by Dima Zales
Emory tried to listen for the men’s voices, but the neighboring room now seemed hushed, while in Emory’s room several noisy things happened at once. The dog lunged, sinking his teeth into Emory’s breeches. A tall, apple-shaped woman wielding a large wooden spoon appeared from a back room.
“Out! Out,” the woman cried, belting Emory with her spoon.
“I mean no harm,” Emory said, covering his head with his arms and trying to shake the dog off his leg.
“Out! Out!” The wooden spoon beat on Emory’s shoulders and back.
Tripping over the dog, which he’d managed to kick in the jaw, Emory made it to the window. The dog leaped for Emory’s throat but missed as Emory clambered over the sill. Snapping at Emory’s feet with brown and rotting teeth, the animal grew frantic. A tear in Emory’s breeches caught on a wooden peg, but after a few moments of awkward hanging, Emory fell face first into a woodpile.
Above him, the woman shouted obscenities and the dog barked, but to Emory’s relief, the room that Chambers had occupied hadn’t a window on the woodpile side. Emory scooted off the wood, scattering logs and planks, offered the woman a lopsided grin and an apology. “A simple mistake, good mistress. A wrong door, tis all.” He ratcheted up the charm in his smile and watched the woman’s expression soften. Her lips twitched as he caught a log rolling down the street, picked it up and waved it at her before returning it to the heap. The gesture won him a toothless smile.
The dog, however, refused to be charmed. Paws on the sill and head poking out, he continued to bark, spraying slobber. He likely was too old and rickety to clear the window, but Emory didn’t stay to find out. He ran through the alley, turned a corner and stopped short when he saw a girl about his age dressed in blue wandering through the crowd. Blond hair piled on her head. Jewels glistened in her hair and in her ears. She moved like a feather on the wind, graceful yet aimless. A tiny frown pulled at her lips and a worried scowl creased her eyebrows. Turning, she faced him and her eyes widened, as if in recognition. He took a step toward her, pulled by an invisible cord. The geese complained as he pushed through, honking and pecking as they surrounded him.
“Give way, lad,” the goose girl shouted.
But Emory wasn’t listening to her. He strained to hear what the girl in blue was saying. Emory felt a flash of sudden, inexplicable pain, knowing she would never call for him.
A murmur ran through the crowd. Above their heads Petra caught sight of Kyle on a decked out horse. The Arabian gleamed in the late afternoon sun, mane and tail glistening like an onyx ring, and he wore a bright colored coat. Kyle had his eyes trained on a falcon flying toward the jousting arena.
“Kyle!” Petra called, relieved that the charade was near an end. Finally, he’d ask her to prom and together they could find Zoe. Mike had asked Blondie by hanging a sign on a freeway overpass. Mark had delivered a bouquet of helium balloons to Nicki. Ryan asked Heather while wearing a gorilla suit. But this had to be the most convoluted invitation ever. She swallowed her hysteria and felt a moment of relief.
A few people turned to look at Petra, but Kyle didn’t. Anger flashed through her. She called again, but instead of turning Kyle spurred his horse down the dusty path. People moved for him like the Red Sea had parted for Moses. In fact, some bowed, practically scraping the ground. Was this really an invitation to prom? Had egotism extraordinaire replaced hotitude? This skyrocketed Kyle’s arrogance to a whole new stratosphere.
So over him and shaking in anger, Petra plucked a slimy vegetable off a nearby cart and lobbed it at Kyle. The discolored beet, slightly smaller and much more solid than a softball, would have landed true, squarely on the back of Kyle’s head, except for another three-legged dog. The animal darted beneath the Arabian’s hooves with a chicken in his mouth, and the horse danced away, carrying Kyle with him.
Wait. Where would a dog get a chicken? A live, white and black, squawking chicken? Had he stolen it from the petting zoo? She tried to imagine Frosty stealing a chicken. He didn’t even chase rabbits. A child darted after the dog, shouting. She’d thought the three-legged dog from before had been dingo-looking and this was more shepherd mix. How many three-legged dogs running free could there be? One seemed over the top.
Even weirder, Kyle disliked riding. He called Petra’s own thoroughbred a giant rodent and refused to even mount Laurel’s fat, slow, Gwendolyn. Could that afternoon, three months ago, have been part of the ruse? Not likely.
A bad dream then, she reasoned. I’m having a bad dream. Doctor Burns said many cultures believe that dreams are a means for the soul to leave the body and experience other dimensions. Some psychologists believe that dreams represent the workings of the unconscious mind. So the dream couldn’t exist outside her mind. None of this was real. She didn’t think she was asleep, but if this was some peculiar life-like dream, what was her unconscious mind trying to tell her?
She didn’t have a clue. She didn’t know why she had suddenly been transported to Elizabethan England, but she did know Kyle. He needed to help her find Zoe so they could go home.
Petra picked up another beet and cocked her arm, but stopped short when a vice-like hand clamped her wrist. She struggled against the grip, fighting to send another missile at Kyle’s big head. An arm snaked across her waist and pulled her against a solid chest. She squirmed and rammed her elbow into her captor’s diaphragm. It hurt her funny bone, but he didn’t even budge. She tried to stomp her feet, but soon realized she was at least two inches off the ground.
“Think twice, my lady,” a voice whispered in her ear.
3
Gold or silver coins - no paper currency. 240 pennies or 20 shillings equaled one pound. Each penny had a cross not only to symbolize Christianity but also to be used as a guideline for cutting the pennies into halves and quarters. The halfpenny was worth half a penny and the farthing was worth a quarter, or a fourth, of a penny.
What would be the cost of a rotting turnip?
—Petra’s notes
The breath against her neck sent shivers down her back. His hand on her wrist felt like fire. He stood behind her, holding her arm over her, so she couldn’t see his face, but his voice had a Harry Potter accent.
An angry, muffin-faced woman bustled toward them gabbling, droplets of saliva flying from her loose, flapping lips.
Petra couldn’t understand a thing.
“She wants to know how you’ll be paying,” the warm voice said. He didn’t release her arm, but lowered it behind her back and plucked the beet from her fingers. Holding her against him, he whispered, “Offer her handsomely, and she’ll not call the watch.”
Petra looked at the sorry collection of spotted and bruised vegetables and then at the woman’s fury. Muffin Face wore a mud colored shawl and an apron splattered with crusted blood. Most of Muffin’s hair had been stuffed beneath a scarf, but bits of gray blond fuzz had escaped and framed her red, mottled skin.
“So sorry, of course,” Petra said. The guy released her wrist. Petra fumbled through her bag, a tiny silk pouch held closed with a ribbon. She’d had it made to match the slippers and it held little more than a vial of perfume, Zoe’s Girl Scout gadget, her phone and a few dollar bills. She handed the woman a five and the woman gawked.
Petra glimpsed at the guy who’d captured her wrist, instantly recognizing him from the stables. Solid, warm, and strong, he brought out in her the ridiculous desire to hide behind him from the insane woman. This bothered her for two reasons: She was still angry that he’d blocked her shot, and she wasn’t the hiding sort.
Petra planted her feet, squared her shoulders and again held the bill out to the woman, embarrassed that her hand shook so badly that the bill flapped. Trying to sound reasonable even though everyone else had gone berserk, she said, “I’m sorry I don’t have anything smaller.” Petra looked pointedly at a small lumpy pouch tied to the woman’s generous hips. “I’m sure you can make change.”
When the woman didn’t respond but stared with a slack-mouth
, Petra sighed. “Very well. Keep it.” There went Zoe’s funnel cake, which served her right. Funnel cake denial, the high price of wandering off.
Muffin Face stared at Petra with beady, squinting eyes.
Horse Guy bent to retrieve the first beet she’d thrown, from the dusty road. It had rolled out of the way of the horses’ hooves and wagon wheels and looked, to Petra, no worse than the other smelly vegetables in the woman’s cart. Close up, it looked even uglier.
“No harm done, good mistress,” the guy said to Muffin Face. He polished the beet, leaving a smear of dirt on his breeches, and handed it to the woman. Muffin Face sniffed, stretched her lips in a little smile and fluttered her lashes. Petra’s lips twitched in a smile; the guy had swag. The woman gave Petra another scowl and turned her attention to a pair of women in dusty aprons.
Petra returned the bill to her purse and looked up to find herself nose to chest with Horse Guy. Taking a step back, she realized he was much younger than she’d thought, close, in fact, to her age. She peered at him, wondering what had made him seem older. His build? His swagger?
“I offered her a five,” Petra said.
He looked at her, a smile tugging his lips. “Ah, but five what?”
His smile nearly disarmed her. Still, she tried to hold onto her anger. “A five dollar bill.”
“You offered but one.”
She again drew the bill from her purse. Horse Guy plucked it from her fingers and studied it, front and back, and then cocked his head. “A piece of parchment?”
She took it and waved the bill in his face. “It’s money!”
He rocked back on his heels, considering her. “It has no value here.”
Petra put her hands on her hips and blew a loose strand of hair from her eyes. “Five dollars is a lot for an anemic looking beet!”
“Perhaps, but I’m afraid it’s an unfair price for a turnip.”
“Turnip?”
“Yes, definitely a turnip. Do you not have such vegetables where you’re from?”
She thought of the rows and rows of beautiful produce at Pavilions. She didn’t think she’d ever seen a turnip, but she’d never looked, when passing the produce on the way to the Panda Express counter. She’d certainly never given any thought to discolored beets or turnips. Still, she was quite certain that one single, nasty looking whatever covered with dusty grime shouldn’t cost five dollars. They had larger, prettier vegetables at the dollar store, not that she’d ever bought one.
He chuckled and took her wrist, sending a tingling current through Petra. He led her away from the glares of the gossiping women. Petra allowed him to lead her across the street to the stables, which somehow smelled better than the vegetable cart.
“Can you help me find my sister?” Her voice sounded small. “I really want to go home, and I can’t leave without her.”
“Who?” he asked.
“My stepsister. You saw us earlier.”
“I saw her earlier?”
Petra nodded. “We saw you near the stables…” Her voice trailed away because those stables had looked nothing like where she was now. Sure, horses lined up in their stalls, flicking their tails and munching straw, but that was where the similarities ended. Here tack and whips hung on the wall, and dusty daylight peeked streamed between wooden slats. Straw covered the floor, and cobwebs filled the corners.
“And what does your sister look like?”
“You don’t remember?” She thought of how his wink had sent a tingle up her spine. She wanted to remind him of the wink, but what if he hadn’t been winking at her? He didn’t even remember her. That stung more than it should. She held out her hand to show Zoe’s height. “Kumquat-colored hair, tiny, freckled and bad tempered.”
Petra tore her gaze away to look over the crowd. The square was full of fat, thin, hairy and bald people, not one of them Zoe. She thought of the one other person she had recognized. “How do you know Kyle?”
“What is a Kyle?” He rolled the name over his tongue, as if experimenting with its sound.
“He’s not a what, but a who, and I saw you nodding to him in the street.” Horse Guy was the only person who hadn’t bowed. Her voice softened as she wondered over all the confusing things she’d recently seen. Kyle’s riding a horse seemed even more unlikely than a three legged dog, because, quite simply, she’d never known Kyle to do one thing he didn’t want to do. And three months ago he’d been adamantly opposed to riding a horse. “He was riding a horse.”
Horse Guy blinked. “There are many horsemen in Dorrington.”
“Wait,” her voice squeaked, “Where did you say?”
“Dorrington. Did you think we were somewhere else?”
She opened her mouth to argue, but then closed it. “I need to find Kyle. Can you help me?” She shuffled her feet, sending dust into the air. “He is the only person I’ve seen riding a horse decked out like a rock star.”
“Decked out like a rock star,” he repeated the phrase slowly. “I do not know what that means, but perhaps you refer to the Earl’s son. His horse wears the royal crest.”
A royal crest? “His dad’s name is John.”
“Yes, John Falstaff.”
“Like Shakespeare’s dead-drunk Falstaff?” Her thoughts spun. In Larsen’s AP English class she’d watched all the Shakespeare movies for extra credit. She wouldn’t have thought that Kyle, who arranged his schedule around lacrosse practice, had ever heard of John Falstaff. If he had he’d pulled off the gag with an amazing attention to detail.
Petra frowned. Kyle wasn’t good with details.
The guy’s voice turned hard. “My lady, you are mistaken. My Lord Falstaff is no drunkard; he is a committed protector.”
Kyle’s dad owned a bunch of used car lots and ran commercials featuring girls in string bikinis. Lord and protector weren’t names she’d have given him. “Fine. John Falstaff’s son. I need to speak to him.”
“That will be very difficult. Gaining an audience with the Earl—”
“An audience?” Petra thought of the girls in the TV ads, and her voice squeaked again. She cleared her throat. “I don’t want an audience.”
Horse Guy leaned against the stable wall and studied Petra. “You say you must speak with the Earl’s son.” His voice sounded calculating. “Why?”
Petra flushed. “He’s my boyfriend.”
Horse Guy looked at her blankly, and she tried to think of an old fashioned word, one he might understand. How would Juliette refer to Romeo? “My date.”
He laughed. “Your date?”
“Yes.” Okay, it hadn’t been the best word choice, but since she couldn’t think of a better one, she folded her arms and scowled at him. “Why is that funny?”
He chuckled, his brown eyes warm, his lips curled in a smile. “And who is your fig?”
“Fig?”
“Perhaps a pear or a peach…”
Petra, unused to being teased, clenched her fists and pushed past him. “This whole thing blows,” she said over her shoulder.
He caught up to her in one stride and easily matched her pace. “Blows? What blows?”
Petra flung out her arms. “This! Everything about this blows!” She quickened her step yet he stayed at her side.
“By this, do you mean Dorrington? How can a village blow without wind? It is, perhaps, a bodily blow?”
A bodily blow? As she tried to figure out what exactly was a bodily blow, Petra fought a surge of panic. “This totally, completely sucks!” She sounded hysterical. She was losing it. Pressure mounted in her chest. Her head thrummed and her mouth went dry.
“It blows and then it sucks. Sucks what?” He seemed genuinely confused. Somehow this made things worse.
Petra wanted to scream. She wanted to throw more spotty and mushy vegetables. She wanted to go home. She was going to kill Zoe.
“Sucks blood? Sucks life?” Still, he matched her pace, but kept his voice low. People moved out of their way, staring after them.
“Y
es! Yes! All of that.”
He took her wrist and another current of warmth spread up her arm. He whirled her to face him, his expression earnest. “My lady, I beg you, for your health, do not make mention of witchcraft again.”
Witchcraft? Who said anything about witchcraft? Shaking loose from his grip and turning her back, Petra lifted her skirt and ran down the street to the square.
Carts in a variety of sizes and shapes parked in the shade of the jousting arena. Farmers, bakers and cloth merchants all called out as she hurried past. Most wore rough cotton clothing in shades of dust. Their leather sandals matched the color of their feet.
Petra dashed through the crowd, overcome by animal odors and the press of too many bodies in too small a space. Looking at the ground, she closed her eyes and offered a silent prayer.
Opening her eyes, she thought she saw a pink flip-flop.
4
A cock fight is a blood sport between two roosters (cocks), held in a ring called a cockpit. In Tudor times, the Palace of Westminster had a permanent cockpit, the Cockpit-in-Court. Cocks are almost as disgusting as the people that make them fight.
—Petra’s notes
“Zoe!” Petra pushed through the crowd and nearly tripped over a squealing pig. Grasping onto a vegetable cart, she watched the knee-high creature shoulder through a maze of wagon wheels, crates of produce, men in tights and women in skirts. The pig snorted as it went, as if stating its disapproval of the melee. Petra curled her fingers around the edge of the cart, letting the rough wood dig into her palms. She didn’t recognize anyone. Not one single person wore normal clothes. The merchants, not even the kids looked like they belonged in Orange County. It wasn’t one difference but a combination: Everyone seemed short, dirty and grim. Their mood matched their greasy hair, the chipped and broken fingernails. Everyone except Horse Guy. He didn’t belong here, either.
She studied the people, searching for a few of the beauty standards of OC: a French manicure, the glistening of gloss hair products, the telltale perks of a boob job. But even the women in corsets looked saggy. Petra’s gaze flashed around the square, searching, ignoring the hot Horse Guy.