Sparks of Light

by Janet B. Taylor

  “Blasi is convinced.”

  Collum stood up and scrubbed both hands back over his bristly hair. Like a great cat sensing prey, he paced back and forth. “If this thing does what Cameron claims, do you realize what it could mean?” His voice rose, his gestures growing animated. “Think what we could do with even three more days. How often have we seen the Dim open to England in the right time but not the right location? With extra days, we could do a proper search and still get back in time.” I jumped as he slammed his palms down on the tabletop. “My God! We could find him. We could finally bring Da home.”

  “Bran.” Moira spoke in a quiet voice. Her eyes were shut, as though in pain. “If Celia were to get this device . . . this enhancement . . . what do you think she’d do?”

  “Mrs. MacPherson,” Bran replied, “for once, my mother’s actions are not the most concerning. I came to speak with you today because of how badly Gunnar Blasi wants this. I don’t know why, and that is what scares me more than anything.”

  “Well, that settles it then,” Phoebe said. “We have to go.”

  “Hang on a tic.” Doug reached down to pull his phone from his sporran. After jabbing at the screen a few times, he looked up. “I, ah, I’ve built an app that links into the computer and displays the upcoming passages.” He swallowed. “It appears that when you factor in the—”

  Phoebe grabbed his large wrist and tilted the phone toward her. “Longitude and latitude, blah blah,” she read, scrolling down. “Numbers, numbers, numbers. Hey!” Her blue eyes widened as they skimmed down the page. “Well, Bran. Looks like your lot won’t be all alone in the Big Apple.”

  Collum made a grab for the phone but Phoebe was quicker. Doug put an arm around her and squeezed her to him as she scrolled again. She stopped, head tilting. “Hmm,” she said. “Better warm up your sewing machine, Gran. We’ve got less than four days to prepare.” She was squirming now, practically dancing with excitement. “I’ve always wanted to do the Victorian era. I only wish it were Christmastime and not March. No one did Christmas like the Vickies.”

  Caught up in her own excitement, Phoebe didn’t notice the way Doug’s shoulders fell. I tried to catch her eye, but she had already passed the phone back to him, mumbling to herself about which gowns could be altered.

  Doug hesitated before punching a few numbers into the phone. “Actually,” he said, “it is three days, sixteen hours, and twenty-two minutes. Tuesday, at 8:23 a.m., the Dim will open.”

  “And to which exact date, Douglas?” Moira asked.

  Doug held out the phone but Collum took it first. Sitting next to his grandmother, he tilted it so that he, Moira, and Mac could all view it at once. As Moira slipped a pair of readers from their usual spot on top of her graying black hair, Mac’s head tilted against his wife’s as all three read the words together.

  Mac read it aloud to the rest of us. “March eleventh, 1895.” His head rose to level a look at Bran. “That concur with your dates, Bran?”

  Bran hesitated. “Yes. The same. Though I believe our arrival is some two hours earlier. Looks like we’ll get to do a bit of sightseeing before you all arrive.”

  My brain began to pound, to fill with every political, social, and civil event that had occurred in and around the New York area on the three days following March 11, 1895.

  I forced most of it back. I already knew there was only one sentinel event—​one historical occurrence too well known to ever be revocable—​that really mattered. One reason and one reason alone that the Dim would open to that specific date and time and location.

  “The thirteenth,” I spoke up. “It’s all about the thirteenth.”

  Doug was already nodding as Mac said, “March thirteenth, 1895?” A million wrinkles formed around his eyes as he squinted, head cocked. “The date does ring a bell. Why is that?”

  “March thirteenth, 1895,” I said as I turned back to the others, “was the night Nikola Tesla’s Fifth Avenue lab burned to the ground. It’s the night he lost everything.”

  Chapter 8

  MAC STRAIGHTENED. “WE NEED TO RELAY ALL THIS TO Lucinda and I don’t want to do it over the phone. We’ll have little enough time to prepare, and so must leave at once.”

  My stomach sank into my feet. We’re leaving? But . . . but that’s not fair.

  Bran got up when Moira stood. Mac gripped his shoulder in thanks. Moira gave him a hearty embrace, speaking loudly over Phoebe’s groans of protest.

  “Thank you for coming to us, Brandon. And we won’t be forgetting it. But Mac’s right. Lu has to know, and we’ve decisions to make. Hope, you stay, but say your goodbyes quickly.” With a wave, she motioned for the others to rise. “The rest of you, no more bellyaching. You heard your grandfather. Get to the tent and get everything packed up. We leave in ten.”

  Collum was the only one who lingered at the picnic table while Bran and I stayed put, staring remorsefully down at the hundreds of carved initials.

  “I think you’re holding out on us.” Collum rose slowly, gaze narrowed on Bran. “There’s more to this than you’re saying, Cameron. You know it. I know it.”

  Knuckles pressed to the tabletop, Collum loomed over us. Behind him, the mist-shrouded Highland peaks rolled on and on, as unchanged and unyielding as the people who lived there.

  “Make no mistake: If anyone gets hurt because of something you concealed, you’ll answer to me.”

  With that, Collum wheeled about and stomped away, kilt swinging, broad shoulders rigid with tension.

  “Never thought I’d miss the dear lad.” Bran’s natural good humor was trying to return. His grin flashed, revealing that one crooked eyetooth. “But damn if he doesn’t grow on you.”

  “Bran.”

  As he turned on the bench toward me, the grin slowly faded.

  “There’s never enough time, is there?” he said. “For us, I mean. It seems to have become something of a pattern.”

  “No,” I said. “Never enough. And we’re time travelers, no less. Seems like that ought to afford us some kind of privilege.”

  He huffed a chuckle. “You know, things have been . . . difficult at home. Worse than you could imagine.”

  I watched as his fingertip traced the carved hearts on the table. He had such graceful hands, though they were scarred, callused from riding and swordplay. And as he went on all I could think about was having those hands on my skin.

  “I wanted to leave, you know? Started to run a hundred different times. But then, I’d think of that day when my stupid horse tossed me into the river. And there you were, standing in the freezing water and glaring down at me, shivering but so fierce. Or I’d remember how you looked with the snow falling all around you as you melted iron bars to save a friend. And I would tell myself that if you could possess that kind of courage,” he said, “then I could stand it a little longer.”

  My breath caught as his hands moved to glide over my shoulders, down my arms. The warmth of his palms heated every inch of me they touched. His arm slid around my waist and held tight as we watched the Highland games.

  If I squinted, I could almost pretend we were in a place set apart from time. A world where mighty Highlanders from every clan had come together on this ancient field to practice their form of warfare. To ready themselves against British attack.

  Babies cried from their mothers’ hips. Men slapped each other on the back as they tipped steins of beer. Children ran and called to one another, their eyes wide with wonder as they watched their parents compete. Happy, hearty smells of heather and clean water and the mouth-watering aroma of steaming meat pasties suffused the air. Beneath our feet, the earth trembled with the thunks of heavy objects striking the ground.

  “Are you safe?” I asked, not looking at him. “Will you be all right?”

  “Of course,” he said. “I am a very clever lad, after all.”

  We turned to each other, then. He raised my hands to his lips. One after the other, he placed a soft kiss in the center of each palm. I shivere
d as I squeezed my fists shut, trying to hold on to those kisses.

  “You know,” he said in a musing tone, “if you weren’t leaving in six minutes and twenty-two seconds, and if we lived in the age where all this”​—​he waved a hand at the field of contestants and spectators—​“​was real. Back when men were men and all that. I’d simply heave you over my shoulder and carry you off into yonder meadow over there.”

  “Ha! I’d just kick you in the kilt and run away.” I was grinning, though my face went red at the images his statement produced.

  He threw his head back and laughed up at the blue, blue sky. “Yes. You would, wouldn’t you?”

  “So, um, six minutes and twenty-two seconds, huh?”

  He nodded. “Six minutes, eight seconds now. But who’s counting?”

  Our faces were very close. My lips tingled as they remembered the feel of his mouth on mine. I think I must’ve sighed, or groaned, or made some other kind of embarrassing noise. Because his eyes went all smoky, and he chuckled low in his throat. The sound went through my chest and settled shivery and low in my belly. All my attention sharpened on his mouth as his hands came up to cradle my face. He held me there, so close I could feel the heat of his sun-warmed skin on my lips. My eyes closed as I leaned in to close that minuscule distance.

  Collum coughed loudly as he and Doug passed by, canvas-wrapped tent poles suspended between them.

  Bran broke away and pulled me to my feet. His voice low, urgent, he said, “I know I can’t talk you into staying, but please, please be careful. Promise me?”

  “You too.” As he let go of my hand and backed away, my chest constricted. And it felt as though some giant vacuum had suddenly appeared in the sky to suck away all the oxygen in the open field around me.

  Bran called to Mac. “Thank you for listening to me, sir.”

  Mac waved in acknowledgment, then got into the driver’s seat. He and Moira pulled away, back tires spinning up gravel.

  “Well,” I said, “I’d better go.”

  Bran nodded, wordless. We began to walk away in opposite directions. We did that a lot, it seemed.

  Suddenly I heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel behind me. “Wait!” Bran called. “Wait . . . just wait one second.”

  He towed me quickly back toward the long, stout table that had been in place since Moira’s grandmother was a girl. Reaching down, he withdrew his sgian dhub, the tiny but lethal knife all proper Highlanders wore, stuffed into the top of their right sock.

  “Nearly forgot,” he said. “Can’t have that, now can we?”

  His long neck bent to the task. Muscles in his lean shoulders flexed. Sun flashed on polished steel. It took only a moment. He straightened and drew me to his side as he brushed away the pale shavings that littered the top of the ancient table.

  There we were. Our initials looked so new, so fragile, amid all the others that had weathered the years and decades together. But staring down at them, I also realized how bright we glowed against the aged wood.

  BC + HW.

  Instead of enclosed in a heart like all the others, Bran had wrapped us up together inside the shape of a small and perfect apple.

  “You heard what Moira said.” His hand smoothed over my hair as he smiled down at me. “Now it’s forever.”

  Chapter 9

  “BRANDON!”

  Bran jolted back, his body going as stiff and still as if he’d just been struck in the head by one of the flying cabers.

  A girl stood next to the table, head cocked as she watched us. Amusement played over her features as Bran’s eyebrows lowered and his mouth went tight. I realized I’d seen her, though only briefly, in the group of people watching the preschool dancers.

  “Gabi,” Bran said through clenched teeth. “What are you doing here? You promised you would wait in the car.”

  She shrugged. “Me aburrí, mi primo.”

  “Bored?” Bran huffed in agitation. “We had an agreement.”

  Did that . . . Did she . . . just call him cousin?

  The girl dimpled when she smiled, and I suddenly understood the expression “murderous impulse” much better.

  “I am sorry, Brandon.” R’s rolling, her tongue slipped over the English with exotic flair. “When you were so long away, I became worried.”

  Bran seemed to deflate. His head bowed for a few seconds before he straightened his shoulders and turned to me.

  “Hope,” he said, “this is—”

  “Gabi.” I stood. When I felt my bottom lip split a little, I realized my mouth had stretched into something approximating a smile. “Yes, I heard.”

  It wasn’t that she was beautiful. Well, she was. She was also tall, tan, and fashionable in a way I could never be. Lissome. That word slunk up from my mental thesaurus. Sunglasses that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe pushed back the girl’s honey-colored hair. Her ensemble of linen and raw silk had undoubtedly been created for her by people with singular names like Gucci and Prada.

  Long-limbed and graceful, or so I thought until she moved toward me and I saw the pronounced limp. And then she was grabbing my hands, squeezing them and smiling down at me with such fervency I could only blink up at her.

  “I am Gabriella de Roca,” she said. “And I know who you are, of course.”

  “Do you?”

  “Oh, yes, and I am so very happy to meet you at last, Hope Walton.”

  “Gab-ri-ella.” Bran stumbled over the name, obviously more accustomed to his little nickname for her. “Is—​in a manner of speaking—​a relative of mine. Her grandfather, the Duke of Martelleña, was married to Celia’s grandmother, Doña Maria.” He moved close to me. I edged away until his arm was no longer pressed against mine. “We, uh . . . we’ve known each other since we were children, though she spends most of the year away at school. Until recently, that is.”

  So. An aristocrat. Well, of course she is. If that isn’t the product of generations of wealth and beauty intermarrying, I don’t know what is.

  “Brandon is much too courteous,” Gabriella said. “What he does not say is that when dear Abuelo passed, my mamá took his money and some of her pretty boys and left me all alone. Doña Maria was kind enough to take me in. Though I was not much in attendance, at least I had a place to go during the holidays. Now . . .”

  She let go of my hands and spread hers in a uniquely European manner that I thought was supposed to convey something like, “You get it.”

  But I most certainly did not get it. Not at all.

  “Gabriella is a dancer,” Bran hurried to explain. “Studying at the Institut del Teatre in Barcelona.”

  Well, naturally. What else could she possibly be?

  “Ah, mi primo.” Gabriella wagged a finger. An ironic and sad smile tugged at the dimples. “Gabriella era una bailarina. Ahora, ella no es nada.”

  “This again,” Bran muttered. He half turned to me. “Gabriella tore the ligaments in her knee and has had several surgeries to repair them. The doctors are not yet certain if she will be able to dance on a professional level.” He clucked at her. “But, you will dance again. You’ll see. In any regard,” he told her, “you are not nothing.”

  No, I thought. No, you most certainly aren’t.

  The rational part of my brain was telling me to stop being ridiculous. The girl was his cousin, for God’s sake. But some primitive instinct had begun to creep up the DNA chain. Some predisposition left from cavewomen ancestors who—​when faced with a rival—​simply knocked her brains in with a rock.

  “Hope,” Bran said. “I—”

  “Oi!” I swiveled at a shout from behind us. Collum was strolling over, loaded up with gear. Phoebe was right behind him, hoisting a box of Moira’s jam.

  My friend’s eyes narrowed as she took in the three of us. When her gaze landed on Gabriella, her nostrils flared. She set the box on the table, then sauntered over, taking a position at my left flank.

  “And just who might you be, then?”

  G
abriella started to answer but Bran stopped her, waiting until Collum had joined our happy little entourage.

  Collum, I noted, had not stopped staring at Gabriella since he’d spotted us.

  Bran pinched the skin between his brows and quickly made the intros. “But before you haul off and punch me, mate,” he said to Collum, “you need to know that Gabi . . . Gabriella is no friend to Celia.”

  Gabriella snorted as if that was the understatement of the year. For a second I hated her a tiny . . . tiny bit less.

  “Ah!” She clapped her hands, white teeth flashing.“But it is a great honor to meet the famous MacPhersons en persona. I have heard much of your heroics.”

  Phoebe’s expression resembled that of her Celtic shield-maiden ancestors. “Interesting. Since we’ve never heard of you.”

  “Please, do not blame Brandon,” Gabriella hurried to put in. “This was my wish. Though I have always known the ways of the family, I believe Celia to have no honor. For years, I wanted only to continue my studies, to have nothing to do with this viaje en el tiempo. Only recently have my choices become more limited. But know that I will never reveal your alliance. This I swear on the grave of my grandfather.”

  Gabriella wobbled when she stepped back onto her unstable left leg. Mr. Proper Gentleman, Collum, steadied her. She beamed up at him. “Gracias.”

  “Aye, n-no problem.” Collum’s cheeks blazed as he stepped back.

  “For God’s sake,” Phoebe muttered under her breath.

  “You should go, Gabi,” Bran said. “I’ll—​I’ll be right behind you.”

  Gabriella nodded. Her green eyes met each of ours in turn. And though part of me wanted to rip her pretty face off, there was something about her. Something that made me want to trust her.

  She limped away. Collum spun on Bran. “What. Was. That?”

  Bran’s eyes squeezed shut. “That,” he said, “was nothing. Gabriella won’t say a word.” When his eyes opened, he was looking straight at me, ignoring Collum’s grumbling agitation. “Hope. Please understand. I never mentioned her before because—​up until now—​she has been a nonentity in all this.”