She touched the rich fabric of his shoulder cape. “Nice costume.” His hose and breeches—late Elizabethan or maybe early Jacobean—hugged powerful thighs, outlining his muscular calves. She cleared her throat.
“So, where are the paramedics or whatever?”
Almost as soon as the question was out of her mouth, she was distracted by shouting and what sounded like the crack of a whip. And horses neighing.
Horses? Neighing?
Her mother hadn’t said anything about horses. Her mother specifically excluded horses from animals she would watch. There was no way her mother had just . . . forgotten that the professor’s estate had horses. Forgetting it had a theater, maybe, but not horses.
Halley heard voices shouting nearby. Possibly rehearsing?
But this brought up another issue: Why would people be rehearsing at the professor’s estate while he was gone and the estate was supposedly unoccupied? She must have been taken off the estate. It was the only explanation. Her nose wrinkled as the pungent scents of horse piss and dung wafted past. Jillian’s stables never smelled as bad as this.
“Where are we?” asked Halley.
“The Theatre. Or the Curtain. I know them not one from the other.”
Halley frowned. This actor was starting to annoy her. She just wanted a straight answer. She wanted to know where she was and how long she’d been unconscious. She wanted to call her friends. As she reached for her cell, a heavy wind gusted past, leaving her shivering in her tank top. The temperature made no sense whatsoever. It was a hot day. With no breeze. Or it had been. The weather didn’t go from eighty-five and sunny to fifty and windy in the blink of an eye.
“How long was I unconscious?” she asked softly, reaching for her cell phone. Her screen was dead.
“I take not thy meaning,” said the man. “Un . . . conscious?”
“How long was I out of it? Passed out? Eyes closed?”
“Thy fall was but a moment ago,” replied the handsome actor. “Thou didst awaken almost without delay. What makest thou here?”
Halley frowned but didn’t answer. She had her own questions, thanks very much.
“Where am I? Seriously. All joking aside. And who moved me here?” she demanded.
“Thou art in Shoreditch, hard by London. At the playhouse. ’Tis the Curtain Theatre, methinks.”
At his words, her skin prickled.
She remembered standing between the Tesla coils, reading those words on the podium’s computer screen: Shoreditch. London. The Curtain Theatre. But that was impossible. Ridiculous. All the devices in the basement would have to be . . . would have to be . . .
She closed her eyes. Of course the devices weren’t real. Time machines weren’t real. She was being ridiculous to consider it. There was some rational explanation for all this. There had to be. But from behind her closed eyes, she saw again the words on the podium screen just prior to whatever the hell had landed her here.
The Curtain Theatre
Shoreditch
London
AD 1598
“No way,” she murmured. Her hand squeezed tightly around her phone. This wasn’t possible. Panic rose inside her. Where was she?
She looked up at the cloudy sky again. Shivered again as another gust of wind blew past her. Slowly, she formed her next question. “Are you trying to tell me this is . . . London?”
“Aye, mistress.” The stranger stared at her, eyes narrowing. “Where else should it be?”
“And . . . the year is . . . ?”
He stared at her oddly. “The year of our Lord 1598.”
She clenched her eyes tightly shut.
“You are not well,” said the stranger beside her.
No. She wasn’t. Not at all well. Not anywhere in the same universe as well.
She clutched her cell phone. She opened her eyes and looked at her screen again. It was dead. Blank. No power. No bars. No anything.
“Impossible,” she said again. Because it was impossible. Wasn’t it? She thought again of the blinding light. The sensation of having been frozen—tased—between the Tesla coil–like structures.
Shoreditch
London
AD 1598
6
• HALLEY •
“No way. No way. No way.”
Halley’s heart beat like a hammer against her chest wall. It was impossible. It had to be. Except for the inexplicable fact that she was no longer in Montecito. She was . . . here. And here was London. In 1598. The professor wasn’t a cinemaphile or a theater lover. He was . . .
A time traveler.
His Gutenberg Bible, his Stradivarius—these weren’t movie props. They were . . .
Impossible.
Halley’s stomach seemed to drop through the floor.
“I have to get back,” she murmured to the man at her side.
“Prithee, who is thy master?” asked the handsome man.
“I’ve got to get back,” Halley said again, standing up. Ignoring the beautiful questioner, she looked wildly around the theater, as if hoping the Tesla coil machinery had followed her here. “No,” she murmured. “No, no, no!”
“Peace, wench,” said the young man.
“I’m not a wench!” snapped Halley. Then her brow furrowed. Maybe she was. “Does ‘wench’ mean ‘girl’?”
“Aye. Wench. Girl. I’ll not call thee ‘trull.’” A slight smile played about the corners of his mouth.
“Okay. I won’t call you . . . ‘trull’ either.”
The mirth vanished from the handsome face. His expression grew confused and then distant. He stood. “I will help thee to thy master if I can, but my business is pressing and calls me elsewhere. Unless, hast thou seen Geoffrey Aldwych herein?”
“Um, no. I haven’t. I’ve only seen you.”
He was clearly anxious to leave, but something held him back.
“Thy pretty pate took a goodly knock, it would seem,” he said.
He was worried about her.
“Um,” said Halley, “You’re sure this is Shoreditch, London?”
“Aye. Thus much we have established.”
Half a smile pulled at his mouth. Was he amused by her? Well, that was better than being afraid of her. It was better than hauling her off to be burned at the stake, which they might plausibly do in Shoreditch in 1598 to girls who appeared out of thin air. She grasped her ring again, its carved, ridged surface comforting against her fingers.
“This is no place for girls, unless thou wouldst become a common trull,” said the young man. “Thy weeds have been ta’en from thee, methinks.”
“My . . . weeds?”
He frowned again, creasing all the smooth planes of his face. “Thy garb. Thy costume. Thy apparel.”
“Oh. My clothes. Right. Yes. You know, I think maybe I did lose a few layers.” If Halley was in the sixteenth century, she was dressed very provocatively indeed. Practically in her underwear.
She pressed her lips together, feeling her throat tightening in a prelude to tears. She couldn’t afford to lose it. This guy seemed friendly. And if she was stuck in 1598, she was going to need friends. No. She was a woman—she would need more than friends. She was going to need protection. A sword. A pistol. Something.
She thought quickly. No one was going to give her a weapon for the asking. The first thing she needed was money.
“Any chance you could get me some, uh, work for hire? I’m a hard worker. And an honest one. By the way, my name’s Halley.” She held out her hand to shake.
The young man frowned at her extended hand. Did they not shake hands in this society? Dammit! She had no clue what she was doing. Her throat tightened again. Her hand flagged.
The young man sighed. “It would seem this is hiring day. Canst thou bake or brew or mend?”
“Yes,” said Halley, nodding rapidly. “Oh, for sure I can.”
“What, all three?”
Halley shifted uncomfortably. “I can try.”
A sad smile bloomed
on the young man’s face. “I know not how thou cam’st to be here, but thou art too comely to safely tarry hereby in a state of undress.” He removed his outer cloak and placed it around her shoulders. “I am called Edmund Aldwych.”
And then, just as he finished his introduction, Halley felt heat flaring through her torso and out to her extremities. Now what? The earth seemed to drop from under her feet. Sensing herself falling, she instinctively grasped for Edmund.
Her muscles froze, and once more all was darkness.
7
• EDMUND •
Edmund had felt the earth shifting beneath his feet, and then, briefly, he’d burned as with fever. He thought there had been some great noise, too, and possibly a brief swoon. Upon finding himself fallen into a strangely lit chamber, his first thought was that the trembling ground had spilled Mistress Halley and himself through some part of the raised stage wall. It was certain something had given way. Edmund wondered if they had, perhaps, fallen into what the actors did call “hell”—that region beneath the playhouse stage. He’d heard of the mighty engines housed below-stage that caused spectacles to be displayed for the audience. He was, in fact, less ignorant of the theater and playhouses than he wished Mistress Halley to believe. He had heard Henry VI in this very playhouse, and seen the witch Jeanne d’Arc swallowed up into the bowels of hell, conveniently located below-stage.
Looking about, Edmund observed diverse contraptions; large engines, the likes of which he had never before seen, crowded the space and seemed to confirm they had, indeed, fallen belowground into hell. He and the girl had landed between two of the stage engines. Odd, unearthly lights flickered around them, seeming to pour down from overhead. Edmund was on the point of examining the source of the strange light when the girl in his arms stirred.
Mistress Halley inhaled as though awakening. This had been her second fall of the day; she would likely require the attentions of either a midwife or barber-surgeon.
“Mistress Halley, are you well?”
She didn’t respond. Her expression said much, however. She was clearly startled by her surroundings. In this matter, at least, he could set her at ease.
“It would appear we have fall’n below-stage into what the players do call ‘hell.’”
The girl grunted and then said quietly, “No. This isn’t hell. Definitely not hell.”
Having said this much, she stood, placed her hands on her hips, and staring at him, whispered, “Uh-oh.” Her voice was low. Soothing. As soft as her fair cheek, her lovely hands . . .
Edmund stood. He couldn’t afford additional distractions today. He began to brush straw from his breeches and jerkin.
“Stop, stop, stop!” said Halley. Pulling Edmund and herself off the raised dais upon which they stood, she then began to pluck up the bits of straw, shoving each of them into her pocket.
“Is that all of them?” she murmured to herself.
Was she damaged of mind? She’d spoken sense above ground, but perhaps the second fall had taken a greater toll.
She faced him. “The pieces of hay or whatever will give us away. We can’t leave any sign someone was here.” She placed her hands on her hips. “Oh my God. What am I supposed to do with you?”
“Mistress Halley—”
“Just Halley.” Her gaze darted wildly from the engines to a clerk’s desk and thence to a sort of pulpit situated before them. Avoiding the dais, she approached the pulpit, gazing upon its surface.
“Mistress Halley. I shall see thee safely to mine estate, where your injuries may be tended, but I must beg you will first remain with me while I seek my brother.”
“Um . . . your brother’s not here.”
Edmund smiled. “Aye, Mistress—aye, Halley, thus much have I observed.” Turning, Edmund looked for a way out. On the far side of the subterranean closet, he saw what might be stairs. “Let us depart,” he said with relief. He held his hand out to indicate the exit and then turned to face Mistress Halley.
Once again, he was struck by her appearance. Her face, though of a darkly shade, was flushed with color. She was altogether the loveliest creature Edmund had ever beheld. She gazed at him for a long moment, brows furrowed. Then she spoke.
“We’re not going that way,” she said decisively. “We’ve got to get you back where you belong. Yeah. I need to get you back.” She nodded.
“Aye,” said Edmund, with a soft laugh. But then he frowned. Should he first take Halley to the estate before seeking Geoffrey? It would be easier to travel London’s streets without the half-dressed girl. If he were to be set upon by more drunken idlers than he could fend off alone . . . His hand wandered to his sword hilt.
“Upon further reflection,” he said, “I believe it would be best if I were to entrust thee into the care of my steward and after seek out my brother.”
“Um, okay. Just hang tight for a minute while I get this thing rebooted.”
Mistress Halley was now examining the small pulpit set between the strange engines. She began to repeatedly tap the surface of the pulpit. “What’s wrong with you?” she said to the pulpit.
Edmund’s frown deepened. He was uncertain what her utterance signified.
“Come,” he said, growing impatient. “We must be gone.”
“I know. I know. I’m working on it.”
His responsibilities, already crowding round him, began now to press upon him. Edmund had no time to reason with a girl at once headstrong and . . . dim-witted.
“The door, good mistress, lies to the other side of this room.” He took two steps that direction.
“No!” She looked up from the pulpit with a frightened face. “You can’t leave. Don’t go that way. It’s not safe.”
An odd-colored light flickered from the pulpit. Edmund could not see the source of the light, but assumed it must be a colored-glass lantern. Pulling his attention from the light, he addressed their current plight.
“I see but one exit, mistress,” he said.
It was only at this moment that it occurred to him there was no trace of where they had broken their way through to this room. There was no gaping hole to the sky. No dirt upon this smooth slate flooring. No splintered wood from the stage wall. Had they perhaps fallen down by means of the stairs? How, then, did they end up on the other side of the room? He felt a sudden urgency to depart this uncanny place, with its strange machines, its devilish lights.
Taking large strides, he crossed to the stairs, calling, “We go,” in his most commanding tone.
“Don’t go!” cried Halley. “If you leave, I’ll never get you back where you belong.”
He glanced back. She remained at the pulpit.
“Come, wench. I can no longer bide here belowground.” He approached her. If need be, he could carry her. She surely weighed no more than eight stone.
He held out a gloved hand.
“Let us away,” he said, not unkindly. He would, at any rate, keep his temper.
“I have to reboot the system,” muttered the girl, still bent over the pulpit.
“Wench?” His tone was less patient, his hand still extended. It was high time he got back on Geoffrey’s trail.
She ignored him, continuing to mutter to herself. Edmund was growing more certain she needed a midwife’s care—and soon, too. He could not simply abandon her. He exhaled heavily. He would have to take her, will ye or nill ye.
“No help for it,” he muttered under his breath. Then, more loudly, he added, “I must go, and thou with me.” Without further ceremony he hoisted Halley as though she were a sack of grain and strode toward the stairs.
“Put me down! Hey! Let me go!”
Edmund ignored her instruction. “Thou art not thyself. My own midwife shall physick thee. When thou art recovered, we’ll speak of . . . goings.”
“I’m serious. You can’t walk up those stairs.”
The girl wriggled to get free, but Edmund’s hold was secure. He’d carried struggling beasts before this time, and the girl had neither hoov
es nor horns with which to injure him. But she did, evidently, know enough about a man’s body to aim a kick where it might have crippled him had he not grasped her foot in time.
“By the rood, girl,” said Edmund, testily. “I do thee no ill. I mean to help thee to medicine.”
At this point, Edmund emerged from the smooth-daubed stair passage and into a place most strange. This was no theater stage, nor tiring-house, neither. Where was he?
What was this place?
His grip relaxed and the girl succeeded in wriggling from him.
“God and all his angels have mercy on my soul,” murmured Edmund. “Methinks I am transported to . . .” He knew not how to complete the sentence. Transported he had been, but where? And how? Was the girl some faerie changeling? Or something more sinister?
“Back downstairs,” she said. “Now!”
Her voice was commanding, but she seemed to have no charms to force his limbs to obey. No devil, then, she.
“Mistress, whence hast thou taken me?”
“It would only confuse you if I tried to explain. Trust me when I say—”
Abruptly, Mistress Halley broke off her speech and turned her gaze to the place from whence they had emerged. “Uh-oh,” she said.
From the stairs there arose a strange noise, as of many beasts groaning together.
“What devilry is this?” asked Edmund.
“Follow me!” commanded Halley as she dashed back downstairs.
8
• HALLEY •
Halley’s relief at being returned to the professor’s estate and her own century was completely overwhelmed by the unfortunate facts of her situation. She’d brought someone with her from a different century—and continent—without having a clue how it had happened. Or even if the transporting was over yet. Was the machine, clearly in activation again, preparing to pull them forward or backward again? Icy tendrils of fear snaked through Halley’s stomach.
A Thief in Time (Thief in Time Series Book 1) Page 5