Then he turns, holds out his hand. I give him mine, feeling the strong close of his fingers. "You ready?"
No! I want to say suddenly. And by the way, will it hurt? I want to ask. As if I've spoken out loud, Gabriel gives my hand a little shake.
"We don't have to do this, you know."
"I want to," I answer. "I really want to."
He nods, looking back at the painting. He closes his eyes, so I close mine, too. All of a sudden I have that feeling you get on a roller coaster, just at the moment when the car has inched all the way up to the highest peak of the track and is poised, waiting to plummet and hurl down, down, down. Then everything shifts and swirls past me and I feel as if I'm standing in the ocean, the sand beneath my feet disappearing under my heels, leaving me balanced on air.
My eyes snap open. Focus, I think desperately, clinging to Gabriel, the bones of his hand solid and real. I concentrate on watching the shadows skim across the hardwood floors to pool in the corners of the foyer. A breeze is coming in from somewhere. There must be a window open and now it's making the candlelight flicker and sway.
Candlelight?
I turn my head. Branches and branches of candles line the wainscoted walls, their lights dancing and bobbing. Somewhere above our heads music is playing, violins and maybe a piano. "You did it!" I say, and Gabriel grins. "Is it always like that?"
Gabriel raises one eyebrow at me. "Did the earth move for you, too?"
"Oh, shut up!" I snap. Then I take a second look around. "Gabriel, this is Aunt Rennie and Uncle Chester's house." I gaze up at the familiar ceiling covered in polished tin that rains pieces of light all along the white walls. The windows are large and arched with wooden shutters pressed closed across the bottom halves, and the floors, polished to a gleaming mahogany, are interrupted here and there with the same Persian rugs that look decidedly newer in this century than in ours. And the life-size metal knight that's usually on the second floor now stands like a sentinel at the foot of the stairs. "Alistair said his family lost the clock in a card game to another family. It must have been ours and—"
"Really, Miranda," comes a voice from somewhere to our left. "I think you're being quite ridiculous. He's only the most eligible bachelor in town. It's natural that I danced with him."
"Yes, but you danced three times with him and you know that's not allowed by Mama's dance rules and—"
"Quick," Gabriel hisses in my ear, and we dart toward a closet. Just in time we press together into the small dark space that smells overwhelmingly of mothballs. Leaving the door slightly open, I try not to breathe in too much.
Two girls sweep into view and I can't help but wish that Agatha could be here to see their dresses—she would die. I feel a quick pinch of sadness that I'll never be able to tell her about this.
They're both wearing long white trailing gowns made of some silky material. One has her dark hair sculpted in elaborate swirls, and a large white feather curls over the left side of her face. She is the taller of the two, definitely more beautiful, and from the look of things the other girl seems to know this. Her gown is just as elaborate, but it doesn't seem to fit her body, which is shorter and stubbier. In a wheedling tone, the shorter girl says, "Yes, but I wanted to dance the waltz with him. You know the waltz shows me off perfectly, and you deliberately took that dance."
The first girl gives a light laugh that snaps off abruptly, like breaking icicles. "I did nothing of the sort. Did I fling my dance card at him? No, he approached and asked for that dance. What would you have me do? Tell him"—and here she puts on a sweet falsetto—"'No, my little sister would care to have that dance with you, and I must condemn you to that experience of missed steps, bruised toes, and insipid conversation'?"
"Oh!" The younger girl balls her hands into fists, and then quick as a flash she reaches up, snatches the feather from her sister's hair, and shreds it.
"You little wretch," the older girl exclaims. Suddenly, the pieces of feather in the younger girl's hand burst into flame and she drops them with a little cry. She sucks on her fingers, regarding her sister through narrow eyes. But before she can retaliate, an older woman enters the foyer. I can see her assessing the scene rapidly before the feather scraps disappear in a puff of smoke. She advances slowly on the two girls, the skirts of her blue taffeta dress rustling with every step.
"Mama," the younger girl wails, "Lavina did it again."
"She started it," the older girl murmurs. She passes one long hand over her hair as if to make sure it's all still there.
"Girls, what have I said about using Talents against each other?" Their mother's voice is low but forceful, and even I feel like taking a step back in the closet. "There's been enough division and strife as it is between us all and you have to turn against each other like that? Has our history taught you nothing?"
The two girls look down at the mahogany floor, the picture of guilt, and eventually their mother's face softens. "Now, they're about to serve dinner. Lavina, Mr. Collins is waiting to escort you in." A blaze of triumph spasms across the older girl's face before she quickly composes her features into a bland mask. Her sister is not so skilled, because she looks up, her mouth open in a mute wail. "Come along, Miranda," her mother says hurriedly. "Your brother will escort you." Miranda shuts her mouth, but she reaches over and gives her sister's waist a pinch as her mother turns to lead them out of the hall. Finally, they're gone and the hall is empty once more.
"Wow," I whisper as we step out of the closet.
"And you thought Rowena was bad," Gabriel murmurs. He rubs his hip. "Something was poking me in that closet."
"Gabriel," I say. "What did their mother mean about the strife 'between us all'?"
Gabriel shrugs. "I don't know."
"They were witches, weren't they?" I frown, trying to consider the implications as I think back over our history. I mean, I know the Puritans weren't the only ones who came over with the Mayflower. Uncle Morris has traced our family roots to the 1600s, but records are sketchy.
But Gabriel is already on to something else. "Okay, it seems everyone's going to be at dinner, so we've got a little time to check this out."
Suddenly, I look around. "Why didn't we land in the drawing room of the painting?"
Gabriel looks slightly abashed. "Um, sometimes I can get close, but it's not an exact science."
I nod, then say sweetly encouraging, "Don't worry. It happens to a lot of guys."
Grinning, he takes a step closer to me. "When we get out of here—"
But I'm already moving ahead of him. "Upstairs."
We cross the hall, duck past several open doorways, and steal up the stairs after I rub the knight's helmet for good luck. "Here," I whisper, and Gabriel, who is a few steps ahead of me, turns and comes back. We enter the room I'm pointing out. Thankfully it's empty of people. We navigate among the velvet couches and the settees, all the little knobs on the ornate furniture. "Wow, we could make a killing in the antiques market if we could carry this back. Can you—"
"Don't touch anything," Gabriel warns.
"Just this end table. We could sell it at the Chelsea Fair and—"
Gabriel gives me a warning look.
"Oh, fine. Be that way."
But he doesn't respond because he's staring at the clock. "Tam," he whispers. "That's it."
"I know that's it. I told you—"
"No," he says, giving my arm a squeeze to shut me up. "That's the clock. That's what he wants. Why, why?" he says, turning the word over as if looking for a way in. "Why here in this time, but not in ours?"
I don't have an answer as I study the clock. Up close it's even more beautiful than in either painting. It's small, about two feet long and a foot and a half wide. The wood is burnished to a deep cherry glow and the ruby chips on the face sparkle brilliantly. "Can we take it down?" I whisper to Gabriel. "I mean, we did come for it."
He looks doubtful, then moves forward, reaching out one arm to touch it.
"Stop this instant!
" a voice rings out from behind us.
EIGHT
WE BOTH WHIRL to find a tall man dressed in a black frock coat and glowing white shirt standing in the doorway. Even though his hair and his curled mustache are iron gray, his face is unlined, giving the unsettling impression that he could be any age at all. Moving toward us, he seems to be taking in our appearance with a mixture of shock and stern resolution.
"Who are you and what are you doing here?" he demands, stopping a few feet away from us. His gaze settles on my sandals and he opens his mouth as if to speak again but then checks himself and stares at us, his eyes the color of ice on a river.
"We ... I ... just wanted to take a closer look at it," I squeak. "Someone I know is looking for it."
"Who? Who sent you?"
"A professor," I say inanely, as if that esteemed profession is going to ease all of this man's doubts.
He shakes his head, studying us in silence. Faint laughter from downstairs drifts through the room. "You're children," he says finally, and the sadness in his voice makes me uneasy. Gabriel and I exchange glances. "And I gather"—here his gaze lingers on Gabriel's torn jeans and my sandals again—"you've Traveled quite a long way. Still, what must be must be," he says, and then his thin lips harden into a flat line and he lifts one palm. The flames in the fireplace leap and heighten as if in response and then my eyes are drawn back to the man's hand, where a spark suddenly flares into existence.
"Tam," Gabriel says in a low voice and wraps his arm around my waist just as the man shoots his hand out as if throwing a fastball. Fire blooms in the air and slams toward us like a tiny comet just as a wave of dizziness sweeps over me. Swaying against Gabriel's side, I raise one arm reflexively to shield my face, expecting any second to feel flames charring my skin.
And then the fire disappears in midair without ever reaching us.
The air is shimmering with a weird intensity. It's so clear that it's ringing in my ears, and with a start I realize that the same clear intensity is echoing inside me.
"How ... impossible," the man hisses and raises his other hand. This time the fireball flies at us with twice the speed of the first one. But nothing touches me. Again the fire vanishes.
Gabriel's arm slips from my waist and I look at him. His eyes seem huge in his face. "What the hell just happened?" he whispers fiercely to me.
"He tried to—"
"No! I just tried to take us back. And ... I couldn't."
Before I can digest this, the man raises his hand again and fire erupts from his palm.
Only to evaporate a second later.
I blink, then take one staggering step closer to the clock, my eye drawn to the scrollwork across the bottom half. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the man shake his fingers as if burned by his own fire. He sways backward, his lips shaped into a perfect O of surprise.
Seizing the moment, I move toward the clock, my eyes drawn to the hour hand, which looks sharp enough to cut flesh. It's pointing toward the roman numeral XII.
"Tam, don't," Gabriel mutters, and I look sideways at him, amazed to see the fear on his face.
"What?"
"I don't think you should."
"Why?" I am all too aware of the man a few feet away, listening to us.
Gabriel shakes his head. "Something about this ... let me." He looks at me. "Please, Tam. You don't have..."
I swallow, say nothing. Of course. I really can get only so far.
Frowning, Gabriel moves closer to the clock and reaches out one hand to touch it. "No," the man says, and I glance back to see him standing upright again, determination etching deep lines on his forehead. Just before Gabriel's fingers brush the scrolled edge, the man raises his hand again.
There's a hissing sound as Gabriel's hand fades right into the mahogany surface of the clock. From where I'm standing, it looks as if his arm ends at his wrist. At the same time he cries out, a single short breath of pain. "It's stuck. My arm. Burning off. Get it off!" His shoulder convulses, but he can't seem to pull his arm back. "Tam." His skin is draining of all color.
Furious, I turn back to the man. "Let him go, you bastard. Let him go!"
The man shakes his head, a stern expression on his face. "I did warn you. No one can touch that clock without consequences."
I turn back to Gabriel. Two thin streams of blood are trickling from his nose. "Run," he whispers.
Instead, I seize his arm and pull hard. Suddenly, we stumble backward onto a small couch. Moaning, Gabriel cradles his hand, but he lets me take it between my own. I examine his fingers. They appear to be whole and unbent. "It's okay, it's okay," I whisper as he trembles beside me.
"Impossible," I hear the man whisper again, and I lift my head, glaring at him. He looks even more shaken than before.
"Decided to take pity on us?" I snap.
A frown unfurls across his face. "I did nothing of the kind."
I stare at him. Something whispers in the back of my mind and settles into place with a soft click. I leap up from the couch, flinging myself forward toward the clock.
"Tam, no," Gabriel calls. There's a small thud as if a chair has tipped backward and I feel a rush of movement behind me as if something or someone is reaching for me.
But I put out both hands and lift the clock off the wall, as easily as pulling a pin from my hair.
NINE
"NOW WHAT?" I say defiantly to the man in the frock coat. "Now what do you have to say?" But my words sound weird, as if there is a sudden echo in the room. It takes me three seconds to figure out what's wrong. There's no sound outside of my voice. The fire has stopped cracking and popping behind me. Even Gabriel's breathing, ragged and hoarse just a few seconds ago, is cut off. It's as though a door has swung shut and all sound has vanished. I look at Gabriel. His eyes are glazed over, his mouth set in a straight line, his long fingers still, the way they never are in life. Suddenly, I am more afraid than ever. "Gabriel?" I whisper, stepping toward him.
What have I done?
I whirl to look at the man in the long frock coat. I stare intently at him, waiting, waiting, until finally he blinks. "You're awake!" I accuse. "What happened to Gabriel?"
If possible, the man looks even more shaken than I feel. "I assumed you knew what you were doing."
"Does it look like I know what I'm doing?" I snap. I look down at the clock in my hands, then squint and shake my head. Faint letters have begun scrolling across the bottom of the face, but every time I try to focus on them, they shimmer and rearrange themselves to spell out gibberish.
He hesitates, then says slowly, "You don't ... no idea..." He runs a hand over his mouth, stares at me. Finally, he pieces together a full sentence. "You really don't know what you've done, do you?" he asks, and there is a darker, more desperate note in his voice now. He steeples his long fingers, presses them to his lips, and eyes me doubtfully, as if waiting for something.
I stare at him.
Finally, he steps back and sighs. "The minute is up. The power has passed. I suppose the damage could be worse." But it sounds as though he doesn't even believe himself.
"What are you talking about?" I wrap my arms more tightly around the clock and he gives me a half smile, as if too weary to complete the effort.
"Oh no, young lady. You are mistaken. I don't want that clock anymore."
"You did just a minute ago. You seemed ready to kill us over it!"
"Yes," the man agrees. "But that was a minute ago. That is now ... merely a clock." He tilts his head to one side, adding, "I think your professor will be disappointed. And now"—he straightens up, smoothes the front of his coat—"I must be going. And so should you."
And with that he's gone. No puff of smoke, no dazzle of lights. Just a sudden and complete winking out of existence.
"Tam?" A weak voice from the couch pulls my attention away from the now empty corner of the room. Gabriel is blinking up at me. "What happened?"
"You're alive," I say, and to my intense embarrassment my voice wavers
and cracks.
I set the clock down on a spindly-legged table next to me and then walk over to the couch, sinking down beside Gabriel. His head has fallen back and his eyes are closed. At least his nose has stopped bleeding. "Are you okay?" I ask. At this he opens his eyes, looks at me.
"Once I did this bar crawl on St. Patrick's Day. Ever do one of those?"
I shake my head.
"Right. Well, I threw up beer for hours. Hours. Green beer."
I wince.
"At the time I thought the only thing worse than throwing up beer was throwing up green beer in the back of a cab." He glances at the clock again. "But that was nothing compared to what I just felt." He straightens up and puts his good hand on my knee for a second. "Let's get out of here. I've had enough of 1899."
I nod, then stand and pick up the clock again. A soft rhythmic ticking is coming from it.
"You're taking that?" Gabriel looks at me from the couch.
"Why not? It's just a clock now. You heard him."
Gabriel approaches warily but finally takes my hand and closes his eyes again.
This time I keep my eyes open.
Colors and light blur past me in a dizzy kaleidoscope. Why can't I, Mama? I hear a petulant voice say, but I never do hear the response because a man is laughing. You will burn as a witch for all eternity, someone else says in a cold, precise voice, and then cutting across anything else that voice might have said is the long and lonely sound of a train whistle. All sound speeds up and I have to close my eyes because I can't close my ears, and then suddenly I feel cool wood pressing against my skin and I open my eyes again. I am lying on the floor, sprawled in Gabriel's arms. Obviously, he's still not feeling that well, because the expected innuendoes are not forthcoming. Instead, his eyes remain closed and his skin has taken on a faint gray tinge. From this vantage point, I can see that Aunt Rennie and Uncle Chester aren't too into mopping the floor.
Aunt Rennie and Uncle Chester! I untangle myself from Gabriel, leap up from the floor, and rush to the window. Dusk seems to have fallen and with it a light rain. The streetlamps of Washington Square Park are blazing, and yellow taxis, some with their off-duty lights blinking, swish past. Here and there people shake open black umbrellas while others just run past, wet shoes slapping against the pavement, books or newspapers covering their heads.
Once a Witch Page 7