by Dima Zales
The stallion, tall and beautiful, stood pawing the ground, waiting for the reins to tell him where to go. As Emory dashed forward, Marshall toppled to the right, taking Petra with him. Emory caught her while the big man hit the ground with an earth-shaking thud. Emory carried Petra away from Marshall’s crumpled body. To Emory’s surprise, the horse stepped over Marshall, and ambled after him.
Emory wondered how long it would be until Marshall’s partners noticed his disappearance. Considering their apparent drunkenness, it might be hours. As the sound of horses and men gave way to crickets, creek and owls, Emory clucked to the stallion, picked up the reins and led him away from Marshall’s moaning body. Safely hidden in a thicket of trees, Emory laid Petra across the horse’s back and then hoisted himself up after her. Positioning in the saddle, he drew Petra against him and turned toward the village.
He debated on whether to remove Petra’s hood and binds. His task would be easier if she remained inert. Her head bounced against his chest and he felt his breath matching her own in a gentle rhythm. Slowly, irrevocably, he felt himself melding into her.
This has to stop, he thought. I am Emory Ravenswood, a man whose long life knows no end and no companion. He couldn’t keep her with him, tucking her into his home and bed, selfishly asking for her to share his half existence. What he wanted battled with what he knew was right. She needs to return her to her family. Not that he knew any better idea of how to find Royal Oaks than she did.
The horse plodded towards town, hoofs beating a soft cadence that seemed to say, what now, what now, and what now? If he couldn’t have Petra, he could, at least, have the horse. He named him Centaur. Centaur could stay at Anne’s, but surely both women would be angry if he deposited Petra back into Anne’s bed.
The Earl then. Petra had said she knew his son, Little Lord Fartinstaff. He thought of Garret’s blond pompadour lifting off his high forehead, his blue know-nothing-refuse-to-see-anything eyes.
Emory shifted, annoyed and uncomfortable. The son was young, he reminded himself. It was the do-nothing-but-collect-taxes father who deserved disdain. Emory could hardly blame the son for the father’s misdeeds, or deeds of omission. Yet he did. The thought of leaving Petra in their care made him hate father and son. A new kind of revulsion, strong and bitter, rose from his stomach.
Petra sagged and bounced against him. Emory looked up at the moon as if expecting it to provide answers. It twinkled back at him. Petra’s time was short: his time with her shorter still. It was a shame she had to die.
Petra would be gone by the time the Earl returned to Hampton Court. Young Falstaff was an impulsive idiot, but he was harmless and generally kind. He would ensure her final hours were spent in comfort. Perhaps Falstaff could locate her family and provide a fitting burial.
By the time the horse plodded over the last hill, giving Emory a clear view of the village, the chapel, and beyond that the imposing towers of Pennington Place, he knew what he had to do.
10
Bathing was rare but grooming frequent. Nails needed to be cleaned nightly, hair combed daily. Combs were made of ivory, horn or wood. They even had silver ear-spoons, small tools for cleaning out earwax. Ear-spoons can still be found in Asian markets, and there are professional ear cleaners in the streets of many Asian cities.
—Petra’s notes
The next time Petra opened her eyes she saw Kyle, leaning over her, his gaze warm and concerned. Her heart lifted. I’m home, the nightmare has ended. “Kyle,” she breathed.
“My lady?”
Her elation crashed. Looking around, Petra saw a room of stone walls draped in tapestries and ornately carved bed posts draped in gossamer. A silver candelabrum with unlit candles sat on a bedside table.
Kyle wore a simple white tunic and tan breeches. A young woman behind him wore a blue gown and a white apron, and a man standing in a corner wore a dark, unreadable expression. How long had she slept? She tried to rise, but her head thundered. She slipped back down among the pillows.
Gypsies, music, healing, the Otherworld, rosemary and mug-wort, Emory, the sword. She was still trapped and, now, friendless. Tears of disappointment and loss came to her eyes. With her thumb, she felt Emory’s ring.
We both know I do not live. That’s what he’d said. Did that mean that he couldn’t die? No. The shock on his face, the sudden stillness in his eyes, that horrible, ragged noise from his lips, and the blood gushing from his belly—his death had looked more real than anything she had seen in the movies, much more gruesome than her mother’s slow fading.
Petra turned away from Kyle’s gaze to look out the window at rolling acres of lawn, distant farmland, and a thick wood. “Where am I?”
“Pennington Place, my lady.” Despite the Harry Potter accent, he even sounded like Kyle.
Petra clutched at the quilt and pulled it to her shoulders like a shield. “How did I come here?”
“My man Fritz found you by the front gate. You have suffered a head wound.”
Petra clung to that. “A head wound. Yes.”
The man with the frown and massive eyebrows left his corner and stepped closer. “If you would tell us your family, we will send word of your safety.
Safety? She’d seen her only friend in this time warp run through with a sword. She’d been kidnapped, bagged and beaten. No, she wasn’t safe. She rubbed the knot on her head, feeling its size and wondering if it would turn purple. “I remember little.”
“You do not recall who brought you to our gate?” Suspicion tinged the man’s nasal voice. He had a beak like a buzzard. Perhaps anyone doomed to spend a lifetime with such a nose would be cranky.
A line from the book of Alice in Wonderland sprung to Petra’s lips and she had to bite it back. One would never undertake a journey without a porpoise. Who had said that? The Caterpillar? The Cheshire Cat? That was what she needed, Petra decided, a mythical mentor.
Petra turned to Kyle, who, if not mythical, was at least familiar. “Have we met?”
Kyle smiled and shook his head. “I do not believe so. I would have remembered such good fortune.”
She smiled because he was so Kyle. Even if he wasn’t. “You look familiar, like someone I know from somewhere else.”
“What is your name, my lady?” the Buzzard Man in the corner asked. His question, though reasonable, sounded like an accusation.
“Petra Baron.” She struggled to sit up and ended by bracing herself on her elbows.
The Kyle look-a-like stepped closer to the bed. “I am Garret Falstaff and this is Lord Chambers.” He motioned to the man behind him, but didn’t introduce the young woman, who was probably a maid. “You are safe here at Pennington Place.”
Petra watched a parade of maids fill a copper tub with a scalding, lavender-scented water. Mary, the tiny blond maid in charge of the brigade, scuttled between the bedroom and presumably the kitchen with brimming buckets.
“T’won’t be but a minute now, miss,” Mary huffed as she poured a final bucket into the copper tub. After dismissing the other girls, Mary pulled up a sleeve, exposed her forearm, and dipped her elbow in the steaming water. “Very good, miss.” Mary placed her hands on her hips and gave Petra an encouraging smile.
When Petra didn’t budge, Mary scowled and spoke slowly, encouragingly, as if Petra was a child. “Would you like me to undo your gown, miss?”
The dress had a row of tiny buttons parading down her back, but it also had a side zipper, making the buttons unnecessary. But Mary wouldn’t know that.
“Um, no, I can manage.” When Mary didn’t budge, Petra slid a cautious glance at her and then unzipped the side of her dress.
“Coo?” the maid whispered, clearly fascinated. She stepped closer to inspect the zipper.
Mary circled Petra, and Petra rotated.
“You can go now,” Petra said, trying to sound dismissive yet polite.
Mary’s mouth dropped open, and she blinked hard. “But your bath --”
Petra cleared her throat.
“I can handle it,” she said, while stepping out of the dress.
When Mary remained motionless, Petra continued, “I like to bathe alone.”
Mary’s eyes widened to the point of bulging.
“It’s how it’s done in my country,” Petra said. “We bathe privately.” She spoke clearly, loudly, using the voice she used on her dog and her stepsister when she didn’t want an argument.
Mary closed her mouth and blinked back tears.
Petra, unmoved and growing impatient, turned her back on the girl and stepped out of her dress. “I really don’t see the problem.”
Mary’s watery eyes had turned so huge she reminded Petra of a frog. “Gor, miss, is that your—”
Petra looked down at her bra and matching panties, both pink lace.
Mary choked, “But where are your-” she waved her hand toward Petra’s midriff. Petra remembered once reading that the women of the earlier centuries wore pounds of undergarments. Her panties and bra although modest compared by Victoria’s Secret standards, had to be shocking to poor Mary.
Mary shook her head, gathering Petra’s dress from the floor. Then she stopped, frozen, as if in shock. “Your toes, miss. They’re purple.”
Petra didn’t know how to explain Picasso Pinky’s Salon.
“With flowers on them,” Mary finished.
“Yes,” Petra said.
“Did an artist paint —”
“Sort of.”
Mary backed toward the door, Petra’s dress a bundle in her arms.
“Where are you taking my dress?” Petra asked, panic in her voice.
Mary looked at the dress as if she’d forgotten its existence. “Why, to the washer woman, of course.”
“But—”
To launder the dress without a drycleaners would take hours. The dress was dirty, but without it, what would she wear? She could hardly walk around in her underwear. Scandalizing Mary the maid was one thing but an entire village? She had a sudden image of Lady Godiva on a horse. When was Lady Godiva’s time and what had become of her? Had they stoned her for her nudity? Made her wear a scarlet A attached to her ta-tas?
Mary gave her a tremulous smile. “My Lord has sent Jenny to retrieve some of the mistress’ gowns for you.”
“Won’t the mistress mind?”
“She would have dreadfully,” Mary said, her voice thick with emotion, “but she’s passed away five long months ago and no longer has a say.”
“And they kept her clothes?”
“Of course. What else would they have done?” Mary gave the tub of water a baleful glance. “Your water will be getting cold, miss.”
“I’ll get in after you’ve gone,” she told Mary.
Mary looked doubtful. “I will come back?”
Petra folded her arms as a stiff breeze blew in through the window. “Not until I’m out.”
“But your hair, miss?”
“I can do my hair,” Petra said. It seemed odd to be standing near naked in front of an open window, but from their height she supposed only birds could see in. No airplanes, or helicopters, probably not even hot air balloons.
Mary’s lip trembled.
“Fine,” Petra said with a scowl. “You can do my hair.”
Mary sniffed hard.
“Please go,” Petra finally urged.
Mary didn’t budge. “But what if you --”
Petra turned her back on her, listening for the door. She peeked and saw Mary give a despondent little shrug and then trundle out the door. At last the door snapped shut with a defiant click.
She was not only dirty, but also bruised and achy. Pulling her hair over the edge, she sank into the water up to her chin and closed her eyes. She tried to let go of everything, all her fears and concerns, but the scene in the gypsy camp kept replaying in her mind. She felt guilty soaking in the tub, being catered to by servants when people in the gypsy camp had been hunted down and maybe even killed.
Emory said the gentry led the hunts. Had Kyle, no, he’d called himself Garret, ordered the raid on the gypsies? What had happened to the children and babies? What about the sick boy who needed healing? How many besides Emory had died?
Emory. One tear rolled down her cheek and then another. Worried she’d break down, she tried to think of her biggest problem—how to get home?
But thinking of home didn’t stop her tears.
She splashed her face with water. She was in England, home was in California. Even if she’d been in the right century, crossing an ocean and a continent, without cash, credit cards or passport would be difficult. But crossing four hundred years—impossible.
And yet not impossible, assuming she’d already done it once. Her mother used to say that if you did something once you could do it twice. Which wasn’t really true. Some things you could only do once, as her mother’s death had proved.
Which raised an interesting question. Had Petra died? Was this her afterlife? Her Otherworld? She wiggled her toes in the water, and the purple flowers made her feel a little better. She felt real, still herself. She didn’t feel dead. Placing a hand over her heart, she felt its steady, reassuring thump.
She contemplated the tiny red prick on her finger. She bled and breathed; her heart beat. So, assuming she was still alive and had somehow fallen into a time warp—why this time? Why now?
If she had to time travel, why couldn’t she have gone back to when her mother was alive, when she and her parents lived in the yellow house with the red roses, when going to the zoo and seeing the tiger roar was the most terrifying experience of her life? When building a sand castle at the beach and watching the tide demolish her work was her biggest disappointment?
And why was she here? Was that more relevant than how?
The kids in the Chronicles of Narnia were always finding ways in and out of Narnia—a wardrobe, the blast of a horn, a storm. Had she really gotten out of the twenty-first century through the wrong curtain of a fortuneteller’s tent? Maybe she’s missed the warning: Beware, enter at your own risk; fortunetelling maybe hazardous to your life plans.
“There are no coincidences,” Laurel liked to say. Just like she said, “The Baron and McGee family was meant to be.” As if in some great design, Petra’s mother’s death and Zoe’s father’s abandonment were lodged into their life maps, as inescapable and unavoidable as the setting sun.
Petra sat up and tried to shake off her funk when the door creaked open.
“Just me, miss.” Mary poked her head through the door. “I brought ye some gowns.” Mary flushed pink. “And if ye don’t be minding, some under-things.”
Standing in the center of the room, grasping a bedpost, Petra gasped as Mary gave a final tug on the corset. Then, before Petra had time to feel shocked, Mary deftly patted Petra’s boobs into the chemise. Petra hadn’t even the time to complain before Mary had moved on to the buttons. Petra closed her mouth, the grumble dying under the realization that she could hardly breathe, let alone complain. No wonder women on the covers of romance novels were always fainting into Fabio’s arms. Either they couldn’t breathe, or they were dying of embarrassment because their boobs were about to pop out. Petra blinked, one of the few movements she could manage, and said, “I won’t be able to sit or lift a spoon.”
Mary gave the laces on the brown velvet gown a tug and then stood back with a satisfied smile. “Gor, miss, you look lovely.”
Mary held up a hand mirror for Petra to see. What had been left of her makeup had disintegrated in the bath, but the steam had left her skin pink and moist. Her eyes sparkled blue, her lips red, and her hair had been swept into a thick twisty knot at her neck. She didn’t recognize herself. She looked like one of the fainters from the romance novels.
Mary frowned, a tiny crease appearing between her eyebrows. She appeared to be on the verge of spouting a lecture. Petra recognized in Mary the tell-tale signals her stepmother always used just before a rant -- lowered eyebrows, clenched fists, tightened jaw. Petra wondered if scolding, primping and man
handling boobs was standard seventeenth century maid practice.
“Miss,” Mary began, looking flustered, “to catch my lord’s eye—”
Petra tried taking a deep breath. “Catch his eye?”
Mary sucked in her lower lip and began violently brushing Petra’s gown. “You mustn’t smack your lips or gnaw on bones. Remember to keep your fingers clean.”
Etiquette lessons from the maid?
“Don’t speak of politics,” Mary continued.
As if she knew anything of the time. “Or, let me guess -- religion.”
Mary stopped brushing, straightened and looked Petra in the eye. “They are the same.” Mary placed her hands on her hips. “This is a beautiful dress, and I’ve made you just as lovely, miss.” She sucked in a deep breath. “Don’t be spoiling this.”
“Spoiling what?”
Mary cocked her head. “Why are you here, then? If not to secure Lord Garret?”
“Secure Lord Garret?” Petra felt herself flush, heat and indignation rising. “Is he insecure?”
“Hush!” Mary hissed when a knock sounded at the door. “A footman, to escort you to the dining hall,” Mary explained. “Keep your serviette in your lap.”
Which might be easier if you knew what a serviette was.
If Mary thought Petra was there to “secure” Garret, who else might think the same thing? “Tell me again who will be at dinner.”
“It’s just you, Lord Garret, and Master Chambers.”
Petra remembered Chambers with the frowning eyebrows. He radiated dislike and distrust. If he’d been a dog, the hairs on the back of his neck would have pointed upward. She wondered what role he played here. Mary had referred to him as master, so he wasn’t a servant. “Where’s Lord Garret’s father?”
“In the city,” Mary said and then added under her breath, “That’s why we must hurry.” She gave Petra’s back a little push.
Petra discovered that, despite the corset, she could walk and breathe at the same time.