Into the Dim

by Janet B. Taylor

  I burrowed deeper under the musty furs. Every exhale turned to a cloud of frozen mist that iced my blood in a world gone cobwebby and cold. In the orange haze, Collum rode beside us on a sway-backed mare. He seemed twitchy and anxious. I’d never seen him nervous before. I did not care for it.

  Dismounting, we merged with the crowd as they flowed toward the castle’s entry. Phoebe’s emerald dress—purchased secondhand at market—suited her auburn hair and pale, freckled skin to perfection as she puffed beside me. “Let’s just find Sarah and get the story from her, okay?”

  My own gown of rich indigo, embroidered in whorls of scarlet, swept down in a cascade of plush wool. With Phoebe’s needle, the long, belled sleeves, lined with crimson silk, draped to the ground in swooping elegance.

  When I’d come down the steps at Mabray House, my hair braided and pinned in place by Alice’s clever fingers, Collum had stared at me for a long moment before mumbling a begrudging “You’ll do.”

  The knot on my forehead from my previous tumble pulsated. The freezing wind whipped at the filmy veil as—for the hundredth time—I adjusted the bronze circlet that ringed my scalp like a torture device.

  Phoebe glanced over at me. “You all right, then?”

  “Peachy.”

  People lined up before the torchlit entrance to the Palace of Westminster, dressed in their glittering, courtly best. Butterflies cartwheeled in my gut as we joined the queue of invited guests.

  She’s here—I know it. My mother’s here and she’s married.

  Phoebe gave me a concerned look as we crossed the scoured cobbles and mounted the steps. “It’ll be okay, Hope. Honestly. We’ll find Sarah, and then . . .”

  My eyes never stopped scanning the crowd. Not her. Not her. Not her.

  “Oh,” Phoebe said, “so I shagged the groom in the hayloft this afternoon after going to the market. Had to do it. Little ‘lady and the stable boy’ fantasy of mine. I don’t think Doug will mind, do you?”

  “That’s nice,” I said absently. Then her words made it through, and I rounded on her. “Wait. What?”

  My friend’s eyes crinkled as she exchanged a glance with her brother.

  “Paying attention now are we?” Collum said. “We have a mission to complete. Quit whinging about, and get on with the job at hand.”

  I wanted to smack him, but he was right. Nodding, I picked up the hem of my skirt and entered the Great Hall, determined to find my mom so we could get the hell out of there.

  The long, rectangular hall was decorated for royalty. Trestle tables stretched the length of the room, set with pewter plates. Multitudes of candles glowed from deer-antler chandeliers that were twined with ivy and gold cloth. The astringent essence of evergreen wafted down from swags stretched across the sweeping rafters. Cinnamon-and-clove-scented steam boiled up from vats of mulled ale.

  The delicious aromas, layered with the reek of stale sweat and dirty hair, made the place smell like Christmas at a hobo’s house.

  Liveried servants passed among the guests with platters of steaming beef and pork. Spiced meatballs floating in tureens of hearty sauce. A savory, fatty smell flooded the air as trays of roasted goose and ornately decorated peacock were presented. At the head of the room, a dais dripped with scarlet and gold silk, waiting for the king and queen.

  “We’ll split up,” Collum ordered, eyes scanning the crowd. “Cover more ground that way.”

  At our answering nods, Collum’s gaze flicked back and forth between us, before fixing on me. His hazel eyes looked oddly sad as he whispered, “Take care. No matter what happens, get Sarah out, and make sure you’re at the glade on time.”

  “What . . . ?” I started, but he pushed off into the crowd without another word. My pulse thrummed as I gave Phoebe a questioning look. She shrugged, frowning, as she moved off.

  As each person passed that wasn’t my mother, I grew more frantic. I skimmed the crowd, desperate for the curve of her familiar cheek. The slope of too-broad shoulders beneath colored finery.

  “Mistress Hope.”

  I turned to find Rachel’s William Lucie looking resplendent in a blazing azure tunic, yellow diamonds stitched at the cuffs and along the hem. “I wish to thank you.”

  He took two goblets from a passing servant and offered one to me. “I know what you did for my . . . for Rachel.”

  “No,” I said, “you have it wrong. Rachel helped me.”

  “I think we both know that’s not true.”

  William captured my distracted gaze. “Rachel is . . . my friend, and Eustace Clarkson tried to hurt her. I shall take that up with him in due time. But that’s not why I wanted to speak with you. I came to warn you, Mistress Hope. Warn you that someone’s been making enquiries about you.”

  That did it. I quit searching and gave William my full attention. “I beg your pardon?”

  Instead of answering, he took my elbow and turned me toward the dais. A group of churchmen chuckled as they emerged from a side door to seat themselves at the head table. A fat archbishop in blinding white and gold sat down next to one of the thrones. Lounging behind him in humble black was Thomas Becket.

  “Becket,” William announced quietly, though there was no need. A chill had skittered across my skin when I saw him, features pinched as he scanned the room. “Becket is a priest, yes, but he has eyes and ears everywhere. For some reason, you’ve drawn his interest.”

  As if he’d heard us above the clamor, Thomas Becket’s eyes stopped roving the crowd and fixed on me. His mouth made a small moue of surprise. I took an involuntary step back. Then trumpets blared from the back of the Great Hall, and Becket’s malevolent gaze dropped away.

  I thanked William and scuffled back against the wall as feasters scrambled for spots at the long tables.

  Henry Plantagenet—second of that name. King of England, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales. Count of Anjou, Brittany, Poitou. Duke of Normandy, Maine, Gascony, and Aquitaine, as the herald announced—was short, stocky, and bowlegged. A russet-haired fireplug of a man who Eleanor topped by half a head. They strolled arm in arm down the wide space between the tables, like graceful ships in the middle of a cheering storm.

  The disheveled woman I’d seen idling in her nightclothes was gone, replaced by regal opulence. She stunned in cascades of jade silk embroidered with golden lions that emphasized her round belly. Candlelight sparked off the emeralds set into her gold coronet. Henry looked like a man ready to burst with pride.

  As they came level with me, Henry placed a square freckled hand on his wife’s belly and crowed, “Another job well done for England, eh, boys?”

  The crowd went nuts.

  Phoebe wormed her way to my side. “No sign of Sarah yet. But there’re a lot of people here. It may take a while.”

  She was still talking, but her words faded into nothing when I saw something that froze the breath in my lungs.

  “Hope?” Phoebe said, “Did you hear me? I said I don’t know where Collum went. I think he’s up to something. He’s disappeared.”

  Tomorrow, the course of England would change forever, when two of England’s greatest rulers were crowned in Westminster Abbey. A dynasty empire was being born before my eyes. None of that mattered, because I’d just caught a glimpse of someone on the far side of the room. A tall woman with athletic shoulders.

  “Cripes,” Phoebe muttered. “I have to find him. I’ll kill him if he does something stupid.”

  Mute, I grabbed for my friend’s sleeve to tell her what I’d just seen, but she’d already darted off. My hand fell slowly back to my side. My attention lasered in on one thing. The spindly pale-strawberry braid that hung limp down the woman’s broad back.

  Chapter 26

  SHE LET IT GROW OUT.

  It was a frivolous thought. Mom had always kept her hair bobbed to shoulder length, claiming middle-aged women with long hair were trying too hard to hold on to something that was long gone. But here, where only nuns chopped their hair, she’d had little choice, apparen
tly.

  Go. What are you waiting for? My snarled thoughts trapped me in place.

  When she turned, just enough for me to catch sight of her profile, my body leaned in her direction, until I was poised on my toes.

  Move, I commanded my feet. She’s right there. Your mother, your supposedly dead mother, is right there. Why can’t you move?

  I clenched my fists. Took a step.

  “Not yet, child.” A gnarled claw, with cracked yellow nails, gripped my forearm. Its strength startled me. I hadn’t even seen her approach. How can someone so old move like that?

  “Hold,” the ancient nun, Sister Hectare, whispered as she towed me back toward the wall.

  As I started to protest, a man appeared at my mother’s side. His greasy bald head barely reaching the level of her chin. His pudgy fingers clutched her elbow.

  “Lord Babcock is a venal man,” Sister Hectare’s rusty voice said. “Though that is only part of his charm. He’s also cruel and overproud. And he has the brains of a beheaded fowl, besides. You must not approach until he leaves her side.”

  “Wait.” I blinked as it hit me. “That’s her husband?”

  “Yes. Sarah de Carlyle, now wife of Lord Henry Babcock. In the war just past, Babcock fought on the wrong side. But our new king seeks peace with his barons. Even minor, idiotic ones. He restored Babcock’s lands but kept most of the family fortune—such as it was. Did your cousin come with a great dowry, perhaps?”

  “No.” I still had no idea why this tiny woman was helping me.

  “Hmm,” Sister Hectare mused. “She’s not young. Though young enough, I see. And somewhat comely. Still, Lord Babcock is not known to pick a wife merely because her face isn’t pox scarred. ’Tis odd. He does seem taken with her.”

  “Yes, I see that.”

  The little toad never took his hands off my mother. Not even when he snatched a chicken leg and began gnawing at it with little gray teeth. Juice glistened in his straggly beard. The bewilderment I’d felt turned to pity as I watched her husband’s pale, protuberant eyes narrow when another man greeted my mother.

  What happened here, Mom?

  “Ahhh,” Sister Hectare breathed.

  William Lucie approached the pair. At first, Babcock glared suspiciously at the handsome soldier. But William only gave my mother the briefest of nods before turning to her husband. Babcock’s amphibious eyes nearly popped from his head at whatever William told him. He whirled and stared toward the royal table.

  “That would be a summons from our queen, requesting to meet one of her most loyal subjects.” Sister Hectare chuckled as Babcock growled a command at my mother and followed William like a preening peacock toward the high table. As they passed, William Lucie shot us a wink.

  “Best go, child,” the nun said. “Eleanor won’t be able to tolerate Babcock’s company for long, but she wanted you to have a moment with your cousin.”

  She dragged out the word, her hooded eyes glittering as she looked up at me. She knew something. But how?

  As if she’d read my mind, she smiled. “Does it matter, child?”

  It didn’t. Not a bit.

  “Thank you,” I rasped. “And, please, thank Her Grace for me.”

  Mom’s back was turned to me. I edged forward as if my feet were mired in quicksand. Now that the time had finally come, I was weirdly reluctant. My mouth dried up, and my lips felt glued shut.

  “Mo—” My voice cracked. I tried again. “Lady Sarah?”

  She froze, fingers twitching at her sides in a nervous habit I knew so well. Her shoulders rose. She turned slowly. When she caught sight of me, her eyes widened, then closed as if in pain.

  “No,” she whispered.

  A smell of spring wafted toward me. Lilac, her favorite. One hot tear slipped down my cheek. I didn’t move as she opened her eyes, though I felt my lower lip tremble like a lost child’s.

  An instant later, I realized what I was seeing and my mouth fell open in utter shock. My mother’s cheeks were too full. Puffy bags drooped beneath her eyes. Even her lips seemed waterlogged.

  She whimpered, her eyes scanning the room frantically. She stepped toward me and grabbed my hand, squeezing too tight.

  “How?” she said. “How is this possible? I was so careful to keep you out of all this. I don’t understand.” She took a deep breath through her nose and dropped my hand, speaking rapidly. “Doesn’t matter. You have to leave. Now. If she finds you here, I don’t know what she’ll do.”

  I didn’t say a word. I couldn’t. Because my gaze was trapped on my mother’s abdomen. Her extremely round, extremely pregnant abdomen. A sick jolt rocked me back on my heels as a memory consumed me.

  Dad had brought my very pale mother home from a short hospital stay. I was seven, and so excited, because in four months I’d be a big sister. No one spoke to me when they got home, and I wasn’t exactly sure what had happened. All I knew was that they seemed really sad and that my mother’s tummy looked strangely flat. That night, Dad had perched on the edge of my bed.

  Well, kiddo, he’d said, looks like it’s just gonna be the three of us. And that’s okay. It’s . . . it’s fine.

  The scratchy sound in his voice had made my throat ache. And that night, alone in my bed, I heard my mother sobbing from her bedroom next door. I had never, ever heard my mother cry. It scared me so much, I’d huddled under the covers and bawled myself to sleep.

  Years later, Dad told me Mom had nearly died when she lost the baby. There’d been a problem, and I’d always be an only child.

  “Mom?” I gasped. “I—” God, I couldn’t manage to string two words together. I flung a hand at her belly. “When?”

  “Soon, I think. They don’t exactly have ultrasound dating here.”

  Her voice was clipped. I answered back in the same tone. “No. Guess not.”

  I counted back in my head, trying not to show it.

  She noticed. “Obviously, I didn’t know I was pregnant when I left,” she said. “How could I? The doctors said it was impossible.” The muscles in her jaw tightened. “Hope, I don’t understand this. How do you even know about—”

  Her voice cracked, and she covered her mouth with swollen fingers. I felt myself begin to crumple with disappointment. I’d built this moment up in my mind for so long. Every second since I’d learned she was alive. Now it was here and all I wanted was to run away.

  “Aunt Lucinda sent for me,” I said. “She told me the truth.”

  “She had no right.” Every muscle in her face tightened. “Look, you must understand. I always wanted to tell you. I just . . . I wasn’t sure you’d be able to—”

  “You know we thought you were dead?” I let the words drop, heavy as a sack of rocks, between us. “There was an earthquake in that city where you were supposed to be. A bad one, Mom. Thousands of people died. Hundreds of buildings collapsed, including the university tower that held the lecture hall where you were supposed to be. They never recovered most of the bodies. And since they couldn’t find your body . . . they declared you dead.”

  When she flinched, I felt a throb of something like triumph.

  “Oh no.” Her hand covered her mouth again. “I was just supposed to be gone for a few days, I . . . All those poor people. The teachers . . .”

  My teeth ground together so hard, my ears popped. I suddenly wanted to hurt her. “We had your funeral the other day, you know. Dad buried an empty coffin. He even had a headstone with your name carved on it. It says ‘Beloved Wife and Mother,’ in case you wondered.”

  Her lips went white as she whispered, “Sweetheart, I . . .”

  When she buried her face in her hands and started to weep, I could only stare in utter and complete astonishment. This wasn’t the mother I knew. I’d expected Mom to sweep us all up and take over. Fix everything. That was how it worked. My mother was a warrior. A fixer. And yet, all I felt as I watched her shoulders shake . . . was an uneasy pity.

  Her face was blotchy as she raised it and scanned the
room. “Where’s Lu? I need to speak with her at once.”

  That’s it? I shook my head in disbelief. That’s the extent of our big reunion?

  Numbness crept out from my chest. “Aunt Lucinda, Mac, and Moira came here a few months ago, looking for you. They couldn’t find you. Obviously, they aren’t here this time. It’s just Collum and Phoebe. And me.”

  “Just you kids? Good Lord, what was she thinking? And you? You have no practical training whatsoever. How could Lucinda allow this? It’s insane.” Her eyes closed for a long moment. When they opened, she looked hard into my eyes. “Listen to me, Hope. The three of you, go and find a safe place to hide until it’s time to go back.”

  “But—”

  “No, Hope.” Her eyes roved from person to person. “You don’t understand. You mustn’t let Celia find you here. If she does—”

  “Celia can’t return to this time,” I said, though fear prickled my scalp as she shook her head. “She can’t,” I insisted. “She was here before, and Lucinda said the Dim won’t allow anyone to return.”

  She flinched at my casual mention of the Dim.

  “My sister is wrong.” Her hands nearly crushed mine when she grabbed them to jerk me close. Her blue eyes swam with fear as she whispered, “The Timeslippers have found a way to keep this timeline open. I don’t know how. But I’ve seen them here at least three times over the past months, and I know they were here before I came. I don’t know what they’re up to, but Celia’s made some powerful friends here. She trapped me. She arranged my marriage to that”—she covered her belly with her hands as she growled the word—“monster.”

  I was breathing hard now, fear making my lungs shrivel like crumpled paper sacks.

  “Celia’s little minions watch me all the time, Hope. Which is why you must get away from me. They may already know you’re here.”

  Chapter 27

  THE NEARBY BLARE OF TRUMPETS STARTLED US BOTH. During our talk, I’d barely noticed the series of dignitaries parading toward the dais, presenting gifts to the new sovereigns. Now I followed Mom’s gaze as a group of bearded men in yellow hats stood before their king. Henry beamed down as one held up a sheath of shining black leather etched with gold and glittering with precious gems.