A Kiss in Time (3 page)

I nod, approaching the dresses again. Only . . . What is it? I am touching the fabric, but
I glance back at her. They say tis lucky. Twas handed down to me by my mother and her mother before her, and all
who make thread with it are entitled to one wish.

A wish? I know what Lady Brooke would say on the subject. Her thoughts on wishes are much
like her thoughts on magic. Superstition is the opposite of God. Still, I say, Have you
ever wished upon it?

Aye. She nods. I have indeed, when I was young. I wished for a long life.

I stare at her. Her face is like crumpled silk, and her hair the color of paper.

How long ago was that?

When I was your age, fifteen. So nigh upon two hun- dred years.

I gasp, but the old woman holds my gaze.

What would you wish for, Your Highness? I know you must have wishes, trapped as you are in
this castle, longing to marry if only to get out, not daring to hope for free- dom. Her
voice is very nearly hypnotic. Be not afraid. What do you wish for?

My freedom. Or love. Or . . . travel. I wish to travel the world, to be not a princess
trapped in a protected existence, but a human girl. Silly thought. I cannot do that.

I think . . . I say, I will try it.

She nods and moves aside to make room for me on the bench. Her movement is less labored
than before. She pats the space beside her. Sit, Princess. She hands me the object, stick
first. This in your right hand. Then take the thread in your left, and spin it clockwise. When the thread has begun to spin,
you make your wish.

I take the stick. I am distracted, thinking of my wish, my freedom, of seeing the world.
As I reach for the thread, I feel a stab of pain in my finger. The hook at the end has
punctured my left ring finger. When I glance down, I see a drop of crimson upon my skirt.
Blood.

It is only then that I realize what the object is.

A spindle. The princess shall prick her finger on a spindle.

I hear the old womans laughter as I begin to sink down.

Malvolia!

My last thought as I hit the ground is, I should have listened to Lady Brooke.

W
hat they dont tell you about Europe is how com- pletely lame it is. I should have guessed,
though. It was my parents idea. Theyre not exactly renowned for their coolness. They sent
me on this tour of Europe, supposedly for my education but really to get me out of their
hair for a month, while simultaneously being able to brag to their friends that Jack is on
tour in Europe, getting something interesting to write about on college essays.

Painful admission here: I didnt totally mind because my girlfriend, Amber, dumped me like
last years cat litter when some college guy asked her out. At least being here keeps me
from seeing her with the new guy, and also forces me to appear like I have some pride and
not call her. And who knows? Maybe Ill meet someone. I was picturing clubs with Eurotrash nobility, riding on Vespas, lounging in French cafŽs
and Greek tavernas, and, of course, the occasional topless beach (although it is a
well-known fact that European women arent big on shav- ing their, um, pitular areaI
planned to look elsewhere). I thought at least thered be some cool gardens, something
outdoors. I never imagined the suckitude I was about to experienceone big bus tour to
every museum that offers a group rate. In Miami, where Im from, we have maybe five
museums, if you count the zoo. Here in Europe, every podunk town has ten or twenty. The
bus pulls up in front of a museum and lets us out. Our tour guide, Mindy, has this little
blue-and-white flag with a picture of a bird on it, which makes walking behind her the
ultimate in humili- ation. She walks backward to whichever great work of art the museums
famous for. The assembled peasants gawk for a full two minutes. Then its off to the gift
shop to spend our Euros on stuff we wouldnt pay two cents for if it was in the Walgreens
back home.

Its not doing a thing to get my mind off Amber.

At least my friend Travis is here. Guess his parents wanted to get rid of him, too. I dont
even know what coun- try were in now. One of those lame ones you dont learn much about in
geography, like Belgium, or maybe one of the L ones. I dont pay much attention to Mindy,
but yesterday I heard her say the magic word: coast. Were near the beach. Thats when I
started formulating my plan.

I shake Travis awake. What the . . . what time is it? Five thirty, man. In the morning? No, at night. Its almost
time for dinner. That gets him up. But when he sees how dark it is, he slumps back on the bed. Its still dark. Cant put anything over on Travis, at least not
where food or sleep are concerned. Okay, I lied. But I need to get out of this Tour of the Damned and have some fun. Thats not going to happen unless we can beat the seven oclock
meet-up time.

Know what would be fun?

What, Trav? Im hoping maybe he has some ideas, since I know his parents roped him into
this tour, same as mine.

Sleeping.

Its not like theyre going to let you sleep in, anyway. Soon theyll be banging on the door,
telling us to get ready. This way, you can sleep when we hit the beach.

Beach?

Back home in Miami, Travis is a serious sun god. Now hes the color of marshmallows.

Sure, the beach. Think of it, Travis. Topless French chicks.

Were not in France.

Okay, topless German chicks. Does it make a difference? Will there be food?

Sure. Theres a cafŽ across the street. Well get break- fast and some sandwiches, but first
we have to get out of here.

Finally, I manage to get him out of bed. Id actually sort of wanted to go look at this
National Botanic Garden of Belgium (Belgium! Thats where we are!) we passed yes- terday on
the way to Museum Number Three. I could see this huge giant sequoia from the road. Of
course, we didnt have time to look at it. But I knew that Travis was way more likely to go
along with me to the beach. At least its not another dusty art museum, and maybe we can
hit the garden on the way back.

I drag Travis to the concierge desk to ask for directions.

You couldnt have done that while I was getting ready? Travis asks.

Youd have gone back to sleep.

You know, sometimes its like you work at being a slacker.

I prefer to spend my summer not working at anything.

We have to stand there for a while, while the concierge guy makes time with the desk
clerk. If he doesnt get over here soon, Mindy might catch us.

Hey, little help here . . . I look at his nameplate. Jacks?

He ignores us. Hey! Dont want to take time from your busy schedule.

When he finally figures out that were not leaving, he comes over.

Which way to the beach, Jacks? I ask.

It is Jacques. He gives me that special glare hotel concierges always give you when they
figure out youre American or that you dont speak the language, like he ate a bad ni�oise
salad. Like Im supposed to speak every lan- guage in Europe. I took Spanish in school. Of
course, we havent been to Spain yet. At least, I dont think we have.

The beach? I repeat. La playa? Le plage, Travis tries. Ah, oui. La plage. Weve pushed a
magic button, and suddenly the concierge is our best friend and now speaks perfect English. The autobus
leaves at nine thirty.

We cant wait until nine thirty, Jacks. Jacques shrugs. That is when it goes. If we have to
wait until nine thirty, were going to get caught, and Im going to get stuck in another museum. My girlfriend dumped me, my summer
vacation is ruined, and this guy cant even help me have one decent day? Isnt it, like, his
job to be helpful? Is there another bus, maybe? Is this, like, the completely lamest
country in Europe?

Travis nudges me. Jack, youre gonna get him mad.

Who cares? He doesnt understand me, anyway. Every- one in this country is Ah, you are correct, monsieur, Jacques interrupts,
31 and I am wrong. I have just remembered there is another autobus, a different route. A
different beach.

I give Trav a look like, see? Would you write it down for us? Travis asks. Please? But of
course. The concierge hands us a bus schedule with the routes and times circled. You want to get off here and then walk to the east. He sketches a map.
It looks pretty compli- cated, but at least the bus leaves in twenty minutes.

Thanks, Travis says. Listen, is there a place to get sandwiches?

My cell phone rings. I check the caller ID: Mindy, look- ing for us. I grab Traviss arm.
Weve got to go.

But Im hungry. Later. I drag him away. Thanks, he yells to Jacques. See you later. Jacques
waves, and hes actually smiling. He says some-

thing that sounds like I doubt it but is probably just some weird French phrase. I pull
Travis out the door just as I spot Mindy stepping out of the elevator.

Luckily, shes already walking backward and doesnt see us.

G
ood thing we got food first, Travis says on the bus. Yeah, you mentioned that. Actually,
Travis has mentioned that seven times, once every ten minutes that weve been on this bus ride. But it is a good thing. Otherwise, wed
be starving. In fact, Im thinking about breaking out one of the sand-

wiches now. Travis brought enough sandwiches and beer (the legal drinking age here is sixteen!) for a family of four for a week. He also ate a four-egg
omelet, a stack of pancakes, and ten strips of bacon (the waitress called it the American
break- fast). Plus, since he got it to go, he actually just finished eating about twenty
minutes ago.

Forget food for a minute. Doesnt this bus ride seem a little long to you? I mean, this is
a small country. I brought my passport, but I wasnt planning on using it. Its long, Travis agrees, eyeing the bag
with the sandwiches. I pick it up and hold it shut so he has to listen to me. And isnt it goingI
dont knowsort of in the opposite direction of the way youd think the beach would be?

The guy said it was a different beach, but maybe he lied.

I think that guy messed us up on purpose. You did say his country was lame. It is lame. So
you think were going the wrong way,

too? Maybe. Travs looking at the bag with the sandwiches.

Its hard to think straight when youre hungry. Im about to give him a sandwich just so I
can think when the bus driver announces that weve reached Jacquess stop. Finally. Time to get off. Does that mean I cant have a sandwich? Think how good it
will taste when were sitting on the beach.

Twenty minutes later, not only have we not found the beach, we havent even found the first
street Jacques wrote on his map.

It says go three blocks, then turn on St. Germain, Travis says. But its been more than
three blocks. Its been, like, six. Maybe we should turn back. Im about to agree when I see a street called St.
Germain.

This must be it. But the next street isnt where its supposed to be, either,

even when weve walked three times as far as the map says. Maybe youre right, I say.

When we turn back, nothing looks the way it did the first time. The first time, there were
houses and stores and bicycles. Now theres nothing but trees and, well . . . nature
everywhere I look. What happened? I say.

To what? Travis is munching on a sandwich. To everythingthe town, the people? Travis wipes
his mouth on his sleeve. I didnt notice. I see a little dirt road I hadnt seen before. I
turn down it, gesturing to Travis to follow me. Come on. But this isnt where we were before, either.
Its like every- thing just disappeared into a fog. Travis isnt noticing, since hes in a
fog of his own, created by the sandwich. But then we run into something he cant ignore. Its a solid wall of brambles. Now what? I say. Go
back.

Back where? Were lost. This isnt where we were before. Besides, look. I gesture around me.
All this natural stuff. Back in Miami, if you had all this nature around, youd definitely
be near the beach.

In fact, the hedge looks a lot like bramble bushes in Miami. It has fuchsia flowers a
little like the bougainvillea that grows there. The weird thing is that it must be three or four stories high.

So wheres the beach? Travis asks. I shrug. Not back there. But this roads a dead end. I
know. But listen. I cup my hand to my ear. What do you hear? Chewing, Travis says. Well, stop chewing. Travis finishes the last bite.
Okay. Now, what do you hear? Travis listens real carefully. I dont hear anything. Exactly.
Which means there must be nothing on the other side of that hedgeno city, no cars, just nothing. The beach.

So youre saying you want to go through the hedge? What have we got to lose? How about
blood? Those bushes look prickly. Its true. But I say, Dont be a wuss.

Can I have another sandwich at least? I grab the bag from him. After the hedge.

Fifteen minutes later, theres nothing on any side of us except brambles.

I bet I look like the victim in a slasher movie, Travis says. Whats the French word for
chain saw?

Its not that bad. The flowers sort of smell nice. I inhale. Right. You stay and smell the flowers. Im going back.

I grab his wrist. Please, Trav. I want to go to the beach. I cant handle another day of
the tour.

He pulls away. Whats the big deal? My parents are going to ask me what I did today.

Thats the thing. My parents wont. They wont ask me what I did the past week. They dont
care what Im doing. And I hate going to all those stupid museums. Looking at all that
boring art makes my mind wander, and when my mind wanders, all I can think of is Amber
kissing that frat boy.

Travis stops pulling. Wow. That really hit you hard, huh?

Yeah. I thought I was just making stuff up to get Trav to do what I want, but I have this
sort of sick feeling in my stomach. Im telling the truth. My parents havent called in two
weeks, except once to ask me if I signed up for AP Government next year for school, and
this trip is doing nothing to make me forget about Amber. I see her face in every painting
in every museumespecially that Degas guy, who painted girls with no faces at all. I cant
get away from her. Yeah. I just want to go to the beach for one day. I need to be outside.