If looks could kill, Abby would have melted him on the spot.
Getting out of the rain was relatively easy, but finding a dry, free, safe place to spend the night was another matter. As usual, Pembrake felt the need to leave it up to her first, so he could delight when she failed miserably. She'd suggested they go back to the witches, but he'd flatly refused. She'd suggested they find an empty warehouse in the slumps, and he'd laughed so hard his wet shirt, which Abby had tried hard not to notice, had creaked ominously. She'd finally opted for walking all the way to the caves she'd mentioned previously, and Pembrake had, infuriatingly, rolled his eyes again. Neither of them wanted to impose on Martha and Albert again, which showed Pembrake did have a decent side somewhere under his trash heap of a personality. Plus, the walk back to their house along the cliffs was unrealistic in this weather.
Finally, with Abby running out of sanity and starting to shake like a leaf in a hurricane, her back and middle cold and wet, Pembrake apparently had finished his game. With a devilishly charming wink, one which Abby was sure she hadn't blushed at, Pembrake took the lead. He led them back through the quickly deserted streets to the port, and just as Abby was about to ask what on Earth he was planning, he led her to the back of several large storage sheds, behind a fence, and to a rusted iron door.
With a heave of his shoulder, which of course Abby had looked demurely to the side to avoid seeing, Pembrake had busted open the door to reveal a large barn-like shed inside. With one whiff, Abby had been reminded of the pastures and barns of home – the slightly damp, grassy smell of hay. There were mountains and mountains of it, all piled in sections, obviously waiting to be fed to the livestock that came through the port.
For want of a dry, safe, free place – Abby would probably have opted for a house, but this would do perfectly. She wouldn't admit if of course, and tried to keep her face disdainful and mirroring, she hoped, what Ms Crowthy would have thought of the situation.
Pembrake abruptly threw himself onto a low pile of hay and kicked out his legs, tucking his hands behind his head. 'Aren't you going to thank me?'
Abby made a horrible face, sure that he couldn't see her. 'Why?'
'Because once again I've saved the day. You are horrendously rude, little witch, you should be thankful you can rely on someone like me.'
Abby kept on pulling faces. 'And you should be thankful this plan of yours actual worked. We are in the past remember, this shed could have been anything.' It was a weak argument, but Abby was cold, wet, and hungry.
'A giant cake maybe?' Pembrake shifted about on the hay until he had apparently found a comfortable place to rest.
Abby replied with pointed silence.
'You know, Abby, if you were any other girl.'
She flinched. 'And what's that supposed to mean?' She could tell, whatever it was, that Ms Crowthy would certainly not approve and that Pembrake was saying it purely to annoy her. Still… what did he mean?
Pembrake shifted his head so she could no longer see his smile. 'I see you have a lot to learn, little witch.' With that Pembrake had rolled over and not spoken again until morning.
Abby had fussed about for a while, trying to find a sufficiently private place to hang up her sopping clothes, a place she was sure Pembrake would not accidently come upon and cause her to blush like a spewing volcano. She would have to be very careful around him, she could tell.
Eventually Abby came to rest on a suitable patch of hay. It was scratchy, but she couldn't really do anything about that. Mostly she was glad that her whirlwind day was slowing down around her, coming to rest in this pleasantly peaceful hay shed.
Charlie settled in beside her and began to purr. 'One of these days,' he kept his voice low, 'we are going to have to have a good long chat about going back in time and courting strange naval men.'
Abby tsked angrily, and flicked his ear lightly before settling further into her impromptu bed.
Pembrake could go hang for all she cared, Abby assured herself one final time before she drifted off to sleep.
The next day brought with it the bustling sound of the port with men shouting off in the distance and the blast of a fog horn whistling through the air. Abby awoke to the ghastly sight of Pembrake leaning over her, face quizzical but eyes alight with interest.
In the moment it took Abby's brain to catch up with the situation, Ms Crowthy's disembodied self had shouted at Abby to cover up at once. Abby quickly, awkwardly considering she had sunk far down into the hay during the night, threw her arms around her as best she could, causing Charlie to fly off the hay and land dazzled at Pembrake's feet.
'What are you wearing?' Pembrake didn't look away like a polite gentleman should, but kept on staring.
She was wearing, apart from the blush that was searing her cheeks, a pair of Martha's spare drawers and an alarmingly large singlet.
'You look like you're from the pantomime.' He still hadn't looked away.
'Go away!' she tried to struggle up out of the hay, but found it eating her like quick sand.
Pembrake shook his head with laughter, either at the sight of her struggling like tissue on the wind or the impossible plum-red colour of her cheeks. 'Oh I don't think so, this is quite funny really.'
'You're so rude!' she continued to struggle determinedly, certain she could not accept a hand from him now, 'don't you know how to act around ladies?'
A very self-assured grin settled on his face, his white teeth sneaking out from behind his lips. 'Oh yes.'
She had had enough. What a horrible man he was. As Ms Crowthy had assured her on many occasions, the best way to deal with people that wouldn't go away, was to throw things at them until they did. And this wisdom was especially appropriate around boys. Ms Crowthy, the old Crone that she was, had little tolerance for boys in general, especially when they went around pestering her young recruits. Many a hopeful farmhand had gone home with a black eye from a mysterious boot flying over the hedge.
Abby bunched her hands round several loose tufts of hay and threw them at him. He stood there stalwart as the hay gently fell against him, her aim true but her chosen weapon weak. 'You are very easy to scare, Abby, it's a wonder you've made it to the age you have without holing yourself up in a cave and blocking the entrance. It's no wonder you get on so well with my mother.'
Finally Abby struggled free of the hay, eventually having to burrow through it until her feet reached the firm floor. 'And you, Pembrake -' she went to grab her clothes but he didn't move from her path.
'Yes?' his eyes were still flickering with that same amused interest.
Standing closer to him, without the barrier of hay in her way, was far more confronting, and Abby tried to sniff back some self-respect. 'You are a horrible rouge,' she ended weakly.
'You're not very good at winning arguments, are you?' he was laughing through his words, but still those green eyes would not move from her. 'In fact there doesn't seem to be anything you can do to surprise me – you're very predictable, if not a little peculiar and great deal naive.'
Abby's mind stumbled and she hated herself for the way her eyes flicked with confusion.
'You want predictable, buddy?' Charlie suddenly said as he reared onto two feet and stood like a little cat man, 'how about I jump up there and scratch your face off.'
Pembrake jerked back like a man on fire. His face suddenly yanked back with rigid surprise. 'Wh-what the hell?'
Abby put a hand to her mouth and giggled, the look on Pembrake's face was worth more than all the gold in the world.
'You finding this funny, Pembrake?' Charlie was putting on a terribly tough voice which sounded as though he'd modelled it on a drunken sailor. 'Because these claws are sharp,' he finished off with a hiss.
Pembrake shifted back once more before he tried to straighten up. 'That cat's talking!' he pointed out to the general room.
'Surprise, ha?' Abby let the sarcasm keep her voice in a low continuous tone.
He looked at her and seemed to calm do
wn slightly, no doubt realising how very foolish he looked. 'I suppose witches have talking cats, I've heard the stories,' he ticked his head as he spoke.
'And now you've seen the real thing, 'Charlie appeared to be squaring up to him, 'and how does it make you feel?'
Abby couldn't help but chuckle at Charlie's adorable routine, something he would probably bite her for later.
Pembrake took a second to swallow. 'Well, think of it this way,' he knelt down slightly, though not far enough to bring his pristine face within scratching distance, 'I could pick you up and throw you in a hay bale - how would that feel?' Pembrake's voice was menacing but retained a note of surprise.
It was a moment that she wished could go on and on forever, but she had to intervene for the sake of her beloved little Charlie. If he were 20-times larger, then she'd just let him sort out Pembrake for good.
'Okay,' Abby said clearly and forcefully, 'game's over, boys,' she leant down and picked up Charlie who's hair still stood on end, 'I'm going to get dressed now.'
That morning was spent back on the streets of Bridgestock, its cobbles washed clean from the night's rain. Abby had spent most of the time drifting behind Pembrake, picking strands of straw out of her hair, and making mutinous faces at the back of his head and sharing whispered words with Charlie. If Pembrake thought he was better at finding 'clues' to fixing their destinies and getting into the palace than her, then so be it. Of course he didn't have a magical bone in his pompous body, which was going to doom him from the start. How was he going to recognise a suitable clue to why their destinies had broken and how it was they were to fix them again? He didn't even believe in that kind of stuff.
So Abby had just hung behind him, like a petulant shadow, waiting for him to give up and come crawling back to her. It wasn't going to happen, of course. The self-assured, charismatic, arrogant Commander wasn't about to ask a 'little witch' for advice.
What a waste of time he was.
'Why,' he stopped and drew up beside her as they passed a bakery, 'do you always seem to be making such horrible faces?'
He'd obviously caught a glance of one of her most enthusiastic faces in the glass of the bakery windows. 'I find the back of your head to be very inspiring,' she said sharply before she'd really thought of it. She was usually very mild mannered and polite. Pembrake seemed to be bringing out a surprising and worrying side of her.
He looked shocked but amused. 'Plucky this morning aren't we.'
Her stomach gave a rumble before she could think of a cutting reply.
For a short moment he frowned, before he caught himself and turned it into a sneer. 'Good point, Abby's stomach, perhaps we should find some food.'
After that, Abby swore she saw a little bit of the Commander shining through. It had occurred to her, after all, that whoever Pembrake was around her, he couldn't possibly assume the same roguish arrogance around his crew. And as he went marching off down the street, Abby darting to keep up, she felt like she was following a different man.
They found a tree, laden with ripe apples sprawling over a wall on Esquire street. According to Pembrake, he'd often come here as a child, and there was more where that came from. Abby was simply surprised and a little taken aback as he kept on handing her apples, stowing only one in his own pocket.
He had the face of a worried mother, begging their child to eat. Though he couldn't come right out and say that he was actually concerned about her. 'You stock up, I don't want you fainting and losing us valuable time.' He scaled the wall and threw her down another apple.
'Ah ha.'
After Pembrake had grabbed all the apples at hand, he'd vaulted back off the wall, landing lightly beside her. 'Eat,' he commanded.
And she did.
With the apron, that Martha had tied around Abby's baggy clothes so that they would stay on, full of apples, Charlie trotting beside them, her and Pembrake had walked the length of Esquire street, a strange but comfortable silence spreading between them.
It was almost pleasant with the mid-morning sun shining on their backs. Almost pleasant, that was, until Abby rounded a corner and knocked flat into what felt like a brick wall, falling back against the pavement and losing her apples with a yelp.
'Oh no!' A man with the dark skin of a South Islander quickly dropped to his knees and helped her up.
She found herself staring at his face, open mouthed and confused. It wasn't the shock of falling on the street that had done it – or the terrible prospect of her breakfast tumbling along the pavement brown and bruised – it was the man's face.
The way his lips seemed to be set with a natural, friendly curl. The way his jaw tapered to a firm square jut. The way his eyes seemed to be set into keen search lights…. The man reminded her of Pembrake.
'I really am sorry,' the man stood her up but fell short of brushing her off. Instead he nodded very politely, a look of genuine concern on his all-too-familiar face.
Abby wanted to shift her shocked gaze to Pembrake and switch between them, comparing and noting the obvious, distinctive similarities. It was uncanny. All but for the lighter shade of his skin and pale green eyes – Pembrake was the spitting image of the man before her.
'You really must excuse me, ma'am, it was very rude of me to come around the corner so fast.'
She allowed herself to finally look past his face to the crisp white, navy suit he wore, and the slightly-rumpled bouquet of red roses held in his hand. Her apples lay dejected around them both and the man leant down to pick one up. 'Bruised I'm afraid, I'm so sorry.' And he did actually sound it.
And that was the difference that was most astounding. She was looking at a far more agreeable Pembrake. She could see Ms Crowthy approving of this man in an instant. She would probably even invite him in for shortbread and tea, and if there was a slice of apple pie around, she'd offer him that too.
'Of course,' she eventually mumbled, trying to dampen down her shock into a polite smile, 'don't worry about it.'
But the man had let his eyes drift down her dirty, ill-fitting clothes and settled on her thin arms poking from under the fabric. He looked back at the apple and gave a small smile. 'I don't think it would be decent of me to leave like this, I owe you recompense, ma'am.'
She found herself nodding, not really listening, just thinking about how astonishingly agreeable he was.
'You don't have to do that,' Pembrake said from beside her.
Abby had almost forgotten all about him. She turned to see his face was set with a peculiar look of recognition. His brow was crinkled and his nose flared, his eyes peering across his lookalike with cold confusion.
Had he noticed that they looked so much alike?
'Of course I do,' the man said firmly. Then he reached out a large hand to Pembrake, 'Ensign Karing.'
Pembrake hesitated then shook it, his face looking paler by the moment.
'I really insist on paying for the apples,' he said with a firmness that reminded Abby of Pembrake demanding that she eat moments before, 'In fact, if you would just wait a moment while I deliver these flowers, I insist on taking you to breakfast.'
Pembrake put a hand on her shoulder. 'I'm afraid we haven't the time, we are quite busy.'
'Oh,' Ensign Karing looked disappointed for a moment, then his determination returned. 'No problem then. My fiancé is just around the corner, and she has an apple tree laden with fruit. I absolutely insist on replacing them.'
He seemed to be used to giving orders, Abby thought as she let her eyes drift over his face again.
'The apples are fine,' Pembrake picked one up, hiding a large brown bruise by twisting it around.
'I absolutely insist,' Karing said finally.
She could see it was going to be up to her to intervene here. Both Pembrake and Karing seemed like the kind of men who, once they had stated their place, would not shift for love or money. 'Okay then, that sounds fair.'
Karing nodded triumphantly, marching on ahead before Pembrake could counter again.
&nb
sp; Pembrake didn't dig his feet in and refuse to move, which was a relief, but he did catch up to Abby and lean down to whisper in her ear. 'You fool, Abby, you have no idea who that is.'
'What? He's just some random guy!' she hissed back, not appreciating Pembrake's tone.
'That,' she had never heard Pembrake speak so distinctly and with so much gravitas, 'is my biological father.'
Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. Though Abby wasn't exactly sure on the protocol of time travel, it seemed like the most rotten of ideas to run into your parents in the past. After all, you don't want them in the future to suddenly remember that in the past they've seen your future self.
Chapter 8
Abby and Pembrake had followed Karing up the street, Abby's mind ablaze with the possibilities. She wasn't sure what to do, what was the safest possible option to get her and Pembake out of trouble without causing irreparable damage to the time line.
Whatever she had to do, she concluded, it would have to not be memorable. If they dashed off now and Karing turned to see them running across the street in their ill-fitting clothes looking like characters out of a strange fairy tale, he'd probably have the image seared into his brain for life. She could not allow that. She had to extricate her and Pembrake out of this situation without at all making a memorable exit. And failing to make a memorable exit was not really something she imagined Pembrake was capable of.
Pembrake kept on turning to her and shifting his head pointedly towards the other end of the street. 'Let's go,' he whispered, lips thin with anger.
She couldn't quite stop on the street and explain to him her thoughts on the matter. They had to ensure that to Karing, they were the most unmemorable people he'd ever seen. Because if for some reason or another, he decided to remember them, then their future selves, or Pembrake’s rather, would have trouble. She wasn't quite sure how this timeline stuff worked, but was sure that Ms Crowthy would agree with her conclusion: softly, softly.
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