Time and Trouble (4 page)

“
I didn
’
t know how to get it, though.
”

“
You will.
”
Emma
’
s voice was flat and matter-of-fact.

It took a while for the words and their meaning to make it across the cluttered desk, then Billie, who had been trying hard to control all emotions, gave up the effort.
“
Really?
”
she said, sounding so incredulous that she was sure she
’
d queered the whole thing.
“
I have the job?
”

Emma raised her eyebrows.
“
Long as you realize that it is not very dramatic most of the time. Doesn
’
t generally have a payoff like yours. Most of the time you
’
re stuck with the calling-every-Lutheran-Evangelical-church-in-the-country part, but it
’
s for a lawyer who
’
ll take the information and never tell you what he does with it.
”

“
I understand.
”

“
Good,
”
Emma said.
“
Except
…”

“
Yes?
”

“
I think you say that to me, and you even mean it. You have a grip on reality. But somewhere in the back of your brain, a little voice is saying,
‘
Oh, but sometimes it must get involved and tricky like in the movies.
’”

Billie looked down at her hands.

“
Be honest. If we
’
re going to be in this together, we have to learn to be honest with one another. You
’
re thinking,
‘
Sometimes it must be your brain against another brain and it must get scary and set the adrenaline running till you can
’
t believe you
’
re involved in the whole thing. Sometimes.
’
Am I right?
”

“
Well
…
yes. You are.
”

Emma smiled.
“
Damn right I am. And damn right it does. Sometimes. Just barely often enough. Just like in the movies.
”

Three

Today I am Gwyneth, the girl thought. Or I can try to be.

She put her backpack on the damp earth as a cushion, then leaned against the rough comfort of a rock face as she considered how to get out of her life. Five days from turning eighteen and she felt frayed and used.

On the meadow in front of her, weekend lords and ladies replayed the Middle Ages. She
’
d been invited to join in, re-create and relocate herself in their world. They had even put together a makeshift costume for her, but she still felt too lost to start out in any direction. She wanted to watch for a while.

Serious rains had begun early this winter, making this clear day precious. The gold-brown meadow of summer now blazed green. She was amazed by how the earth repainted itself after the first downpour. She thought of the seeds buried below the surface, capsules of greenness, and envisioned them curled like fetuses through dry seasons and drought, waiting to be born and rain-baptized.

And then to dry into brown ghosts that blew and burned in the winds of summer fires.

She shook her head, physically dislodging the image and concentrating on the present, on the sunny field filled with furled banners, silvery shields, and chiffon scarves.

People called these games make-believe. The same people called what she
’
d left ten miles away real. By sleight of hand,
“
home,
”
a rotting container tottering on barren ground
—
by some dark magic, that place passed as a quaint Queen Anne Victorian with shining bay windows edged with boxes of petunias, and veiled by camellias, fuchsia, and flowering plums.

Inside, her so-called family was mottled and dark, gangrenous from the pressure of secrets and rage beneath their skin.

The biggest lie was that they were a family. Not because of the
steps
and
halfs
before their relationships, but because family meant you were connected, had something in common. This group on the field had different last names and mostly lived apart one from the other. But
they
were family. The people in the house in San Rafael were boarders who swept their secrets into corners until they piled so high, they stained the walls.

Nothing was real there. Nothing was hers. Nothing was safe.

But
here,
she could become someone new. She could take a new name, become Gwyneth, leave that world and join this one. The people on the field were her kin. They, too, saw the ugliness around them and invented their own better universe, their own escape hatch. The Middle Ages as they should have been. Chivalry, courtesy, and honor. That
’
s what bound them.

She looked beyond the jousting knights to where Luke watched from the far side of the field. He wore a thickly belted chamois vest
(kirtle!
—
she had to start thinking in the right terms) and had a small falcon on his glove. She loved Luke
’
s face, the way the muscles below his skin held his features almost regally, but kindly. Her first impression of him had been that he was astoundingly clean, even if she couldn
’
t explain what that meant. He would have been a genuine knight, if such things still existed.

He must have felt her eyes on him, because he turned, smiled, half waved.

A breeze ruffled her hair as she returned the greeting and for once, she didn
’
t mind. Her hair
’
s wildness had bothered her until Luke praised it, saying her red curls
—“
the color and movement of firelight,
”
his words
—
were like a princess
’
s in a fairytale.

In the distance, thick-faced cows regarded the goings-on with low-grade interest. They didn
’
t seem to care that medieval cavorting was decidedly odd in their twentieth-century pasture, or that this attempt at time-travel was, frankly, amateurish. The jousters
’
broadswords were rattan wrapped in duct tape, their shields, aluminum foil over cardboard. Some knights were female.

And Luke
’
s hawk had been rehabilitated after being grazed by a semiautomatic bullet. Not a King Arthur kind of injury. Hand-raised, the kestrel couldn
’
t be released back to the wild and wasn
’
t much of a hunter. A few years ago, Luke had adopted her and stocked his parents
’
freezer with
“
kestrel chow
”—
mouse carcasses, which infuriated his mother so much she ordered her son, his bird, and his bird
’
s mice out of her house.

Which was fine with him. You have to know what you want, Luke said. And then, you have to know how to let go of all the rest.

Luke knew, and she would learn. He would teach her.

Tension claws ungripped, let go their hold, so that the sun finally reached and warmed her, all the way through. The field blurred in a haze of contentment, colors dancing on motes of light. Maybe she could stand the rest of her life. Maybe she could even change it, save herself and Wesley, too. Something in her chest cavity stopped clawing at her. Relaxed, expanded, gave off warmth. The future unfurled, possible.

And as if echoing the feeling, something glowed on the ground.

Treasure. Of course. Today, right now, here with all the good magic and possibilities. A sign.

When she looked again, the small flash was gone.

On hands and knees she combed the tall grass, feeling mildly foolish and getting very muddy, knowing that she
’
d find a fragment of a beer bottle or taillight, if anything.

Still, she wanted it. It didn
’
t matter what it had been, it mattered that it would become her touchstone and promise, a tangible reminder of that sudden sense of a future. Something her own to hold onto.

She patted the ground with fingers held flat, searching, refusing to believe the gleam had been no more than a trick of the light.

“
Lost a contact lens, mistress?
”

She smiled as she continued exploring.
“
What happened to staying in character? Medieval contact lenses?
”

Luke stood above her, tall and radiant, the kestrel riding his right forearm.

“
I saw something. Now I can
’
t find
—”
And then her palm grazed it and her fingers circled its cool solidity.
“
Look,
”
she whispered, holding out a heart-shaped wafer. She passed it to Luke, who now kneeled beside her.

His kestrel cocked its head as if appraising the trinket
’
s worth.
“
It
’
ll be pretty when it
’
s cleaned,
”
Luke said. He rubbed it with his thumb.
“
Gold, I think, and there
’
s a design cut into it. Like filigree, I think they call it. Pretty. You can wear it on a chain. It has the loop for it.
”

“
You think somebody in your group dropped it?
”

He shook his head.
“
This is the first time we
’
ve been here, and this thing
’
s been around awhile. The design
’
s packed with dirt. It
’
s the rain. It pushes all kinds of things up. Besides, nobody but you
’
s been over on this side.
”
He stood and held the charm to the light.
“
Bet it
’
s been here a long time.
”

Waiting for her to find it. She felt a thrill at the base of her throat, like a purr wanting to happen.
“
An amulet,
”
she whispered.
“
A sign. I was so upset
—”

“
I know.
”

“—
because of
—”

“
I know.
”

“—
then I felt this hopefulness, and that very second, that
’
s when I saw it was there for me. Like I made it happen. Do I sound
—
do I seem crazy?
”

“
Not a bit.
”
He bowed, his hand cupping the trinket as if it were priceless treasure as he transferred it to her palm.
“
Your token, m
’
lady. Might be we
’
re standing on a treasure trove, a pirate
’
s booty. We aren
’
t far from the coast, from where Sir Francis Drake himself landed. Maybe the rains split open a long-buried treasure chest of his, and there
’
s more.
”

“
And you accuse me of having an overactive imagination.
”
She slipped the heart into her jeans pocket, while Luke found a digging stick. She didn
’
t need more treasure. She had her amulet. But she didn
’
t want to dampen Luke
’
s pleasure in turning everything into an adventure. In the sunshine, the hair on his head and forearms became spun gold, hyper-real and fantastic at the same time. She watched him poke the ground, pull back tangled grasses with his stick, dig shallow trenches. His hopeful noises of discovery were followed by sighs and mutters.

“
I was wrong,
”
he eventually said, brushing perspiration from his forehead.
“
No treasure, no pieces of eight, no gold
—”

“
No matter.
”
It was better that there
’
d been only the one special thing waiting for her.

“
No trunk,
”
Luke continued.
“
Got roots, but not a trunk or branches. Sorry.
”

“
About no treasure
—
or about that awful pun? Botanically speaking, there couldn
’
t be a trunk. There
’
s only grass here. No trunk, no roots, no branches.
”

“
Wrong, because there are roots. Look.
”
He poked the stick vigorously, almost angrily. The kestrel raised her wings, then seemed to remember they
’
d been clipped and she couldn
’
t fly.

The thin, bright sounds of madrigal singers traveled across the field as Gwyneth squinted into the shallow depression where a cluster of brown twigs splayed out of a piece of bark.
“
Must be left from a tree that died long ago,
”
she said. But these weren
’
t wispy like root ends. And their shape, so basic, so familiar
…

“
No.
”
She straightened up and put her hands in front of her face, literally pushing back the idea blustering its way into her brain.
“
Oh, no.
”

“
What?
”
Luke asked.

She swallowed hard and took the digging branch from him, carefully pushing earth off the spot where the twigs joined. And there five of them became one, part of a sturdier looking stick.
“
A hand,
”
she whispered.
“
A skeleton. An arm.
”

“
Impossible. Your imagination is so
…
They
’
re brown, not the right size. They don
’
t look anything like bones, they
’
re pieces of something
—”

“
They
’
ve been in the ground. They
’
re tiny. They wouldn
’
t look like a Halloween toy or biology-class model.
”
She pushed away more dirt, slowly following the line of bone as if deciphering a grisly map.
“
Maybe it
’
s an Indian burial site. That must be what
—”