by M. J. Putney
“I … I want to believe in magic.” His face worked. “Family stories say the Rainfords were very good at it. But everyone knows that magic is just superstition.”
“What happened to the magic?” she asked, puzzled how something that was so much a part of life had faded away. “When did people stop accepting it?”
“I don’t know,” he said slowly. “Maybe as science grew, there was less reason for magic and it faded away. These days, magic is considered to be either superstition or parlor tricks.” His fingers whitened on his torch. “But … but there have been times when I’ve felt something inside me that might be magic, if I knew how to use it.”
“You do have power. I can feel it.” She sat again. “What year is this?”
His brows arched. “Did you fall on your head out in the abbey? Maybe the ghost of a sorcerer pushed you down some of those old steps.”
“Perhaps, but what year is it?”
“1940, of course.” He shook his head. “You are the strangest girl.”
She sucked in her breath. Assuming England still used the same calendar, she’d traveled—one hundred and thirty-seven years into the future!
Wondering if there was any chance he’d believe her, she said, “I was a student at Lackland Abbey, but the school tried to eliminate magic, not teach it. In my time most people liked magic, except for the nobility. Wellborn children with power were sent to Lackland to be cured so our families wouldn’t have to disown us. Students who wanted to learn more about our abilities would meet at night in the tunnels under the abbey.”
“Easier to believe you’re a Nazi spy!” he scoffed. “What year do you claim to be from?”
“1803.”
“So you danced here through time from over a hundred years ago?” he exclaimed. “You’re not just strange. You’re mad.”
“I didn’t dance here!” she snapped. “It was more like being galloped over by a team of wild horses.” She caught his gaze, willing him to believe. “Last night I went to the Labyrinth, the tunnels below the school, for tutoring. We were raided by the school authorities. I was trying to escape when I ran into a tunnel that ended in a tall mirror. I touched it and fell through, and here I am. I … I have no idea if I can go back.”
Nick’s expression changed. “Merlin’s mirror. It really exists!”
“This makes sense to you?” She stared at him. “There’s a legend that Merlin built the tunnels under the abbey, but I’ve never heard of his mirror. What is it?”
“Like I said, my family has stories of magic. There are lots of old Rainford journals. I’ve read them all, and several times there were mentions of Merlin’s mirrors.” He frowned, remembering. “There were seven mirrors. They looked like polished silver, and they could be used to travel through time and space. But that’s all I remember.”
Her brows arched. “So now you believe me?”
“I … I think I have to. The mirror must be like the device in H. G. Wells’s novel, The Time Machine, but that was science, not magic.”
“Maybe H. G. Wells was a mage?”
“No, he was a writer who lived about halfway between your time and mine.” Nick made an impatient gesture with his hand. “He doesn’t matter except that because I read his story about a time machine, it’s easier to believe that the mirror is a time machine.” His brows knit as he remembered. “The journal said Merlin’s mirror doesn’t work for everyone. You’re just lucky.”
“Luck I could do without!” She crossed her arms on the railing of the pew in front of her, so tired and confused that she was on the verge of tears. “If you don’t take me to the police, I’ll spend the night here. I won’t steal anything.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know,” she said bleakly. “The mirror was gone when I woke up here. Otherwise I would have gone back through it and taken my chances with the raiders. Perhaps the vicar can help me. In my time, clerics were often mages.”
“This vicar isn’t.” Nick got to his feet. “Come along, time traveler. I’m going to take you home.”
CHAPTER 20
Even exhausted, Tory said firmly, “I am not going home with you!”
“You need food and rest,” he said. “Tomorrow we can decide what you need to do next. My mother might have some ideas. She’s read the family journals, too. She and my dad are both teachers and know all kinds of things.”
As long as his mother was there, Tory supposed she’d be safe. More tired by the minute, she got to her feet. The problems she’d faced at Lackland Abbey seemed trivial compared to the difficulties she faced now. “I hope she can help.”
“She’s a better choice than the vicar or the police.” Nick led the way down the aisle. “Doorways work in both directions. If you can come through one way, you should be able to go back the other way.”
Hoping he was right, she followed him outside, extinguishing the mage light as she left the building. As they turned into the road, she glanced back at the church. Voice low, she asked, “What happened to the stained glass windows?”
“Lackland is on the front line for invasion, artillery, bombings—anything the Nazis might throw at us. That’s why the council asked for volunteers to patrol the streets.” He glanced back at the church. “As soon as war was declared last September, the vicar decided to removed the stained glass for the duration. The windows are stored somewhere out in the country. Probably in a cellar under a barn.”
“That makes sense. But the church isn’t the same without them.”
“Nothing is same as it was before war was declared.” Nick took Tory’s arm as clouds drifted over the moon. “Careful, it’s easy to trip over things in the dark.”
She was grateful for his support in this strange world. “Is the war why Lackland is so dark? I would think there are lamps that work the same way your torch does.”
“Yes, these days most houses have electric lamps, but blackout regulations are in effect.” He steered her around something set by the curb. “All windows must be blocked so no light can get out. That’s the biggest thing the Lackland patrol does, actually. We let people know if they accidentally violate the blackout regulations.”
“It must be disappointing not to have Nazi spies,” she said rather dryly.
“Not really. I want them to stay on their side of the channel,” he said with a chuckle. “Travel at night is difficult. Motorcars originally couldn’t use their headlights, but so many people were getting killed in accidents that now slits of light are allowed. Some farmers paint white stripes on dark cows so they won’t be hit if they get loose.”
“I saw one of those,” Tory said, glad one mystery was solved. “Very odd.”
Nick’s gesture encompassed the dark village. “If the Germans start bombing, we don’t want to make easy targets.”
Tory tried to sort through all this information. Motorcars must be the road machines with the lamps masked to allow only slits of light. “Bombing?”
“Bombs are like—like exploding cannon balls.” He drew her around the corner into a street that headed up the hill. “Airplanes are flying machines. They can cross the channel and drop bombs on our cities and factories. That hasn’t happened yet, but it probably won’t be long now. I’d rather they didn’t drop bombs on Lackland because they see lights here.”
“I think I saw a flying machine earlier. A horrible thing!” She shivered. “Tell me more about this war of yours.”
He sighed. “Britain declared war last September when Germany invaded Poland. At first not much happened. People called it the phony war. But now there’s bad fighting and Hitler seems to have taken over half of Europe.”
“Which countries?”
“He grabbed Czechoslovakia and the Rhineland a couple of years ago, and rolled over Poland.” He thought a moment. “Denmark was conquered in about two hours. The Norwegians are fighting hard, but they won’t last much longer. Finland did a good job against Russia, but they were run over, too.”
Tory had never
heard of Finland and she’d thought the Rhineland was part of one of the German states, but borders were always shifting. “So the German states ganged up together and now they’re allied with Russia?”
“Yes, and Italy, too. Italy has a dictator called Mussolini who’s almost as bad as Hitler. They’re both fascists, which means they want to boss everyone.”
Italy was also a country, not a collection of kingdoms? “I need to find a map of what Europe looks like today! Where is the fighting now?”
Nick viciously kicked a pebble that skittered across the smooth road surface. “A fortnight or so ago, at the beginning of May, the Nazis invaded the Low Countries and France. Holland lasted five days, which was pretty good, but now they’ve surrendered. The Nazis are moving so fast they’re calling it a blitzkrieg. A lightning war. Belgium is on the verge of surrender, and the French and British armies are being shoved back toward the English Channel.”
“So the French and British really are fighting together,” she said incredulously. “It’s hard to believe.”
“They were allies in the Great War, and now they are again.” He swallowed hard. “And … and my father joined the British Expeditionary Force. He’s right in the middle of the fighting. If he isn’t dead already.”
Tory winced at the pain in Nick’s voice. “Why did a man with children want to join the army?”
“My dad was in the Great War when he wasn’t much older than I am now. He was a good soldier, a sergeant by the end. He said England needs men with experience, so now he’s an officer.” Nick’s laughter was bitter. “My mother said he was needed here, too, but he thought we should try to stop the Nazis before they got out of hand. It’s too late now, though. In a month, the bastards might be invading England.”
“In my time, we’re also waiting for invasion, though in our case the French are the enemy.” Wait, Nick would know what had happened! Urgently, she asked, “Did Napoleon invade England? Did we defeat him?”
“I … I’m not good at history,” Nick said apologetically. “He might have invaded, but in the end, we did beat him. I’m pretty sure of that.”
She supposed that was some comfort. But she hoped that Nick’s mother was better at history than he was.
Tory was fading fast by the time they reached the Rainford house on the bluff. In the dark she couldn’t see much when they finally got there, but it looked like a rambling old stone farmhouse she remembered from her time. The building was well separated from the road and other houses by trees. It faced the channel on the far side and she could hear the steady rhythm of waves below the bluff.
“We never used to lock the door.” Nick turned his key, then opened the door and ushered her inside. After the door was safely shut, there was a click and the room was flooded with light.
Tory blinked at the blaze of brightness. This was like the electric torch, but a thousand times better. “It would take dozens of beeswax candles to light a room this well,” she marveled. “Or a lot of mage lamps.”
They had entered by the kitchen, which was easy to recognize even though it was much smaller than the kitchens of Fairmount Hall or Lackland Abbey. Probably no more than two or three people could work at once, but there were cabinets and work counters, dishes and pans, something that was probably a cookstove, and a large table surrounded by wooden chairs. Heavy black curtains covered the two windows.
“Evening, Horace.” Nick bent to scratch the head of a sleepy black-and-white dog who emerged from under the table to greet him. “Do you want to go straight to bed, Tory, or would you rather eat first?”
As Horace came over to sniff her hand with interest, Tory realized that part of her shakiness must be hunger. She had burned a lot of power since her last meal. “I’ll feel better if I eat something.”
“How about a bowl of hot soup, bread, and cheese?” a woman’s voice asked. “Nick, who is your friend?”
Tory spun around to see a woman entering the kitchen from the opposite door. She was pretty and fair-haired and had tired eyes, a long blue robe, and a mother’s air of authority.
“Her name is Victoria Mansfield and I found her in the church, Mum. She says she’s a sorceress from 1803. Tory, my mum, Mrs. Rainford.”
Tory cringed. How could he just blurt it out like that? Mrs. Rainford would send Tory to Bedlam! But Nick knew his mother.
Mrs. Rainford came sharply awake. “So you’re the one,” she breathed.
Nick had said his mother knew things, and now that Tory looked more closely, she saw a glow of magic around the woman. “I’m the one what?”
“I’ve had a feeling that someone very important would come soon,” Mrs. Rainford said. “I wasn’t sure who or why”—her amused gaze moved down Tory—“and I assumed it would be someone older, but I know your arrival is of vital importance.”
“I told you my mother knows things,” Nick said proudly.
“It’s a pleasure, Miss Mansfield.” Mrs. Rainford’s scrutiny seemed likely to scorch holes in Tory.
“Tory will do, Mrs. Rainford.”
Nick announced, “Mom, Tory can fly!”
“Not fly, float. Though I’m so tired at the moment I don’t know if I could even get off the floor.” Tory sighed. “I can try if you need a demonstration.”
“If you’ve come from 1803, you’ve had a long journey,” Mrs. Rainford said. “You need food and sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.” She used a match to light a blue-flamed burner on the small stove. As she moved a pot from the back burner to the heat, she continued, “Nick, will you put out bread and cheese?”
While Nick obeyed, Mrs. Rainford asked Tory, “I imagine you would like to wash up and refresh yourself?”
“Oh, please!”
Mrs. Rainford led her out of the kitchen and up the stairs. “The bathroom is here. You can use these towels, and here’s a new comb.” She moved something on the wall that turned on a light inside the room, revealing a giant tub and a washstand. She turned one of the metal knobs on the washstand and water started running from the spout. “The right tap for cold water, the left for hot water. That takes a minute or two to warm up. Use this plug if you want the sink to fill. The tub works the same way.”
Tory turned the other knob and watched with fascination as water gushed out. “Housemaids must love these! No more carrying cans of hot water up to the bedrooms.”
Mrs. Rainford laughed. “Girls who want work have more choices than going into service these days, so there aren’t many housemaids anymore. We’re lucky to have modern plumbing.” She opened the next door along the corridor. “The water closet is this small room here. Do you need a bit of instruction?”
Tory glanced at the wall and found a switch like the one that illuminated the bathing room. Cautiously, she moved it. Light!
The small room contained a china commode. On the wall above was a tank with a handle dangling from a chain. “I’ve heard of water closets, but I’ve never seen one. After using it, I pull the chain?”
“Exactly, and one of the world’s most useful inventions.” Mrs. Rainford turned toward the stairs. “You can use any of those blue towels. Take your time washing up. The soup will take a few minutes to heat.”
Using the water closet once was enough to convince Tory she must try to talk her father into getting several installed at Fairmount Hall. Assuming he ever spoke to her again. And the hot water in the sink was wonderful!
She doubted that King George himself washed in such comfort at Windsor Castle. At home, not only did a maid have to carry up the water, but she also had to carry it away later. Being able to pull a plug and have water swirl away in a pipe was luxury.
Tory eyed the tub longingly. It was four times the size of the largest hip bath at Fairmount Hall, and it had taps, just like the hand basin. Bathing in that great beautiful tub would be heaven. But if she tried now, she’d probably fall asleep and drown. Besides, she was ravenous.
After washing her hands and face and letting down her hair, Tory used the damp towel to brus
h the worst of the dirt from her gown. She looked in the mirror and saw that combing out her hair made her look even younger. A mysterious time-traveling sorceress ought to have more presence.
But for now, she really didn’t care.
CHAPTER 21
Tory woke from heavy sleep with her wits scrambled. Such a dream she’d had!
Her gaze fell on a frail birdlike contraption hanging in a corner of the small room. A model airplane, one of many built by Joe Rainford. Memory returned with a rush. God help her, she really had fallen through time into a future war-torn England.
During her late-night supper, where she almost fell asleep in her soup bowl, she’d learned that the RAF was the Royal Air Force, the military branch that operated those strange flying machines. Joe Rainford had joined as soon as he was old enough. Since he was away in training, his bed was available for Tory.
When Mrs. Rainford took her yawning guest up to the small room under the eaves, she said, “See all the model airplanes Joe built? He was always mad for flying. I suppose it was inevitable he’d go into the RAF.” Her voice was bleak.
There were at least a dozen models scattered around the room. Tory studied the nearest. Amazing that anyone would trust his life to such a rickety device. Airplanes would be easy targets in wartime. Mrs. Rainford certainly thought so.
But even though Nick’s mother was quietly terrified for her husband and older son, she was a welcoming and efficient hostess. She’d found a nightgown and robe that belonged to her thirteen-year-old daughter, Polly, who’d slept through Tory’s arrival. Polly was about Tory’s height, and the soft, clean nightgown had been very welcome.
Part of her was tempted to hide under the covers, but that wouldn’t help her find her way home. The thought of being stranded in this England with no friends or family was terrifying. Even if she returned to the exact time she’d left and was taken by raiders and locked up every night until she left Lackland, at least she would be in her own time, where she belonged.