by Eloise Flood
In a few minutes it was done. The standing stones looked exactly the same as before. But Phoebe thought she sensed a difference in the presences. The darkness had lifted. The brooding feeling had given way to something more serene.
“Well,” she said after a moment. “That’s that, I guess.”
She glanced at her watch. It was only a little after ten o’clock. Still two hours before Piper had to freeze Niall.
She walked over to where he stood by Diana. With the destruction of the stones, Diana seemed to have lost all her fight. She huddled on the ground now, limp and frightened-looking.
Phoebe slid her arms around Niall’s waist. “We did it,” she said.
He smiled down at her. “I find I’m quite looking forward to the next fifty or so years with you,” he said softly.
Fifty years. Boy, did that sound great.
Phoebe held her mouth up to his for a kiss. Her eyelids fluttered closed.
And then, as their lips met, a vision slammed her. Her whole body jerked rigid. Her eyes snapped open.
“No,” she gasped. “No!”
CHAPTER
13
Grainy, jerky images paraded relentlessly in front of Phoebe. The Marketplace at Hay-on-Wye, but instead of the upscale cafés and shops Phoebe was used to, it was filled with beggars and dirty, skinny children selling cheap knickknacks. Mrs. Jeffries’s whitewashed cottage, now a sagging ruin with a pile of rusted car parts where the lovingly tended garden had been. The Trelawney Hotel—gone completely. In its place was a weedy lot bisected by a stream of dark, oily water. Then the scene switched to San Francisco, but a San Francisco that, apart from its steep hills, was almost unrecognizable as Phoebe’s home. There was no color anywhere. The houses were all painted stark white. The people all wore black. The street signs and billboards were all in Spanish.
Like an avant-garde film, the vision swooped in on the great cathedral at Washington Square. Phoebe saw its familiar white façade. Then the view widened to include the square itself, where a crowd watched as a black-robed priest solemnly supervised the flogging of a man. The man was spread-eagled between two posts. Phoebe could hear the sickening crack of the whip snapping against his raw flesh.
“No,” she gasped. “No, stop it!”
“Phoebe. Phoebe!” Gradually she became aware of hands shaking her, of a voice calling her name.
She opened her eyes. Niall was gazing down at her, his brow furrowed with worry. Behind him she glimpsed Piper and Prue.
“What happened?” he asked. “It’s just like when I first met you.” His eyes widened with a sudden realization. “Did you have another one of your visions?”
Her mind was still spinning, all she could do was nod.
The vision was connected to Niall, that much she knew. That’s why it came when she touched him. But what did it mean?
She felt a slow dread creeping over her. Did she really want to know?
“Phoebe, what did you see?” Piper asked. For a moment Phoebe was tempted to answer, “nothing.” But she knew her sisters would never believe that. Besides, as a Charmed One she had an obligation to the truth.
So she swallowed hard and told them all about her vision. When she finished there was a long silence.
“I just don’t get it,” she said. She felt as though her voice was a little too loud, but she couldn’t help herself. She saw Prue open her mouth to speak, and rushed on. “I mean, I know what you’re thinking, Prue. You, too, Piper. It’s obvious. But come on, what does Niall being here in our time have to do with anything? How could his presence possibly turn Hay-on-Wye into a slum town? Or San Francisco into a city that looks like it’s being run by the Spanish Inquisition?”
“Phoebe,” Prue said in a gentle voice. “Maybe it’s not his presence that’s the problem.”
Piper stepped forward and put a hand on Phoebe’s arm. “Maybe it’s got more to do with his absence in the past.”
“You mean, I’ve changed history by not going back?” Niall asked slowly.
Prue nodded. “That’s what it looks like.”
“Maybe it wasn’t you,” Piper said. “As you say, you’re not in any of the history books. But maybe one of your children or grandchildren is.”
“No!” Phoebe burst out. She stamped her foot. “No, no, no! There could be a thousand other explanations. I’m sorry, but I’m not just going to lie down and accept this one. I’m not!”
She could feel Prue and Piper gazing at her, but she didn’t look back at them. She knew what she’d see in their eyes: Pity.
“Diana did research on my lineage,” Niall said suddenly. “Apparently she had to, in order to create the spell that brought me here. It’s all there, at her flat.” He gave a slight, crooked smile. “I never looked at it because I didn’t want to see how insignificant my life really was. But now I suppose I’d welcome insignificance.”
Phoebe glanced down at Diana. She returned the look with a sullen glare.
“Let’s go,” Prue said.
Half an hour later they were gathered in Diana’s small study. Prue had taken Mrs. Jeffries home and put her to bed with a forgetting spell on her. In the morning she’d wake up with no memory of what had happened to her during the last two days.
Diana lay on the couch in the living room; Piper had cast a sleep spell on her so that Niall and the Charmed Ones could work in peace.
“Here,” Niall said. He handed a slim folder to Prue. “That’s it—my life, according to Diana.”
Prue took the folder and flipped through it. There were several pages covered with Diana’s bold, looping script. “It looks like she found a Web site that traces the genealogy of prominent Welsh families,” she commented as she scanned the notes. “You’re not so insignificant after all, Niall. Apparently you married and had four daughters.”
Phoebe made a little choking noise. Prue glanced up at her.
“I’m okay,” Phoebe said quietly.
Prue nodded and returned to the notes. “According to Diana’s research, your oldest daughter, Gwyneth, married the local lord, Rhys of Penarth.”
“The son of my foster brother Idris!” Niall exclaimed. His eyes softened. “He’s a good lad, if a bit wild.”
“They had two sons,” Prue went on, turning to a fresh page of notes. Then she frowned. Something wasn’t making sense. “But one of them died when he was nine years old—and the other entered a monastery in the year 617. Rhys’s line ends there. The Penarth lands went to Rhys’s sister and her family.”
“So Niall doesn’t have any descendants through Gwyneth,” Piper said. She frowned. “What about one of the other three?”
Prue skimmed rapidly over the remainder of Diana’s notes. “Diana couldn’t find any record of what happened to them,” she said, feeling frustrated. “Only Gwyneth—I guess because she married nobility.”
“So.” Phoebe leaned back against a file cabinet and folded her arms. “We’re still no closer to having a clue. Now what?”
“Phoebe, I know it’s horrible,” Piper said gently. “But we have to face facts. Even if we don’t know exactly how, we can be pretty sure that keeping Niall here does alter history. I mean, that’s clearly what your vision was about.”
“Don’t say that,” Phoebe said. Her voice shook. “I know what it looks like. But I want something more definite. If he really does have to go back to his own time, I want to know why.”
Prue bit her lip. Phoebe looked close to tears, and Prue couldn’t blame her.
“Let’s try it from a different angle,” she suggested. “Okay, what was there in Phoebe’s vision that was different from our reality? Maybe if we can figure that out, we can sort of work backward and figure out what caused it.”
“ Everything was different,” Phoebe muttered. “San Francisco looked like medieval Spain, and Hay looked like Calcutta.”
“Well, California was originally colonized by Spain,” Piper pointed out. “Maybe they managed to hang onto it somehow, instead of losing
it to the Americans.”
“Right.” Prue nodded, her eyes narrowing as she thought. “But how would that happen? And how does it tie in with what Phoebe saw here in Hay? There has to be a common thread.”
Niall had been listening silently all this time. Now he cleared his throat. “Did not England also colonize America?” he asked. “I read about it in one of the history books Diana gave me.”
“That’s right,” Prue told him. “So?” Niall shrugged. “Well, perhaps something went wrong with England,” he suggested. “Something that made them lose their wealth and power.”
“You’re right. That would explain both the terrible poverty here in Hay and the Spanish presence in San Francisco. Maybe England simply didn’t have the resources to colonize the new world.” Prue felt a prickle of excitement. “And the source of both England’s wealth and her power during the age of empire was the sea. Between the Royal Navy and the various merchant fleets, like the East and West India companies, England’s ships totally controlled the oceans.”
“So if something happened to England’s ship industry,” Piper said slowly, “then England might never have become a great world power. Wow—that’s pretty wild.”
“Niall is a sea captain. He lived on the coast. It would make total sense if at least one of his descendants was also a seaman,” Prue pointed out. She was starting to get that buzz that happened sometimes when she got a good lead on an antique. They were on the right track—she had a feeling.
“Yeah, but we’re still at square one. Even if you’re right, and this does have something to do with the English ship industry, how will we ever figure out what? It could have been anything!” Phoebe slapped her palm down on the top of the filing cabinet in frustration.
“Not necessarily,” Prue said. She reached down and punched the On button on Diana’s computer. Time for a little on-line research. “There were a few really key moments in maritime history. One of them was the Spanish Armada.”
“The what?” Niall asked.
“The Armada,” Phoebe explained. “It was a huge fleet of ships sent by Spain to attack England in 1588. They were trying to invade England to place the Spanish king, Philip, on the English throne. But the English managed to beat them off.”
“Right.” Prue managed not to sound surprised. Phoebe might not seem like the scholarly type, but by now Prue knew that there was a lot more to her youngest sister than her slightly flaky presentation might lead you to believe.
“If Spain had managed to conquer England, they would have been the dominant sea power,” Prue added, seeing that Niall and Piper still looked blank. “History probably would have been completely changed from that time on.”
“But mainly what happened with the Armada was luck, or chance, or whatever you want to call it,” Phoebe argued. “Half their fleet was crippled by storms before they ever got to England, and the other half got wrecked off the Irish coast when they were trying to regroup. Even if Niall’s great-great-great-grandson a hundred times removed was Sir Francis Drake himself, I don’t think it would have mattered. The English didn’t beat off the Armada because they had great commanders. They just had better luck.”
“Are you so sure it was luck?” Prue asked. She looked around at the other three. “Remember who Niall’s father is.”
Piper gasped. “Are you saying that there might have been magic involved in the defeat of the Spanish Armada?”
Prue shrugged. “I’m saying it’s a place to start looking.” She scanned Diana’s computer screen and clicked on one of the desktop icons. A moment later she was online. She typed in “Spanish Armada” and hit the Search button.
Phoebe and Piper leaned over her shoulders as the computer searched. A list of Web sites popped up. Phoebe groaned. “Those are the first ten of seven hundred and ninety-six sites. We’re going to be here forever—and we don’t even know if we’re on the right track!”
“It’s past eleven,” Niall added. “We’ll need to hurry if I’m not to become a pile of ashes at midnight, too.”
Phoebe turned and hugged him fiercely. “Don’t talk like that. Even if you’re only joking.”
Prue was already scrolling through the first of the sites. It was a history Web site. She shook her head as she scanned paragraphs of dry text. She didn’t want to say anything, but to herself she admitted that Phoebe had a good point. They didn’t even have a name for Niall’s hypothetical descendant. How were they ever going to find him, assuming they were even looking in the right place?
She clicked on the second site. More text. Sir Charles Howard, Earl of Nottingham, led the British navy against the Spaniards. . . . She clicked on his name, which was highlighted. Could he have been Niall’s descendant?
It didn’t seem likely. Nottingham was all the way over in the East Midlands, in the middle of the country, and the Howard family had lived there for centuries.
The third Web site Prue opened was an online art gallery, apparently put together by an amateur history buff who had a special interest in the Spanish Armada. “ ‘World’s only collection devoted entirely to representations of the Armada and its key players,’ ” she read aloud.
“Sounds like a crank,” Phoebe grumbled.
“Let’s have a look.” Prue clicked on one of the pictures, a portrait of Sir Charles Howard.
The scene that slowly assembled itself on the screen showed a thin man with pale eyes and wispy straw-colored hair, seated in a carved wooden chair with a high back. He wore a blue velvet doublet under a brown furred coat. On his head sat one of those Elizabethan hats that, to Prue, basically looked like a velvet throw pillow.
It was a family portrait. On Sir Charles’s left sat his wife, a dark-haired woman who held a baby in her arms. At the couple’s feet were three more small children and a couple of majestic-looking dogs.
Prue was about to move on to the next Web site when Phoebe gasped.
Prue spun around. Phoebe stood there, her hand pressed against her mouth, her eyes wide with shock.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered. “Niall, take a good look at his wife. She’s a dead ringer for you.”
Everyone bent forward to stare at Lady Mary. Prue took in her blue-gray eyes, and the way her hair curled back from her forehead in a pattern that was somewhere in between a widow’s peak and a cowlick.
“You’re right,” she agreed. “Guys, I think we found Niall’s descendant. Only it’s not a him— it’s a her.”
“And she’s a witch,” Piper murmured. “Look at her. You can see it in her eyes—that watchful look. She’s got a secret.”
“Now we know the real reason why the Spanish Armada failed,” Prue said. She felt goose bumps prickle her arms.
“Wait a second, guys,” Phoebe pleaded. “Don’t you see how thin all this is? Usually I’m the one coming up with the crazy ideas, but this is too much even for me! I mean, even if we say that this woman Mary Howard is Niall’s great-great-great-times-a-hundred granddaughter— which is a big leap right there—how can we possibly go from there and say she’s a witch and she sank the Spanish Armada? It’s ridiculous! There’s no evidence!”
Prue’s heart ached with sympathy, but it was Niall who spoke up.
“Phoebe,” he said softly. He rested his hands on her shoulders and gazed into her eyes. “You and I both know, deep down, that it’s true. As far-fetched as it seems.” He sighed. “From the moment we thought of the counterspell to keep me here, I’ve been living in this happy dream, but there was always a little voice whispering to me that it was just a dream, no more. That it couldn’t last. It’s wrong to use magic to change the natural order of things. That’s what Diana and her crew were trying to do. And even though our motives were so different, the result would have been the same.”
Tears glistened bright in Phoebe’s eyes. “But I can’t stand to think of you going back and marrying someone else. I don’t want to lose you.”
“Nor I you,” he said. “But because we have loved each other, we never will.”
Prue glanced at her watch. Seven minutes to midnight. She cleared her throat and took Piper’s hand. “Let’s give them some privacy,” she whispered.
Piper nodded. The two of them quietly left the room.
They stood in the living room. Piper eyed Diana, who was stretched out on her couch, fast asleep. “What are we going to do with her?” she asked.
Prue shrugged. “Nothing. I think she’s harmless now, since we destroyed the standing stones. That’s where she drew her power from, according to Niall.”
“Mmm,” Piper said. “I guess from now on she’ll really be the mystical flake her landlord thinks she is.”
There was a click as the study door opened. Phoebe stepped out. She was alone.
Prue looked closely at her youngest sister. Phoebe was pale, and there were tear tracks on her cheeks. But she looked calm.
“He’s gone,” she said quietly. “He used Merlin’s rune to send himself back. It worked.”
BONG! Somewhere in Diana’s apartment, a clock began to chime. It was midnight exactly.
Prue stepped forward and put her arm around Phoebe’s shoulder. “We know how much it hurts,” she said. “But take it from someone who’s been there. You will get through it.”
“We’ll help you,” Piper added. She tucked her arm through Phoebe’s on the other side.
“Thanks,” Phoebe said. “You know, I was thinking . . . with all those daughters Niall had, there could be dozens of his descendants walking around today. Hundreds, even.” She flashed a watery smile. “Doesn’t it seem likely that at least a few of them are men? Single men?”
Prue laughed. She could see the effort the joke cost Phoebe. But at least she was trying. That was a good sign.
“That’s our Phebes,” Prue said. “Come on, let’s get going. The night isn’t over yet.”
“Wait a second. What did I do with my passport? I think I left it in the room,” Phoebe said. She rooted through her bag. “Oh, never mind. Here it is.” She pulled out the passport, which was covered with purple powder from an open box of incense cones. “Huh. How did that happen?”