. The cloth is also more pleasant to look at than Father’s original gift of dusty, old blankets. The fact that Balthazar gave it to me makes it even lovelier.
“I’m ready,” I say, standing from one of the sofas.
Light from the fireplace and tree bulbs casts a cheerful glow across my parents’ faces. Father’s eyes open wide, appearing even larger through his glasses. Mother gives me an encouraging nod.
I kneel before the Christmas tree and reach for Balthazar’s gift. I tug at the corner of the cloth, freeing its folds, until it lies open like a placemat.
My eyes mist with tears. “After this, I’ll never be able to forget our trip to Ancient Persia.” Or Balthazar.
“What is it? Show us, dear.”
I turn to make the gift visible to everyone in the room. Light from the tree reflects off its shining surface. The object on top of the cloth is golden and smooth with multiple pointed ends bursting from its center. It’s a perfect replica of the Star of Bethlehem. Balthazar had somehow captured its shape, including its trailing beam, and formed it into a physical object.
“Why, whatever’s the matter?” Father looks as pained as he sounds. “Don’t you like it? An artifact like that—”
“No, that’s not it,” I say, sniffing. “The star is beautiful. I love it.”
Mother gives me a look of understanding and puts on a cheerful face. Perhaps she was on the receiving end of a broken heart once. “It is beautiful,” she says. “What will you do with it?”
“An object like that belongs in a private collection or museum,” Father interjects. After a firm look from Mother, he hangs his head. “But the young mage gave it to Shirlyn, so she should do whatever she pleases with it.”
“Actually...” I look up at the tree. The angel with the bent halo stares back at me. “I think there’s a way we might all enjoy it.”
Chapter 12
Father holds the stepladder steady while I pull the angel from the top of the tree and pass it down to Mother. The beam on the bottom of the star is hollow in the center, which is why I think it will make a lovely tree topper.
My eyes mist again as I press the peak of the topmost bough into the star. I wrinkle my nose to keep my tears from spilling over. “There. It’s perfect.”
A flash of warmth zaps my fingers that hold the star in place. Heat pulses through my fingertips. Startled, I let go. The star takes on an eerie glow. I want to descend the stepladder to admire the tree with its new topper, but I’m held in place as the star brightens.
“Shirlyn, be careful. Oh! You must come down from there.” I feel Mother and Father’s arms around me, easing me down the stepladder.
Still unable to break my gaze from the star, I exhale in wonder. The tree topper is both white and an array of colors, all at the same time. I imagine its light fills every corner of the room, though I’m not willing to look away to confirm whether or not it does. I remember Balthazar pointing from the Christmas star to the package he gave me and how I wondered what it could mean.
“It really is a perfect replica of the Christmas star,” I murmur. “Perhaps that’s what he was trying to tell me.”
“I continue to be impressed by the young mage’s talents,” Father says. “Someday, I must go back and further study the magi.”
“But as far as what’s happening right now, dear, what must we do?” Mother’s voice is pinched, the way it sounds when she wrings her hands around her wrists. “How long before the star burns out? And what if it starts a fire?”
“An excellent point, Elizabeth.” Sounds of the rifling and shuffling of objects accompany Father’s comment. I hear one drawer shut and another open.
Curious enough to look away from the star, I turn to watch what’s happening. From the cabinet near the fireplace, Father
pulls out a glove, which he uses to cover his hand before climbing the stepladder.
“What are you doing, dear?”
“After watching what happened to Shirlyn, I’m taking a suitable precaution.”
“You know that’s not what I meant,” Mother sighs.
Slowly, carefully, Father pulls the star from the top of the tree. The star’s light flickers and fades, taking on a fiery orange glow before turning back to gold.
“Well, now,” Father says. “That’s quite interesting. Shirlyn, do you mind letting me study this further? There are tests I’d like to run in my workshop.”
My heart sinks to the bottom of my stomach. I look to Mother for help.
She places her hand to the crease in her forehead. “You can run your experiments later. It’s still Christmas, Edgar.” She smiles at me. “I think the star should remain on the tree, at least until the Epiphany for Twelfth Night.”
I mouth the words “thank you” to Mother, saying the words in my heart rather than aloud.
“Yes, you are right!” Father scrambles up the stepladder to replace the star. “What a fine way to commemorate the night of the magi’s bestowal of their gifts to the child. And to think that one of the mages gave us a gift as well.” He slips the star back on the top bough and pulls his hand away.
I wait for the star to glow.
Nothing happens.
Seemingly baffled, Father pulls the glove from his hand, removes the star, and stuffs it back on top of the tree. “Perhaps it was a single use object,” he says, frowning. He looks down at me. “Why, I—I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry, dear.”
“That’s all right,” I say, trying to keep the shakiness out of my voice. “I suppose I can’t doubt what I saw, given that we all saw it. Perhaps it wasn’t meant to last. I mean, how would Balthazar have known that people from a distant country from the twentieth century would cut down a tree, prop it up indoors, and decorate it? Wouldn’t that seem foolish to him?”
Mother smiles at me, but she looks as if she’s about to cry.
“And how would he know that anyone from this time period tops their trees with stars or angels—or with anything at all?” At my question, Father opens and closes his lips, which bothers me because usually he has a theory about everything. “Unless...”
Once Father reaches the ground I take the star from him and climb back up the stepladder. I press the star onto the tree with my bare hand, as I had done before. Only, this time, I remember Balthazar’s hands covering mine after he gave me the gift.
I feel the heat and spark of the star coming back to life. The star glows until it bursts into a fiery brightness. “Unless,” I say again, “he predicted it.” My eyes sting with tears. “Just like the magi predicted the location of the star.”
“As farfetched as it may sound, you make good sense.” Father clasps his hands behind him. “Time travel is extraordinary in that it allows us to travel to the past and future—to different places in times. I don’t remember telling the magi that we were time travelers, but perhaps they sensed it. They do, after all, predict the future. Isn’t that like traveling through time with one’s mind?”
“I hadn’t thought of that, but it’s an interesting connection, Father.”
Mother taps Mona who gapes at the star that has been rekindled by my touch. “I hope its light will last until Twelfth Night,” she says. “But I don’t want it to present a hazard to us or the house. Would you be a dear and keep an eye on it in case the boughs get overheated? If it becomes necessary, please remove the star for our safety.”
Mona nods with her mouth still hanging open.
Eyes glowing, Mother continues, “Clearly this gift is meant for Shirlyn. If it needs to be relit, then she’s who must do it.”
Never in my life have I felt gifted with such power. Part of me wishes to bounce around the house and set other metal objects ablaze. I push back the absurd thought in favor of an entirely different thread of nonsense. I daydream of what it would be like for me to remain in Balthazar’s past or for him to be part of my present forever.
I hardly notice Mother, Father, and Mona leaving the room, leaving me alone with my gift.
The window nearest the tree looks out on the gardens, and the sun begins to set. Fluffy, white snowflakes fall from clouds, shimmering against a sky that’s painted in shades of pink and blue. I am reminded of how Balthazar created sand flakes that had turned into snow.
“Such a precious gift,” I whisper. “A memento of a very special Christmas, one that I’ll never forget.”
I love the gift, almost as much as I despise it, knowing Balthazar will not remember me. Even if I were travel to his past and meet him all over again, I doubt it would be the same. I’ll never have exactly what we had in that moment, a friendship that someday might have been something more.
Kneeling in front of the tree, I press my hand to my locket. The only portrait inside it is of me, lonely and marred by a half-written signature. Perhaps someday I’ll finish what I started. Should I get the opportunity to travel back in time again and meet someone, I won’t let the next one go.
Next time, he’ll remember me forever.
Epilogue
Seventeenth-Century Venice
I lift my visor once the bright light fades.
Father sits in front of me, holding an oar. He removes his helmet and gapes. I smother a laugh. No matter how many times we time travel, he always seems astonished at whatever new form the yacht takes to blend in with its surroundings.
Feeling the roll of water beneath us, I look over the side of the vessel to confirm what I hoped to see—that we’re inside a gondola. Instead of being painted black with a silver ornament pointing at its front, like the gondolas I see at the other end of the canal, ours is a dark chestnut color with a great brass ferro that beaks toward the sky.
“Goodness,” I mutter, admiring the changes in our yacht. “I hope it doesn’t stand out too much.”
Setting the oar aside, Father says, “What’s wrong, dear?”
“Our yacht-gondola doesn’t look anything like the others,” I say, pointing.
His cheeks sag. “Oh my. No doubt we’ve violated the sumptuary law enforced since the sixteenth century.”
“What do you mean?”
“According to the law—” He looks around before lowering his voice. “All gondolas must be black.”
“Must we change our plans?” Mother’s voice is filled with disappointment. “I was looking forward to this part of the trip as much as Shirlyn.”
“Unfortunately, I fear we should,” replies Father. “First, let us prepare for the impact of our arrival. Once that’s finished, we’ll get to dry land. I see no reason why we shouldn’t enjoy the festival; but instead of staying until tonight or tomorrow morning, we should leave this afternoon. The less time we spend here the better. I’d like to get back to this location before someone notices and runs off with our vehicle.”
We crouch low inside the gondola, holding our arms above our heads. The water underneath the vessel shakes with greater force. I want to watch what’s happening, but I don’t dare open my eyes to peek between my fingers. Doing so might make me seasick again.
The yacht-gondola rises and falls with a heavy thump. Water splashes at me from the left and right, drenching the sides of my dress. Since the Venetian festival is a masquerade, Father is letting us wear our ordinary clothes. My teeth chatter, though the water doesn’t trouble me. I want the impact to subside as soon as possible, so that Mother and I can buy carnival masks. Father will likely want one too—for his collection.
After another thump, all goes still and quiet. I lift my head to find that we’re not far from a platform surrounded by three poles that shoot up from the water, which is where I expect we’ll tie the gondola while we go exploring.
I move to stand.
“No, allow me.” Father raises a hand before standing up. The gondola sways from side to side as it adjusts to his weight. Carefully,
he dips the blade of the oar in the water and guides us toward the platform.
“Happy birthday, Shirlyn!” Mother brushes off my dress, as if she’s able to remove the water droplets that have already soaked into the fabric, and then wraps her arms around me. “I still cannot believe you’re sixteen years old.”
“I’ve been sixteen for days now,” I say, grinning. “I would have thought you’d be used to it by now.”
After many months of keeping my promise of not telling Frances about the travel yacht, Father surprised Mother and me with a trip to Italy during the time of year that happened to overlap with my birthday. But we haven’t been traveling through Italy as it is in the twentieth century. Before it became a unified nation, Italy was—per Father’s lengthy explanation—made up of various regions and city-states. We’ve now visited Rome, Florence, and Milan. Venice is our last stop.
Once Father ties the yacht-gondola, Mother and I follow him through the streets leading to the main square where there’s a marketplace filled with stalls and vendors. We find a man in a dusty black cloak who’s selling all different types of masks. He wears a mask that’s as white and pale as death. Almond-shaped holes outline his eyes, but his face is otherwise covered in a way that makes me ill at ease. He’s tied the mask around the back of his head with ribbon. Above it, sits a tricorn hat that would appear less frightening on a pirate.
After trying on a couple of the daintier masks, Mother selects one that’s nearly identical to the vendor’s. “I don’t see how I could part with this,” she says.
“Then you shall have it,” Father says with an approving smile. “I admire this one,” he adds, holding up a gilded monstrosity with rounded eyeholes and a nose that points to a beak.
I gape. I wouldn’t put such a thing anywhere near my face.
I settle for a mask with painted lips and eyes that have been dusted with stars, strapping it around my head as I consider how we might pay. Each place we visit on this trip seems to use different coinage. Perhaps Father will trade one of his inventions. I don’t have to wonder for long before Father and the vendor exchange words, a mix of English terms and those from the Venetian dialect. Coins transfer back and forth between their hands.
Wrapped in the Past Page 5