Thoroughly Kissed

by Kristine Grayson

  That would certainly explain why Helen had come into his office. The students had probably projected the images of his furniture in her office, making it seem as if the furniture had transferred.

  Brilliant. He would have to search for the source of it in a moment.

  Even though that didn’t explain why Helen’s skin had been so cold, why she had looked as if she had been made out of stone.

  He had never really touched her before. Maybe her skin was naturally cold. Maybe he had only thought she had looked frozen in stone.

  Maybe she was in on it.

  He shook his head. Helen wasn’t really one for practical jokes. Neither, it seemed, was Emma Lost. She had bolted from his office like a frightened child.

  He ran a hand through his hair. He supposed he owed her an apology—for the weirdness, not for saying she was incompetent. He would have to be clear about that. Which, of course, would continue the argument.

  But he had to let her know where he stood. This was his department now, and her presence was tainting it. It would be unethical for him to keep her on board, knowing how bad her research was. It would be like the Washington Post keeping on that woman who had made up the newspaper articles that had won her the Pulitzer Prize. Yes, the work seemed credible, but it wasn’t. And if Emma Lost got caught, it would reflect badly on the school, the department, and him.

  He put a hand on his desk just to make sure it was there. It was. It felt smooth and warm to the touch, just as it always had. Now that magic trick had seemed amazingly real. Just like Emma Lost’s research. For most people, all she needed was to be convincing, but Michael was a man who liked proof. A man who understood reason, and who believed in accuracy above all else.

  She may have thought she found a sinecure here at the University of Wisconsin, but she was about to learn that she was wrong.

  ***

  Emma opened the door to her office and slipped inside. She put a hand to her forehead. Could this day get any worse? Darnell turning into a lion, being told that her boss was out to get her, and then making his furniture disappear while turning his secretary to stone.

  This problem had to be solved, and it had to be solved now. Emma couldn’t walk through campus like this. Her magic might spontaneously erupt and then what would happen? The statue of Lincoln might come alive. Or the famous photo of the pink flamingos on Bascom Hill might become a reality—with real flamingos instead of the plastic lawn variety.

  Or something worse might happen, something like—turning Michael Found into a toad.

  Then Emma shuddered. She’d been changed into a toad once and it hadn’t been a very pleasant experience. It certainly wasn’t something she wished on anyone, not even anyone as irritating as Michael Found.

  She stopped in front of the photograph she had put up of Portland, Oregon. The majestic bridges crisscrossed the Columbia River, a beautiful skyscape that she would never have seen in her youth.

  Aethelstan was there, with his restaurant, and all his knowledge. If she had control over her magic, she could pop herself there right now.

  But she didn’t. And that was the problem. She was half afraid to move or even open her mouth. She didn’t know what would happen next.

  Then her shoulders relaxed. Aethelstan had given her a few other emergency words and the most important, he had said, was the one that took her to the Fates.

  The Fates were the women who governed the rules of magic for Emma’s people. The Fates settled all disputes, and governed as a ruling tribunal, holding legislative and judicial powers in their beautiful hands. Emma hadn’t given them much thought, since she didn’t plan to come into her magic for another twenty years. But the Fates would be the best ones for her to see. They would understand that something had gone wrong—that Emma’s coma had interfered with the natural flow of things—and they would repair this damage.

  They would also be able to put off her magic for another twenty years. They would yell at her for not training, of course, and she would have to promise to train, but that couldn’t be so bad. It wouldn’t be bad. She wouldn’t let it.

  She clenched a fist and mumbled the small incantation that Aethelstan had given her.

  There was a small crackle, and then a bang. For a moment, she thought the incantation hadn’t worked, and then she realized she was hot. Very hot. And the air was so humid that she could feel it like a presence against her skin. Her dress clung to her and her hair had immediately become damp. A trickle of sweat ran down her cheek, and settled at the base of her jaw.

  She was in a grotto. The sun was out—a blazing summer sun—but she was under weeping trees of a type she didn’t recognize. The pool before her glistened greenly in the shade.

  Emma swallowed. She must have done something really wrong. She was alone here, in a place she didn’t even recognize. Her stomach clenched and she flashed back to waking up from her thousand year coma in that VW microbus, in a world made of steel and asphalt, facing a woman who spoke a completely different language.

  Emma still had nightmares about that moment—and the first car ride, moving at speeds impossible to her tenth-century brain.

  Had she just switched venues again? Had she hurt herself another time? She clasped her hands together and made herself take a deep breath. The worst thing she could do was panic. Especially with her magic bouncing loose like this. If she panicked—

  A woman’s head broke the water’s surface. She pulled herself onto a nearby rock like a seal, her long blond hair covering her nakedness like a shroud.

  “Oh, dear,” she said when she saw Emma. “I hadn’t expected visitors.”

  “Forgive me,” Emma said, “but I’m looking for the Fates.”

  “Well, why else would you be here?” The woman leaned into the water until it covered her nose and mouth. She spoke, and Emma heard the words as if she were underwater: Atropos, Lachesis. We have a guest.

  Emma felt her back stiffen. She had heard of the Fates, but never really met them. Of course, she had read all that the mortals had written about them. The Greeks were the mortals most familiar with the Fates. They had actually gotten close enough to understand some of what the three women did.

  Atropos held “the abhorréd shears,” which cut the thread of life, and Clotho—the blond whom Emma had been speaking to—spun the thread of life. Lachesis was the one who determined how long that life would be. Some called Lachesis’s duty to determine a person’s destiny, but in truth all three of the Fates did that.

  Two other heads broke the surface. One belonged to a redhead whose hair was a beautiful, curly auburn—even while wet. The other to a brunette. They each swam to different rocks and climbed on. They remained naked.

  Emma shifted uncomfortably. She was too used to the mortal world. People did not have conversations while naked. At least, not four people. Maybe two. And certainly not her.

  “So, child,” Clotho said. “Why did you disturb our daily swim?”

  Emma glanced at all three of them. They looked like mermaids—beautiful, slender, and powerful all at the same time.

  “Are you uncomfortable, my dear?” the redhead asked. “You could join us.”

  She waved a hand and another rock appeared.

  Emma’s dress felt like a wet blanket, and she had never been so hot in her life. But she had no swimming suit, and she couldn’t imagine getting in that water, naked or otherwise. She threaded her hands in front of herself, swallowed, and tried to sound calm.

  “I came into my magic,” she said.

  “Well, it’s about time.” The brunette leaned forward, held out her hand, and a pair of scissors grew out of the air. She used the scissors to trim a strand of her hair, and then the scissors disappeared.

  The brunette, then, was Atropos.

  Emma took a deep breath. “No,” she said. “I’ve still got t
wenty years.”

  “Twenty years of what?” Lachesis, the redhead, frowned at her.

  “Freedom,” Emma said. “I don’t know if you know who I am.”

  Clotho rolled her eyes. “My child, you have been the topic of debate in the august body for a thousand years. Believe me, we were more relieved than you were when Aethelstan finally found a solution to his problem.”

  “And understood what we told him all along.”

  Emma had no idea what they were talking about. “What did you tell him?”

  “That you would lead him to his one true love. For some reason, he thought you were his one true love.”

  “Until he met her, of course.”

  “And then that certainly confused him.”

  The Fates laughed.

  Emma didn’t think this amusing at all. That misunderstanding had cost her a thousand years of her life. And, if the truth be told, that first kiss with Aethelstan—the one that sent her into the magical coma—was nice, but it wasn’t great. No hearts and flowers and bells and whistles and fireworks like she saw in all the movies. Just a pressing of the lips and then a weird feeling in the pit of her stomach before everything went black.

  “Please,” she said. “I’m here about the magic.”

  “Oh, yes.” Lachesis waved a hand over her hair. It dried instantly into a flowing, waving black cap, shorter than it had been a moment before. “You said something about freedom.”

  “You are quite free,” Clotho said. “No one has interfered in your life in ten years.”

  “I know,” Emma said quietly. “But I would like you to.”

  The Fates were silent for a moment, and then Atropos sighed. “We cannot adjudicate like this.”

  “Why not?” Lachesis said. “We have done so before.”

  “It makes the girl uncomfortable,” Clotho said. “She has adopted her new century, society, and culture beautifully.”

  “Well, not beautifully enough,” Atropos said. “There are places where nudity—”

  “Please,” Emma said. “Can we talk about my magic?”

  Lachesis snapped her fingers, and the grotto disappeared. It became a courtroom made of mahogany. The air was cool, and Emma’s wet dress gave her a chill. She shivered.

  The Fates sat behind a large judge’s bench, their names before them. Instead of holding a gavel, they each held small symbols of their duties: Clotho a spool of thread, Atropos a pair of scissors, and Lachesis a ruler. They wore long black robes and all three had their hair piled on top of their heads. Lachesis wore a pair of glasses at the edge of her nose, making her look both beautiful and wise.

  “All right,” Atropos said. “This is better.”

  “No,” Clotho said. “The child is freezing. You cannot come to court looking as if you’ve been swimming with your clothes on.”

  She snapped her fingers and Emma found herself wearing a silk suit. It was a shade of purple she never wore at home, but she had to admit that it set off her hair. Even her shoes were purple. Her hair was up just like the Fates’ and a briefcase sat at her feet.

  “There,” Lachesis said. “Much better.”

  “We were discussing your magic,” Atropos said. “And your freedom, although I do not see how the two are tied.”

  Emma took a step forward and nearly tripped over the briefcase. She resisted the urge to kick it aside. Her head was spinning. Too much had happened since that morning—which was precisely why she was here.

  “I’m just getting used to having lost a thousand years of my life,” she said. “I wasn’t ready to learn magic.”

  “That’s not our concern,” Clotho said.

  “It seems that you’ve adapted quite well to your new life,” Lachesis said.

  “You’ve all that your culture says you should have,” Atropos said.

  “Life,” Clotho said.

  “Liberty,” Lachesis said.

  “And the ability to pursue happiness,” Atropos said.

  “That’s not how it goes,” Clotho whispered.

  “That’s what that delightful redhead told me,” Atropos whispered back.

  “What redhead?” Lachesis said.

  “The one who claimed he wrote those words. Very tall. Knows a lot for a mortal, especially a dead mortal.”

  “Excuse me,” Emma said. “We’re not discussing Thomas Jefferson.”

  “We are,” Atropos said.

  “It seems appropriate in a place like this,” Clotho said.

  “I suppose we could be discussing that other one,” Lachesis said.

  “Madison?” Atropos asked.

  “No.”

  “Hamilton?”

  “No.”

  “Washington?”

  “He was only a president. All the major decisions were made during the Continental Congress. I remember because Benjamin Franklin was about to let his true abilities slip that night he got drunk with John Adams and we had to—”

  “Hey!” Emma shouted.

  The Fates all stared at her. Emma swallowed. Her temper was flaring. She took several deep breaths, trying yet again to control it.

  “I am only thirty years old,” Emma said. “I’m not supposed to come into my magic yet.”

  “My dear,” Clotho said softly. “I know this is a delicate subject for a woman, but you are in truth one thousand and forty years old.”

  “You should have come into your magic nine hundred and ninety years ago,” Atropos said.

  “But you were in a coma,” Lachesis said.

  “A magical one,” Clotho said.

  “And even we do not entirely understand magical comas. Perhaps the Powers that Be—”

  And with that all three Fates bowed their heads and spread out their hands in a reflexive movement, the way a Catholic might cross himself.

  “—determined that no mage could come into her powers while unconscious,” Atropos finished.

  “That certainly would be unfair,” Clotho said.

  “Imagine if she dreamed in her coma,” Lachesis said. “Why the very air around that glass coffin would have been—”

  “Excuse me,” Emma said again, trying very hard not to yell. “I would like to stay on topic here.”

  “I thought we were on topic,” Atropos said.

  “For someone who has come to us, you are very rude,” Clotho said.

  Emma closed her eyes. She was making a mess of this too.

  “Rudeness is a part of her new culture,” Lachesis said. “I understand that no one knows which fork to use anymore.”

  “I had heard that multiple forks aren’t the issue,” Atropos said. “That even on the most elegant tables, the silverware has been reduced down to a single fork, a single knife, and a single spoon.”

  “No soup spoon?” Clotho asked.

  Emma was going insane, there was just no doubt about it. She clenched her fists, unclenched them, and then decided she already had nothing to lose.

  “I’m sorry I’m rude,” she said, opening her eyes, “but my very life is at stake here.”

  “Oh, not anymore,” Lachesis said. “That was ten years ago. Now you must simply change the way you look at things.”

  “Change the way I look at things?” Emma asked, aware that her voice was rising with her blood pressure. “I turned my cat into a lion this morning. I nearly killed the department secretary by dropping furniture all over her office. My magic is out of control.”

  “Yes, it is, and you must learn how to control it,” Atropos said.

  “That is a failure on your part, my dear,” Clotho said. “You should have been training.”

  “I thought I had twenty more years!”

  “We don’t understand why,” Lachesis said. “You are, after a
ll, one thousand and forty years old.”

  “I am still in my childbearing years,” Emma snapped.

  Atropos frowned. “You’re certain?”

  Emma felt a blush warm her face. “Of course I’m certain.”

  “Well, that is an interesting turn of events. Physically, she is thirty, then. I guess that means that the nature of magic is tied less to the body than we thought.” Clotho set down her thread and frowned.

  “Perhaps the conventions of millennia simply got codified into a particular way of looking at things,” Lachesis said.

  “We should go through the ancient records from the original Fates and see if they made a ruling on this,” Atropos said.

  “I’ll bet they did,” Clotho said. “I’ll wager if we look, we’ll find incidences of magic that went out of whack during the hormonal excesses of pregnancy and as a deterrent—”

  “Look!” Emma said, coming as close to the bench as she dared. “You can debate the legal stuff later. Right now, I want my magic-free existence back.”

  “Oh, child, you don’t know what you’re asking,” Lachesis said.

  “Yes, I do,” Emma said. “I want my twenty years of no magic. I want to train. I want a normal life—”

  “You will never have a normal life, my dear,” Atropos said. “No one who has experienced two different millennia without living every day of the thousand years in between. You’re the first of our kind to effectively time travel, although I have heard of accidental hallucinatory trips into memory that may or may not have been actual time travel—”

  “Please,” Emma said, “stay on the point.”

  “The point is,” Clotho said, “that if we take away your powers now, the effect will be permanent.”

  “Why?” Emma asked. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Whether you have done anything isn’t the issue here,” Lachesis said. “Our powers are limited as well. We may be the ruling body of our people, but we follow rules set down by the Powers That Be. If we didn’t, there would be—”

  “Chaos,” Atropos said. “It would be terrifying.”

  “We think,” Clotho said. “I’m quite curious about the historical record now. You know we never delve back into the mists of time. We only work from the last six thousand years.”