A Well-Timed Enchantment

Magic Carpet Books
Harcourt, Inc.

Orlando Austin New York San Diego Toronto London

Copyright © 1990 by Vivian Vande Velde

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
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First published by Crown Publishers, Inc., 1990
First Magic Carpet Books edition 1998

Magic Carpet Books
is a trademark
of Harcourt, Inc, registered in the United
States of America and/or other Jurisdictions.

The Library of Congress has cataloged
an earlier edition as follows:
Vande Velde, Vivian.
A Well-Timed Enchantment.
p cm.
"Magic Carpet Books."
Summary A girl and her cat disappear
back in time to retrieve a lost watch.
[1. Time Travel—Fiction 2 Fantasy.] I. Title.
[PZ7 V2773Wh 1998] [F
IC
]—dc20 97-17352
ISBN-13: 978-0-15-204919-5 ISBN-10: 0-15-204919-3
Text set in Berkeley Old Style Medium
Designed by Kaelm Chappell
Printed in the United States of America

A C E G H F D B

To
Elizabeth (even if you don't like the ending)—May all your wishes come true.

ONE
Deanna 1

TWO
The Well 9

THREE
Oliver 22

FOUR
The Clearing 28

FIVE
Castle Belesse 45

SIX
Leonard 61

SEVEN
Algernon 70

EIGHT
Afternoon 79

NINE
Evening 87

TEN
Octavia 100

ELEVEN
Plans 108

TWELVE
Night 119

THIRTEEN
Complications 132

FOURTEEN
Alchemy 138

FIFTEEN
"Who's the Leader of the Club...?" 149

SIXTEEN
Explanations 164

SEVENTEEN
Good-byes 188

EIGHTEEN
Going Home... 199

NINETEEN
...Going Home... 211

TWENTY
...Home 225

Summer in France was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for a fifteen-year-old girl, a social and cultural experience she'd never forget.

At least, that's what everyone told Deanna.

"Travel broadens," they'd said. "Unique perspective," they'd said. Etc., etc., etc. Nobody thought to ask her if she wanted to go.

"I don't understand French," she'd complained, speaking in a little voice, as she and her mother packed.

Her mother had laughed. "You'll pick it up. And I'll be there to help you. And don't forget, more French people speak English than American people speak French. Don't worry about it." Easy for her to say. Besides French and English, Deanna's mother spoke Italian and Russian, could get by in Spanish and German, had a smattering of Dutch, and knew how to say "Please" and "Thank you" and "Is this water fit to drink?" in Hungarian. She'd never had to sit in a roomful of strangers, all chattering away incomprehensibly, hour after hour after hour.

Deanna kept her head down as she walked. If she didn't see the Guyon farmhouse, she could pretend she was back home, crossing an American field, on her way to visit her friends.

These French people were her maternal relatives: aunts and uncles and cousins her mother hadn't seen in years, people Deanna had never seen. They'd give her big kisses, one on each cheek, and smile at her. "
Ne'parle t-elle pas français?
" they'd ask, which Deanna learned meant "Doesn't she speak French?" And her mother would rattle off an explanation of how Deanna had spoken a little when she'd been very young but had forgotten it all.

Sometimes she'd hear her father's name mentioned, or they'd say "
ton mari
"—your husband—and since Deanna knew they were talking
about the divorce, she could almost follow what was being said. But then they'd be off onto something else, and Deanna was just sitting there, looking at the flowered wallpaper, wishing she were back home.

It wasn't fair.

Deanna scuffed her sneakers along the dirt path that ran from the Guyon farm to the cottage of their neighbor, Madame LeBrun.

Summer in France. It wasn't as though they were sunbathing on the Riviera, or touring the Louvre in Paris, or exploring the castles in the Loire Valley. Chalon was farm country. Grapes and cheese and the occasional cow. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Sure. Unless you've been to Wisconsin or Iowa.

Deanna turned around and put her hands on her hips. "Are you coming, Oliver, or not? Because I'm not chasing you through all those weeds again."

The small cat sat down on the path. As though to prove who was in charge, he began a meticulous grooming of his thick black fur.

"Right. That's it." Deanna whirled around and continued walking. Let him catch up if he wanted to. Or not. It made no difference to her. It was bad enough she was reduced to talking to a cat, she wasn't going to argue with him. Especially since he was a French cat and probably didn't understand any more English than Madame LeBrun's daughter.

She stopped where the path widened at the old stone well and sat on the edge. She twirled her ponytail around her finger, trying to tuck the hair—which she liked to think of as dark blond but which everybody else persisted in calling light brown—into a bun. As always, it fell loose again immediately. She was supposed to have helped Madame LeBrun bake a pie today, something to which she had been looking forward since it had been decided last Thursday.
(Jeudi:
The days of the week were one thing Deanna knew, though she had to start at Monday and work her way through in order. She could also count from one to twenty if you weren't fussy about fourteen and fifteen.)

Madame LeBrun was a friendly old woman, one of those French people who knew more English ... and so forth. But she hadn't been well today. Her daughter, who spoke no English, had been able to get that much across to Deanna. Back home in Greeley, Colorado, there'd be pool parties and movies and roller-skating, a last rush of activities before school started, and here she
was downcast and with nothing to do because she hadn't gotten to help bake an apple pie.

Oliver had followed after all and jumped up onto the well, then into her lap. Absently Deanna stroked his thick fur. He had become a steady companion ever since she'd rescued him from the neighbors' dog last month. Her one friend. Now
that's a bit overdone
, she chided herself.
Sentimental is one thing, but let's not get downright melodramatic.

She ran a finger along the worn stone. "How old's this well, I wonder," she said out loud. The farmhouse had running water, and the well had obviously not been used in ages: there was no bucket and some of the stones were crumbling. Back home, in Greeley, people would have torn the whole thing down, or at least put up a sign warning that it was unsafe. But there were a lot of unimaginably old things in France.

Oliver, uninterested, looked at her with his big green eyes and rubbed his head against her hand to get her attention back to petting.

"Pretty old, I'd say." Deanna peered down the well. The hole was too dark or too deep for her to see water. It smelled like water though. It looked like a model for the kind of well cartoon characters would make wishes into. "Hello." Her voice bounced off the mossy stones and came back to her in a faint singsong echo. "Anybody home?
Est-ce que ... Est-ce qu'il y
a..." She couldn't manage it in French and instead dug a coin, an old copper
centime,
out of her pocket. She tossed it into the well. Several seconds later she heard the soft plunk as it hit water. It echoed, almost musically.

Oliver became suddenly restive.

"What's the matter, afraid of getting wet?" Deanna asked, trying to settle him back into her lap. She gazed into the well. "I wish..." She hesitated, thinking. "I wish..." She wished too many things and shrugged.

The cat arched his back, his fur on end, and hissed.

He squirmed out from under her hands, scratching her to get away. He stood on the stone edge of the well, stiff-legged and tense, staring down into the darkness.

"Miserable thing," she muttered. On top of everything else, trying to manage him she'd caught her wristwatch on her sweater. Just above the leather band a trickle of blood appeared—a series of tiny red bumps along where the cat had scratched her. She hurried to unfasten the clasp before she bled on the sweater.

Oliver gave a particularly loud hiss and Deanna jumped. The loosened watch slid from around her wrist and dropped into the well. "Oh, no." She heard it hit the water. Her father had bought that watch for her at Disneyland last year, just about the last time she could remember the family being together and happy. Or, at least, before she realized they were unhappy. "Now look what you've made me do."

Oliver had leapt off the well and was standing on the grass, his fur all on end.

"What is the matter with you?" Deanna turned away from him when she heard a gurgling from the well. Now, strangely, she saw the glint of water, where before there had been none to see.

Meanwhile, Oliver was hissing and spitting, carrying on the same as he had when he'd been stuck in the tree, the neighbors' dog trying to make lunch out of him.

Deanna had no more than glanced at him, but when she looked back at the well, the water had risen high enough to see clearly. For a moment she had the awful thought that it was her fault, that she had somehow broken the well, plugged it by dropping her watch. But that was ridiculous.

And what was that sound? That strange hint of music in the air?

No.

That hint of music in the water. The water that was now high enough to touch.

Cautiously, Deanna eased herself off the well. The water rose, almost to the edge now, and glimmered despite the overcast sky. Beside her, Oliver arched his back and spat. "Come on, Oliver," she said unsteadily, backing away.

A hand reached out of the well and grabbed Deanna's arm.

She gave one startled cry, then lost her balance. The sky tipped. The cold water closed over her head. She struggled against the hands that dragged her down, down, down. The walls of the well sped past. She twisted frantically, but all that accomplished was to get herself facing backward, so that she couldn't even see who held her but could only see where she had been. Even if she got loose, could she ever reach the surface before her aching lungs forced her to take a fatal breath? The patch of sky receded, narrowed. Far above she saw Oliver, pacing the edge of the well opening, but her ears were filled with the rush of water and the sound of someone, somewhere below her, singing.

The last thing she was aware of was Oliver leaping in after her.

Deanna could smell the sweet grass that cushioned her cheek. The warmth of the sun had just about dried the clothes on her back, though her front was still damp and prickly. Birds chattered and insects buzzed and chittered.

Obviously someone had rescued her. Someone had seen her lose her balance and fall in the well—Deanna dismissed the reaching hand as part of her momentary dizziness—someone had seen her fall, and had pulled her out.

Deanna opened her eyes. A thick wall of trees bordered the glade in which she lay. She raised her head. More trees, tall and mossy. A pond to her left. It was edged on its farther side by willows trailing into the still water. Beyond that, the woods resumed. Not a sign of the well, or fields, or cows.

Obviously someone had pulled her out of the well, carried her miles away from the Guyon farm, and found a forest clearing to let her revive in.

Sure.

She raised herself up onto her elbows.

Oliver sat nearby, fastidiously washing his face with his paws, ignoring her. More trees formed a backdrop behind him.

"
Bonjour,
" said a voice from behind her, from where she had already looked and seen no one. "
Bienvenue.
"

Deanna craned around, fast enough to put a crick in her neck. But that didn't give her a clear view, so she rolled over onto her back, then sat up. There.

Sitting didn't help. The speaker had a long, flowing gown of some material that seemed to mix silk and silver, a sword, and shoulder-length hair of fluorescent chartreuse.

"
Bonjour,
" the man repeated, this time louder and more distinctly. For a moment she just
stared. Then she closed her eyes and hoped he'd go away.

"
Bienvenue.
" He pronounced each syllable as though she might be hard-of-hearing and reading his lips.