Sparks of Light

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Sparks of Light Page 8

by Janet B. Taylor


  “Hold your water, lass.” Moira twitched the folds of fine wool. “That’s no’ what I meant and well ye know it. It’s just that it’s all so rushed.” She took a breath and quoted, “‘By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail.’”

  “Ben Franklin?”

  “Aye.” She nodded. “Though I first heard it said by Oprah.”

  A laugh bubbled out. “Oprah?”

  “What can I say? The woman is wise.” She winked, sighing. “Ah. Go on w’ ye then and try on the silk. And don’t worry about me, ’tis nothing I’m sure. Just nerves.”

  Moira seemed better as she finished the final touches to the delectable ball gown in a shade Phoebe called Sea Storm Blue.

  Afterward, Moira ordered me to select matching accessories. “Anything within the fourth through the sixth doors should do.”

  The tall, climate-controlled cabinet that housed the Viators’ costume collection hissed as I pressed in the frosted glass to release the magnetic latch. Inside each compartment, historically accurate costumes were labeled with three-by-five cards pinned to the sleeves.

  Beneath the gowns and suits, sectioned bins held shoes, accessories, and currency for each time period. After burrowing a bit, I found a gorgeous pair of ankle boots in a creamy ivory leather.

  While I tried to figure out how to work the conveniently provided buttonhook, Moira briskly secured Phoebe into a black gown with frilly white apron and cap.

  A low whistle sounded from the doorway. Doug Carlyle’s large form filled the space as he gaped at her. “Brilliant,” he said in a husky voice. “It’s. Wow.”

  With a deliberate sway to her hips, Phoebe slunk toward Doug. Rising on tiptoe, she planted a kiss on his wide mouth. “You like?”

  “A bit more than ‘like,’ I’d say.”

  “Must I remind you two that I’m standing right here?” Moira put in, primly.

  “And me,” I called.

  Collum only groaned.

  Phoebe hustled back over to the dressing booth and snapped a saucy wink at us as she pulled the curtain shut. Doug’s smile dropped away. His eyes closed on a deep exhale, as though preparing to cannonball into ice water.

  His face oddly tense, he moved to the mirror and slipped off his jacket. “Ready when you are, Moira.”

  “Ready for what, babe?” Phoebe stepped out, back in jeans and bright pink sweater.

  Moira peered up at Doug. “You’ve cleared it with Lu, then?”

  At Doug’s hesitant nod, Moira frowned. “Douglas Eugene Carlyle, you know I won’t be goin’ behind Lu’s back. It can wait till she’s made her decision.”

  “Lu’s still thinking on it,” Doug said. “I thought it couldn’t hurt to be prepared.”

  Static caused strands of Phoebe’s vivid purple hair to float away from her head. A gold ring winked in her left brow as she frowned. “Be prepared for what?”

  When neither Doug nor Moira answered, Phoebe stomped a bare foot. “Someone better start talkin’ or I’m going to flip my—”

  “I’m going with you,” Doug blurted. “To 1895. That is . . . well . . . I might be.”

  I felt as though my jaw had hit the floor.

  All the color drained from behind Phoebe’s freckles, until her face looked like a sun-bleached sheet splattered with rust. Her mouth opened. It snapped shut. She began blinking too fast.

  I’d only seen that look once, back in 1153, when one of Thomas Becket’s guards had tried to kill her brother. It hadn’t ended well for the thug.

  Collum took a step toward them. “Phee. Listen to what he—”

  She stopped him with one upraised palm. “Don’t.”

  Unnerved, I glanced at Collum, who looked back at me as he raked his hands back through his hair. We should go, he mouthed.

  I nodded in utter and complete agreement.

  Silence roared in the room, broken only by the whirring of the computers. Phoebe rounded on her grandmother. “You knew?” she asked. “You knew he was planning this and you didn’t tell me?”

  “Wasn’t my tale to tell, now was it?”

  I’d never seen Moira intimidated. Not by anything. But as her granddaughter’s face flamed to the color of a ripe tomato, the small woman slowly backed away.

  “This is gonna be bad, huh?” I whispered as the door closed on the ominous silence.

  Moira let out a deep sigh. “Aye,” she said. “Oh aye, I’m afraid so.”

  Chapter 12

  I WAS WRONG. IT WASN’T BAD.

  It was war.

  The next day, you could’ve cut the tension inside Christopher Manor with a Nerf sword. Over a strained dinner of shepherd’s pie, Aunt Lucinda announced her decision. When Phoebe leapt up in protest, Lucinda held up a quelling hand. “I understand your concerns,” she said. “And I assure you, I share them. When Douglas made his case, my first inclination was to decline. However—​upon further consideration—​as he is our best resource when it comes to Tesla’s machine, I believe Douglas has earned the right to make his own decision here.”

  As the arguments ratcheted up to volcanic proportions, I kept my head down and my big trap shut.

  I adored Doug. He was a gigantic, lovable teddy bear. The kindest person I’d ever met and the smartest by a wide, wide margin. But he’d never gone on a mission. And though Moira assured us she knew how to run the device well enough to bring us back, I knew that wasn’t what was bringing furious tears to Phoebe’s eyes.

  “What if you seize?” she shouted across the table at a stormy-eyed Doug. “What if you get sick and we can’t get help? What then?”

  “I’m not some bleeding invalid,” Doug snapped back. “Much as you like to think so.”

  Collum spoke up through a mouthful of food. “It actually makes a lot of sense, Phee.” He studied the potato on his fork, carefully not looking at his sister. “It’s not as if any of the rest of us understands all the technical mumbo jumbo. Doug is our best chance to truly understand exactly how the enhancement works.”

  Angry interruptions flew hard and fast across the table. Sickened by the discord brewing within this tight-knit clan, I shrunk in my chair, becoming as small a target as possible.

  From her place at the head of the group, Aunt Lucinda rose. She didn’t speak until the table quieted. “Douglas,” she said, “will join you. It has been decided. Now that we’ve to contend with Gunnar Blasi, it is even more imperative that we have on hand someone with Doug’s abilities and knowledge to counter. And I will hear no more on the subject.”

  The gentle glow from the massive elk-antler chandelier glittered in Phoebe’s eyes as she, too, stood and glared back at Lucinda. “So it’s been decided, has it?”

  Ignoring her, Aunt Lucinda pinned Collum with a look. “And you misunderstand me. Under no circumstance are you to bring anything whatsoever back upon your return. The enhancement must be destroyed. And Tesla must be convinced of the danger of ever creating another. I believe our best chance of that would be to make contact with Jonathan Carlyle. Reveal as little of yourselves as possible. But do what you must to ensure that this is the end of Tesla’s experimentation with the device.”

  Without a word, Phoebe snatched up her still-full plate and shoved through the swinging kitchen door. Dishes crashed in the sink. When the back door slammed, Doug rose and stomped off in the opposite direction.

  Collum hadn’t taken his eyes from Lucinda. “Why . . .” He paused, jaw flexing as he tried to control the rage I saw rise up. “Why would we not bring back the enhancement? Why would we not utilize the one thing that might help us find my father? Or have you forgotten all about him?”

  When Moira made a strangled noise, Mac wrapped an arm about her shoulders, but his eyes were on his grandson. “We canna take the chance, son. Much as it pains me, it is too risky to introduce something we don’t understand into this time period. Your gram and I agree with Lu on this.”

  Watching the look of betrayal creep over Collum’s face, I thought maybe—​in this instanc
e—​the adults were being too cautious.

  What if the enhancement really works? What if this is the Viators’ one chance to change the parameters of the game but fear makes them pass it by?

  “Um,” I said into the dead silence, “I think—”

  A faint cry echoed from the baby monitor on the nearby buffet.

  “Hope,” Moira muttered. “Go up and see to your sister.”

  Her tone left no room for argument. The protest building inside me faded as Aunt Lucinda echoed her friend. “Go,” Aunt Lucinda said. “Please.”

  By the time I made it upstairs, the crying had stopped. In the small nursery, the ancient crib that had housed generations of Carlyles and MacPhersons held nothing but a tumble of tiny soft blankets. Fear made my pulse speed up. Then I heard a quiet hum filtering down the hall.

  “Mom?” I knocked quietly on the half-open door, relief rushing through me when I saw the bundle in her arms. I tiptoed to the wooden rocker and knelt beside her. “What are you doing up? You know the doctor said you need rest.”

  I traced a finger over the soft down that covered my little sister’s head. Her mouth puckered and her minuscule nose crinkled, as if my touch tickled.

  “I think she was just lonely,” Mom said. “The minute I picked her up, she went right back to sleep.”

  “You know Moira says we’re spoiling her, holding her all the time.”

  Mom and I exchanged a smile at that, aware that Moira was the worst culprit of all, often wearing Ellie in a sling cradled against her chest as she cooked and cleaned.

  My mom still looked terrible. Even nearly two months after the rescue, her freckles stood out like pebbles strewn across a snowbank. She adjusted the baby’s blanket, and in the golden glow of the bedside lamp, I saw spots of blood staining the bandage that covered her wounded palm.

  I scooted close, and leaned my head against her shoulder.

  “Based on all the shouting,” she said, patting my arm, “I assume Lu broke the news that she’s agreed to let Doug come with you?”

  “You know about that, huh?”

  “Lu asked my opinion. I told her it was a good idea.”

  Surprised that my aunt still consulted Mom on anything, I asked, “You really think he should go?”

  She stood, still a bit wobbly as she cradled the baby to her. I jumped up in case she needed support. But she walked tall and straight as she settled the warm bundle into the yellowed wicker bassinet near the foot of the bed.

  Perching on the mattress, she patted the patchwork quilt next to her.

  I settled in beside her. “Hope.” Turning slightly so she could look at me, she said, “I made a terrible mistake, keeping the truth from you all this time. But I want you to know that I did it to protect you, not because I believed you couldn’t handle it.”

  The scents of baby powder and floor wax filled my nose as I inhaled sharply. My fists squeezed the rumpled bedclothes. In the weeks since our return from the twelfth century, Mom and I had skirted around the truth of my . . . origins. She’d been so ill, so fragile, that I’d had to tuck away the anger and confusion that had eaten away at me all this time.

  I glanced at the divorce papers on her bedside table. Before Lucinda had returned them to Mom, she’d let me read through the document. One phrase had burned itself into my brain. “Parental Rights hearing will be scheduled for Minors #1 and #2 pending DNA test of Minor #2.”

  Dad wasn’t letting go completely, then. It was something we’d eventually have to face. Mom, Ellie, and I.

  For now, Mom took my hand in hers and squeezed. I was amazed to see her looking almost peaceful. Her shoulders were straighter, as if a heavy blanket had been lifted from them.

  “We’re going to be fine.” Mom glanced past me to where tiny fists waved above the edge of the bassinet. “The three of us. We have each other, and the rest of our family, after all.” My sister grunted as if in affirmation, and I couldn’t help but smile.

  “You’ve been worried.” It wasn’t a question, but I answered it.

  “Yes. You scared us, Mom. You scared me.”

  She pulled me into her arms as she whispered, “I—​I know. And I am so very sorry, sweetheart. And though we’ve had to put Ellie on the bottle, I must admit that with the medication, I feel . . . lighter, somehow.”

  She released me, but held on to my hands. “The Viators. Believe me when I say that it is a dangerous path to walk, Hope. You’ve earned the right to make your own choice. But please, please make absolutely certain that it is what you want.”

  I looked up. My heart flopped as—​for the first time in over a year—​I saw her behind the blue eyes. My mother. Peering out from behind the ghost who’d been inhabiting her skin. I nodded. “I do, Mom. I really do. I think it’s what I’m supposed to do. Does that make sense?”

  She squeezed my hands tight. “Then I must insist upon one thing,” she said. “Come home. Promise me that you’ll always come home.”

  I smiled. “I will. I promise.”

  She let go and took a deep, deep breath. When she exhaled, I could almost see the darkness fading. And maybe that was enough for now.

  Chapter 13

  CURTAINS CLOSED AGAINST THE NIGHT, PHOEBE, MOIRA, AND I clustered at one end of the library table, picking through boxes of newspapers, old letters, and telegrams from the Viators’ extensive archives.

  Though mismatched lamps and the remains of a fire cast a cheery glow over the room, it did little to dispel the friction that had electrified the house since dinner. At this late hour, everyone looked exhausted. Empty, ink-smudged teacups sat before us, though no one had touched Moira’s famous lemon squares.

  Stifling a groan, I lifted yet another stack of old newspapers from the cardboard box and began to sort through for anything relating to March of 1895.

  I’d just suffered my fiftieth paper cut when something caught my eye. “Hey.”

  No one looked up.

  “Hey!” I said louder. “I think I’ve got something.” I folded the yellowed newsprint carefully, then slapped it down in the center of the table. “Voilá!”

  “Is that . . . ?” Phoebe leaned over the library table to look at the aged newspaper photo.

  “Aye.” Moira peered through her readers. “Good lass, Hope. That’s old Nikola himself, cutting quite the dashing figure in white tie and tails, if I might add.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “And it takes place on the very night his lab burns. Look, says here he was attending a soiree at the Vanderbilt mansion. That’s William Kissam Vanderbilt beside him.” In his tuxedo, the trim, neat Tesla stood next to the slightly blurred image of a shorter man. A pin attached to Vanderbilt’s jacket had caught the camera’s flash, blurring it and creating a smear of light across the picture. Tesla’s face was clearer as he frowned at the photographer. I squinted, trying to make out the smudged edge. “Is that a woman’s arm tucked into his?”

  “Could be,” Moira mused. “Though Tesla never married or had any female involvements that we know of, he was quite popular. Of course, people talked as people do. Called him unnatural. Whispers often circulated. That he was homosexual or deviant. And this in a time when that was a criminal offense. Why, poor Oscar Wilde was arrested and sentenced to two years of hard labor for his relationship with the son of a marquis.”

  Phoebe spoke for the first time since dinner. “We learned about Oscar Wilde in school, but I’d quite forgotten. It’s bloody awful, punishing a person simply because of who they love. One can’t help that, can they?”

  “No,” Moira agreed. “No, they can’t. But what we can do is support those we love, whether we agree or no. We protect them, aye. While also allowing them the freedom to become the person they’re meant to be. Do you take my meaning?”

  Phoebe’s gaze dropped to the table. She knew exactly what—​or who—​Moira meant. And though stubbornness pressed her lips together, she didn’t argue the point.

  Later, in front of the computer in my bedroom, I hesitated
.

  “If you don’t do it, I will,” Phoebe said. “We need to find out more about this Gabriella chippy.”

  Phoebe tugged my hand from my lips. Blood was smeared on the thumbnail where I’d been nipping at the cuticle. “Do it.”

  I heaved a sigh and hit Enter next to the search box beside her name.

  Gabriella’s full name popped up first.

  Gabriella de Roca y Fonseca de Villena.

  “Well, that’s a mouthful,” Phoebe snorted.

  Though a very old and noble name, the current family was nothing compared to what it had once been. From what we could find, Gabriella had been telling the truth. After her grandfather’s death, she’d pretty much had to fend for herself.

  She’d done well. Full scholarship to Barcelona’s Institut del Teatre. Accolades aplenty. Competition wins. She’d been an up-and-comer in the classical dance world until—​a year earlier—​her career had been cut short by the injury to her knee.

  There were so, so many photos. Captured mid-leap, a pale and mournful Gabriella dancing the Black Swan in Swan Lake. A pensive Gabriella, poised on the ends of her toes and dressed in full Spanish regalia as she performed the flamenco before an enormous crowd.

  Then, there were the paparazzi shots of her, smiling and glamorous, wheat-gold hair loosed from its tight bun in a variety of photos with members of posh European party sets.

  The last photo was a year old, and looked to be the final taken before injury had sidelined the girl forever. In it, a group of young elites was being ushered past a waiting crowd into some nightclub or chic event. Dressed in a slinky silver number that revealed nearly every inch of her long and perfectly sculpted thigh muscles, Gabriella gleamed at the camera over one bare shoulder. The boy beside her had shed his black jacket and rolled up the sleeves of a white tuxedo shirt. One of those tanned arms was wrapped loosely around Gabriella’s tiny waist. Though we couldn’t see his face, I didn’t need to read the tabloid caption.

  Phoebe paused to squint at the monitor. “Wait. Is that . . . ?”

 

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