“It’s time you chose a husband. Or are you too good for anyone in the village?” Her aunt had sniffed. “Lam Doddle, for instance. He’s a fine lad.”
The girl vaulted over a clump of bracken and picked up her pace as if the hounds of Hell were behind her.
Lam Doddle. A beefy ox of a boy with wet, droopy lips and a lazy eye. Her aunt thought him a catch. His father was the village cooper, a respected tradesman. Lam had all the makings of a dependable barrel-maker too, she thought. He already resembled one.
She lengthened her stride and raced down the hill, ignoring the hampering weight of her skirts. Her aunt seemed suddenly determined to marry her off, and today’s planting festival in the village had apparently fit in with her scheme. Even the games had conspired against her.
“Who’s for Hare and Hounds?” The shouted question had been followed by a resounding cheer. Numerous mugs of small beer had already been quaffed and a mound of quince tarts devoured. Everyone was ready for sport.
“You’ll be the hare,” Lam announced, leering at her. At least, she thought he was leering. One never knew for sure. One of his blue eyes always seemed to be looking somewhere else altogether.
But she agreed to play. She loved to run; she was the fastest runner in the village. And she was quite sure she could outrun Lam Doddle with rabbit snares tied to her legs.
She was sometimes proud, as her aunt frequently observed. A feature that ill became a poor young maiden. Pride was sinful, and yet she felt sure she was meant for something better than warming a barrel-maker’s bed. But what? What did she want? Whatever it was, somehow she didn’t think she would find it in Hartescross.
Her breath puffed against the cool spring air. Her limbs felt warm and wonderfully loose. She could run forever. As the hare, she’d been given a one-hundred-count head start before the hounds gave chase. Lam wouldn’t wait that long. Everyone knew that the only point of the stupid game was to get caught and be kissed. As if she wanted Lam Doddle to kiss her. Ugh!
She slowed her steps, catching a lock of her hair and twisting it around one finger. She was supposed to leave a trail for the others to follow. From the pocket of her apron she pulled a clump of knotty gray wool, cast off from this morning’s spinning and too matted to be useful. She glanced around impatiently, and spotting a shrub of prickly pear, she pulled off a bit of wool and stuffed it underneath. There! Let the great oaf follow that for a trail.
Satisfied, she turned, only to find that her hair was caught on a thorny branch. It took but a moment for her to disentangle her long black locks, but she could scarcely afford the delay; she could hear shouts and laughter in the distance. Her passionate language as she freed herself was probably also ill suited to a fresh young maiden. It was a blessing no one was there to hear it.
Once she was free, her gaze traveled ahead of her to the deep green of the northern woods. She was surprised to see that she’d run this far. Her steps slowed and led her closer to the forest. The shelter and secrecy looked so tempting. But she shouldn’t go in. Those woods belonged to the Earl of Umbric. They were to be used expressly for his pleasure in hunting. No one was to trespass.
Carelessly she dropped another bit of wool onto the grass. She was at the edge of the forest now, and could see the deep shadows beneath the oaks and chestnuts. A draft of cool, wood-scented air washed over her skin, reviving her like a tonic. Lam Doddle would never look for her in there, she thought. He wouldn’t think her brave enough to dare it. Indeed, it would be completely imprudent. Unmaidenly, even. Ha! She picked up her skirts, imagining as she did the clucks of disapproval that the village women would make if they saw her. She ran between the trees and stopped, turning to peer out at the meadow. She froze.
A rider on horseback stood motionless on the rise of the hill. The girl narrowed her blue eyes, taking in the tall form that sat with an easy grace atop a huge black horse. William de Chaucy, the earl’s youngest son.
The girl let loose a startled curse and stepped back, deeper into shadow.
What was he doing? Why wasn’t he off studying, as usual? Everyone knew he fancied himself a scholar. The talk in the village was that William de Chaucy spent half of his time with his face buried in dusty books. Which was a pity, all agreed, because it was a handsome face. Clean-hewn, with a strong nose, and lips sculpted like a taut bow. And his eyes were a tawny golden brown, fringed with dark lashes. It was the sort of face, the girl thought, that made the village maidens stare.
But she didn’t like to be made to do anything. So she didn’t stare. In fact, the only looks she ever gave to Will de Chaucy were scowls. Not that he ever noticed.
For they were worlds apart.
Had he seen her? He would ruin everything. If she was caught in these woods, she could be punished as a poacher. A twist of nausea rose from her belly to her throat. Poachers had a thumb branded, or perhaps a hot nail pushed through their ear for their crime. Which would be worse? It hardly bore imagining. She peeked out again.
Another rider had joined William de Chaucy. By his short, square build he looked to be Hugh, the elder de Chaucy brother.
He must have seen her. Perhaps even now he was telling his brother he’d spotted someone sneaking into the woods. What if they came after her?
She had no choice. She had to hide. Turning, she ran deeper into the darkness of the forest.
Tessa woke up. Well, not exactly woke; she was pretty sure she hadn’t been sleeping. And not exactly up; she lay sprawled on the floor. She raised a hand to the back of her head. No lump. Nothing hurt. What had happened? She gazed around her room. The time glowed 6:46 p.m. on the clock radio. She hadn’t been out for more than a few seconds. And she couldn’t have fallen very hard or her father would have barreled in to see what was wrong.
She’d been dreaming. Images and sensations flooded back: of sunlight and shadows and the sweet smell of grass. Someone had been chasing her. Yes, a really vivid dream. A daydream. The details were disappearing.… She frowned, trying to remember. But it was like trying to grab a puff of smoke. The memories slipped through her fingers.
Weavyr let out a gasp. “Did you see that? Just now?”
“What?” replied Spyn, startled. She clutched a diaphanous golden cloud that was half spun and hurriedly twined it together with a brilliant black thread. Twins.
“There was a disturbance in the Wyrd. Here.” Weavyr pointed to a fine blue filament. “This one. It folded back on itself. It’s not supposed to do that.” She smoothed the thread back into place.
“What does it mean?” asked Spyn.
“How should I know?” snapped Weavyr. “It’s never happened before!”
Scytha floated up behind them like a draft of cold night air. “Show me,” she intoned.
Weavyr traced the path the errant thread had taken.
“Back in time. Five hundred years,” said Scytha. “To when the missing threads disappeared. Interesting.”
“I’m glad you think so,” muttered Weavyr.
“It is no coincidence,” said Scytha. “There must be some connection to the stolen threads.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” snarled Weavyr. “Nobody listens to me. And mark my words,” she added with a grim sort of satisfaction, “this isn’t the last of it. Something is very wrong.”
Chapter 5
This is all wrong. Tessa felt the seat-belt buckle grind into her hip as Hunter Scoville leaned into the kiss, angling his head as if he meant to swallow her whole. He shifted one arm behind her while his free hand slid under the front of her sweater. The night air felt as cool as a splash of water on her skin, but his hands were hot, almost sticky. Hunter lurched forward again with hands and tongue. Tessa’s head banged against the window.
Um. No.
“Stop.” Tessa broke away with what she meant to be a gentle push, but it turned into a two-fisted shove. Without thinking, she brought one knee up.
Hunter drew back in surprise, then eased himself back in the driv
er’s seat. He ran a hand through his dark, cropped hair. “Sorry. Problem?”
“No problem.” Tessa said. She winced as she unsnagged a strand of her hair from the door handle.
In the dim light she could see his flushed face, the sheen on his forehead as if he had been running. He’d gone from zero to sweaty in about ten seconds. A sexual Porsche, she thought. Meanwhile, I’m … what? Pedaling along, waiting for … What was she waiting for, anyway? She wasn’t sure. But it definitely wasn’t Hunter.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Huh?” Tessa stumbled toward an answer. “I’m not—” She broke off. What? That kind of girl? Into you? Into having my tonsils excavated on our first kiss? Anything she said at this point would sound lame. “Nothing,” she said. She realized she was still balled up in a defensive position, like a nervous hedgehog. Awkward with self-consciousness, she straightened her legs and smoothed her rucked-up sweater.
Hunter leaned closer again. His breath was warm in her ear. “It’s just, the way we met, right away I felt a connection. It was like fate brought us together or something. Do you believe in fate?” he asked softly.
Tessa frowned. “Fate? No, I don’t think so.”
They’d met when Tessa got hit in the face by one of Hunter’s volleyball serves in gym. Not exactly the most romantic beginning. But Hunter had been very apologetic and really nice. And somewhere, she recalled, between getting an ice pack applied and having gauze stuffed up her bloody nose, he had asked her out. Of course she’d known who he was; he was one of the most popular guys in school. They even shared some classes. But Hunter had never seemed to notice her before.
“It was an accident,” she said.
“A good accident,” said Hunter. “Who knows, Tess?” he added. His smile was a gleam of white in the dark. “Maybe I really planned it all along.”
Tessa frowned. She knew he was joking, but the idea of it bothered her. She hated being manipulated. Almost as much as she hated being called Tess.
When she didn’t say anything, Hunter shrugged and leaned forward to change the radio station. Tessa cast a sideways look at him. He was cute. He had deep blue eyes and a slightly goofy lopsided grin that dimpled one cheek. And it was a beautiful night. Below them, the quiet waters of the cove were lit with color from Portland’s city lights. The rich, salty smell of sea air drifted in from the shore. But she couldn’t help feeling that something was just … wrong. She reached out and tapped the bobble-head baseball figure stuck to the dashboard of the SUV.
“Who’s this?” she asked.
Hunter twisted to face her. “You’re kidding right? That’s David Ortiz. Red Sox? You’re not a Yankees fan or something, are you?” he demanded.
Tessa smiled at the hint of actual outrage in Hunter’s voice. “No. I didn’t recognize him is all,” she confessed. She glanced at Hunter with a half smile. “He’s shorter than I expected.”
Hunter frowned. “It’s a collectible.”
“Right. Sorry,” Tessa murmured. “Guess I’m just not real sporty.” What was she doing here? Note to self: never make social plans after blunt head trauma.
A female singer’s voice filled the silence of the car. The song was plaintive and moody. Something about losing her way in the dark. A path overgrown with broken hearts. Forever alone, forever apart. For some reason Tessa’s thoughts returned to the strange tapestry. She just hadn’t felt right since she’d first seen it. And the wild sensations and dreams, if that’s what they were, were pretty strange.
Hunter drew her closer and Tessa tightened up. Her cheeks felt flaming hot and her lips felt raw, even though it had only been one kiss. “I’d better go home now,” she said. “I haven’t been feeling too well today.” She grimaced and pointed vaguely to her stomach. “I’d hate to give you something. I’ve heard there’s this bug going around school. Something gastrointestinal. Really bad.”
Hunter shook his head as if in disbelief and leaned back. “Yeah. Okay,” he replied. Tessa could practically hear the eye-roll. He started up the car and threw the shift into gear.
She couldn’t think of anything to say to Hunter (and apparently it was mutual—wow, big surprise), so all the way home she concentrated on pretending she was alone. She was riding a city bus. She and the boy next to her were strangers.
It wasn’t that hard.
At school the next day Tessa thought about all the words she would use to describe her social life: Dismal. Awkward. Meager. She was a walking thesaurus of pathetic.
Maybe she wasn’t meant to date in high school. There were people like that, weren’t there? Sure. They kept them in a glass case somewhere, right along with alien artifacts and mutant circus freaks. Hunter had treated her politely when he dropped her off at home, but he had definitely had that look … like he was visiting Area 51.
Tessa knew she wasn’t the only virgin in the senior class of Prescott High School. But sometimes it sure felt that way. And now, after the weirdness over the weekend, she could add blackouts and hallucinations to her list of What Makes Me Special. Great.
Tessa shook her head and took a blank sheet of paper from her folder. She gazed out the window, chose a craggy-barked oak tree and began to draw. Usually the smooth scratch of pencil on paper could take her mind off anything. Not that she was talented. It was the sound she liked. It reminded her of her mother. At the breakfast table, on the beach, sitting cross-legged on the floor, her mom had always been sketching.
Opal slid into the seat in front of Tessa. It figured. The one day Opal wasn’t running late and dashing in just as their English lit class started. Look busy, Tessa told herself. She hunched forward and kept her pencil moving diligently even as she stole a glance up at her friend. Opal wore a long, swirling paisley skirt and a lace-trimmed peasant blouse. A wide leather belt with a huge Harley-Davidson buckle cinched her tiny waist and complemented the black leather bolero. The combo wouldn’t have worked on anyone in the world except Opal.
Along with being fashion fearless, Opal Kandinsky was also Tessa’s best friend, had been since second grade. Unfortunately she was also an information junkie of the worst kind, and she knew Tessa had been out with Hunter the night before. Tessa looked around, fuming. Where was Mr. Lawner? Whatever happened to teacher punctuality? Academic integrity? Early dismissal? Maybe if she was very quiet and really lucky, Opal wouldn’t even—
“Well?” Opal was digging through the canvas messenger bag on her lap but shot the question over one shoulder. She stopped rummaging and cocked her head. Tessa could just picture the expression—one sharply curved eyebrow raised and a gleam of curiosity in her tilted green cat’s eyes. Like a gossip-hungry pixie.
“Well what?” Tessa hissed. The pencil tip snapped under the pressure she was putting on it. She glanced down at the paper and frowned. She’d drawn only a series of wavy, crisscrossing lines. It wasn’t even a decent doodle.
“Your date, dummy.” Opal half turned and shot Tessa a questioning look. “How’d it go? I tried your cell last night but it was off.”
“It went fine.” Tessa folded the paper before her into a neat square, then got up to toss the scrap in the recycling bin.
“C’mon,” Opal grumbled when Tessa got back. “You gotta give me something.”
“Well, if you have to know …”
“And I do.”
“It was a disaster.”
At this Opal turned around fully. Concern clouded her small, heart-shaped face, and she pushed back her pale blond bangs as she looked at Tessa. She seemed relieved by what she saw, because she relaxed and smiled crookedly. “Disaster, huh? How bad?”
Tessa let out a deep breath. “The truth? All I needed was CNN and the Red Cross. Maybe a helicopter with one of those grappling hook thingies.”
Opal brought up a hand heavily beringed with silver and smothered a laugh.
“It couldn’t have been that bad. I mean, Hunter Scoville?”
“He’s nice,” Tessa said. “But we have nothing in
common. Nothing to talk about. Let’s just leave it at that.”
“Did you ever think,” Opal said, her eyebrows tented together, “that the guy is nervous and not up to great conversation?” She looked away. “Maybe he’s smitten.”
“I don’t think so.” Tessa smiled to herself at the word. Smitten. So struck with love you couldn’t function? She didn’t think it applied to Hunter Scoville. Certainly not to his tongue. “That sounds so old-fashioned,” she said softly. “I wonder if people even get smitten anymore.”
“Fine. Tell me the rest later,” Opal whispered as Mr. Lawner walked in the door.
“There is no rest,” Tessa hissed back.
Opal gave a “yeah, sure” smirk and turned around but whipped back. “I just remembered,” she said. “I’ve got a chemistry test next period.”
“Right. Good luck,” Tessa said.
Opal put out a hand. “Ahem?”
“Ahem?”
“The pig?” Opal gave an impatient huff.
Tessa’s eyes widened. “Oh my gosh. Sorry.” She slipped the pig off her wrist.
It was a bracelet of green jade beads knotted together on a black cord. The central, largest bead was carved into a fat, happy-looking pig. As a good-luck charm, the pig had been through math tests, piano recitals, even dentist appointments. When Tessa was wearing it, Opal kept her in her thoughts, and vice versa. Sometimes Tessa thought that was the real luck of the pig—having a friend who worried about you, who hoped you didn’t screw up or get hurt.
“Here you go,” said Tessa. “Though he wasn’t much help last night.”
Opal shrugged as she put it on. “Maybe the pig had an off night.”
Tessa shook her head. “No. I think it’s just me.” She thought about the unicorn tapestry and the blackouts, or whatever those weird episodes had been. “Can you come over later?” Tessa asked. “There’s something I want to show you.”
“Sure.”
Mr. Lawner gave the girls a stern glance as he finished removing some papers from his desk drawer. “Morning, people,” he said. “Sorry I’m late. Now let’s get started.”
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