Shades of Red

S
HADES OF
R
ED

For my sister, the Auntie Lisa,
and for Shadow, the Anti-Delaney.

Eagle Glen Trilogy

kc dyer

Copyright © kc dyer, 2005

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.

Editor: Barry Jowett
Copy-Editor: Andrea Pruss
Design: Jennifer Scott
Printer: Transcontinental

National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data

Dyer, K. C.
     Shades of red / kc dyer.

(Eagle Glen trilogy ; 3)
ISBN-13: 978-1-55002-545-3
ISBN-10: 1-55002-545-7

       1. Time travel--Juvenile fiction. 2. Children with disabilities--Juvenile fiction. 3. Inquisition--Spain--Juvenile fiction. 4. Great Britain--History--Henry VIII, 1509-1547--Juvenile fiction. I. Title.II. Series:Dyer, K. C. Eagle Glen trilogy ; 3.

PS8557.Y474S43 2005           jC813'.6           C2004-907319-2

1      2      3      4      5          09      08      07      06      05

We acknowledge the support of the
Canada Council for the Arts
and the
Ontario Arts Council
for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the
Government of Canada
through the
Book Publishing Industry Development Program
and
The Association for the Export of Canadian Books
, and the
Government of Ontario
through the
Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit
program, and the
Ontario Media Development Corporation's Ontario Book Initiative.

Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credit in subsequent editions.

J. Kirk Howard, President

Printed and bound in Canada.
Printed on recycled paper.

www.dundurn.com

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I spend a lot of time alone in the dark with a glowing machine. A lot. And in spite of my secret fear of the resultant unnatural relationship that appears to be developing with my computer, there are fortunately a number of other generous and wonderful people who have helped give life to this novel. My deepest thanks go out to Dundurn publisher Kirk Howard and to editors Barry Jowett and Andrea Pruss for their sharp eyes and the clear vision they brought to this story. Special appreciation goes to the writers who held my hand through the process: Pamela Patchet Hamilton, Kathy Chung, Trudy Cochrane, Deborah Anderson, Bernice Lever, Moira Thompson, and the members of the North Shore Writers' Association, Canadian Authors Association, and CWILL. Thanks also to the global village of writers who have lent their time and expertise as readers of this work as it progressed:
Linda Gerber in Japan, Kate Coombs and Lauri Klobas in California, Pamela Capriotti Martin in South Carolina, Marsha Skrypuch in Ontario, and the members of the CompuServe Literary Forum in all their eclectic and far-flung glory.
Muitos agradecimentos
to Humberta Araújo for her invaluable help with Portuguese dialogue. Gracious and dignified thanks also to all my non-writer friends who put up with my daily eccentricities whilst never rolling their eyes in my presence. And final thanks, as always, go to Meaghan for her critical acumen and her help in naming this book and to Peter for his unflagging support and unconditional acceptance of a mother who does not quite fit into the category of normal.

For the readers of this series and for the teachers and librarians who direct these readers, I hasten to note that more information about the history behind the stories, including study guides and further arcana, can be found at my website:
www.kcdyer.com
.

A bleak birthday dawns as grief gnaws at the heart,

A loved one heads straight for the flames.

Ancient wrongs still afire with no peace in sight,

Back to school and yet nothing's the same.

A mentor is missing, an old face is new,

And all is not as it should be.

Classes run, pencils scratch, but still floating near,

Is the ghost of a lost enemy.

Secret under the stairs found by curious eyes;

A labyrinth leads through time's door.

The slip of a leash; empty hands reach to clasp,

And the past is the present once more.

Friends are scattered like seeds, need again to unite,

But all hope dwindles down to a spark.

A priest keeps his counsel, his history concealed;

A menorah brings light in the dark.

Inquisition has spread, and the ash in the air

Tastes of nothing but death on the tongue.

Fear burns in the fires of a black Lisbon night

And chimes as each death knell is rung.

A hasty return leaves questions unasked,

Answers, while sought for, not found.

A trip into a trip, an unwelcome friend,

A new kind of illness abounds.

A monarch, a maiden with snapping black eyes,

And a brother and sister not kin.

Religion reforms. An absolute reign.

A journal holds secrets within.

Not the words of a witch, but the dream of a queen,

Brings to light one clear truth from the past.

Like a kiss lightly blown or a hero's last smile,

Bids farewell to a father at last.

Traveller no more, once a boy anger-filled,

Now a monk through the fire redeemed.

Death of a consort, one more woman scorned

Clears the way for a ginger-haired queen.

Scarlet blood, rusted death, crimson cloak, rosy hope,

Twisted time spirals back and ahead.

And reflects in the eyes of a girl and a dog,

As they seek out still more Shades of Red.

The first grey light of dawn crept in through the bedroom window and rolled across a neatly ordered desk onto the rumpled bedclothes. Darrell, sitting awake in the bed, drew her left leg up to her chest and watched as the light rose in increments as fine and steady as the ticking of a clock. She lifted her arm and stared bleakly at the watch on her wrist.

7:17 a.m.

January sixth.

For just over seven hours she had been fourteen years old.

Under normal circumstances, this would have been cause for some celebration, but as Darrell flopped back down in her bed, she'd never felt less like celebrating. Clear evidence of just how far from normal circumstances had become.

Without turning her head she reached over to her bedside table and felt around until she found her latest notebook, given to her as school ended for the holidays. Given to her by one Professor Myrtle Tooth.

The morning light in the room was too dim to allow for reading, so Darrell flicked on her bedside lamp and flipped through the book. Only the first couple of pages had been filled, but the brevity of her notes didn't make for any easier reading.

I killed Conrad Kennedy.

Looking at the words, Darrell realized that though she no longer felt sleepy she was still incredibly tired. But it
was
her birthday, and every fourteen-year-old should be able to enjoy a birthday. Tomorrow she would be heading back to the place she thought of as her second home, Eagle Glen Alternative School. A place peopled with eccentric and extraordinary teachers and attended by her two best friends in the world. She should be happy, excited, filled with anticipation.

Instead, she found herself suffocating under an emotion she thought she'd put behind her forever.

Anger.

Darrell grabbed her pen.

I may have killed him
, she wrote,
but I should NOT have been the one in charge of keeping him safe.

The phone tucked beside her bedside lamp shrieked itself awake, and Darrell's notebook flew onto the floor as she jumped in shock. She ripped the receiver from its cradle.

“What?” she snapped.

“Hey, whatever happened to hello? The sun's up, so I thought you would be, too.”

“I'm fourteen, Uncle Frank. Don't you know that teenagers like to sleep in?”

“Yeah, I know that. I like to sleep in myself when I don't have to pour concrete, but that's what I'm doing today, so no sleeping for me.”

Darrell could hear the smile in his voice. Uncle Frank. Always ready to see the bright side. It drove her crazy.

“Happy birthday, baby. Can I still call you baby now that you're a year older?”

Darrell sighed. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“You know I'm coming over to make you a special dinner tonight, right?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Well, girlie, you don't sound so thrilled about it, I hafta say.”

“Oh, I'm thrilled, Uncle Frank.”

“Baby girl, I can hear your eyes rolling right through the phone. Cheer up by dinnertime, okay? Are you blue because you're heading back to school tomorrow?”

Darrell shook her head. “No, I'm okay. See you tonight.”

“Yeah, yeah. I can tell when you're feeding me a line, you know that? Anyway, I've got to go. Wet concrete waits for no man.
Veal parmigiana
.”

“What? Is this some new, trendy way to say goodbye?”