She became aware of Oliver watching her, all the while watching her. Never moving, never blinking.
Catlike,
she thought, before she realized what she'd thought. She wondered how much he could read from her face.
"Don't run away," she repeated, for that was what she feared the most.
Oliver stayed where he was, but that may have been because she had stayed where she was.
"Do you understand English?" she asked.
He nodded, slowly.
Impatiently, for she had been through a lot for a summer morning, she snapped, "Do you
speak
English?"
He blinked. He might have given the faintest hint of a smile, she couldn't be sure. "I do now." The voice was as thoroughly human as the face.
Now what? With a sigh, Deanna sat down on the ground. "Well," she said. "Any ideas?"
Again a blink. "About what, specifically?"
Deanna chose the most pressing question. "About where to find my time-traveling watch?"
Oliver glanced around the glade. "It's probably not here."
"No," she agreed, unsure whether Oliver was slow-witted or just had a weird sense of humor. "Probably not." He was supposed to
help
her. Maybe he was waiting for her to make the decisions. She wasn't used to making decisions. She was used to crossing her fingers and hoping for the best. She stood. "But where do we start? How do we get out of here?"
Oliver got to his feet, a graceful uncurling motion. "We could try the path."
There was no path: Deanna had seen that when she'd first glanced around the glade. But she humored Oliver; she looked where he was looking. She saw a road, paved with red polka-dot linoleum and marked with a flashing road-construction arrow.
"Good thought," she said.
This time she was sure he smiled. She found it oddly reassuring. She stepped onto the red-and-white linoleum and forced her voice into more brightness than she felt. "Wishing well," she said. "Elves. Next thing you know, we'll be meeting a frog demanding kisses."
"What—" He fell into step next to her. "—frog?"
"You know: a talking frog. Under a spell by an evil wizard? Kiss him and he turns back into a prince?"
"Kiss him?"
She glanced at his blank face. "Like in fairy tales."
"Fairy tales," he repeated, as blankly as he had repeated
Kiss him.
If he had been one of those toy robots with the clear heads, she would have seen the wheels and gears going around for sure. Her assurance melted away, leaving her cold and empty. "Fairy tales," she said. "You read them to amuse yourself." She forced her voice to be stronger. "They're stories. A story's a kind of a ... sort of made up ... uhm..."
He watched her steadily as she faltered, her hands waving vaguely. Then, when she gave up, he said, "I understand the words
fairy tale
and
story.
"
She found his eyes oddly unsettling. The pupils were round like a human's, not slitted like a cat's, but he stood too close and stared at her too directly.
"Most likely, there won't be any story characters here."
"No, I just meant ... Never mind." She pretended to be engrossed in their surroundings—the road, the trees, the occasional flashing arrow. Anything but Oliver. She was aware of him still
looking at her. Great. Here she'd spent two minutes with a cat turned human, and already he thought she was an idiot. What do you say to a cat who can answer back? Deanna said nothing.
What to say? Where to start? Deanna wanted to thank Oliver for jumping in the well after her, but didn't know how. Did he remember he was really a cat? (And if he didn't, should she tell him?) What did it feel like to change? Had it been painful? Did he regret it? Did he know any more about where they were and what they were supposed to be doing than she did?
Words had never come easy to Deanna. She had frequently found herself unexpectedly, unintentionally, in the background, even among her friends. And now, after a summer spent with distant relatives who spoke little if any English, she found it even harder than normal to get started.
Thank you, Oliver,
she'd say.
Thank you?
she could imagine him saying. Or, he'd ask
For what?
Or, if she worked out an answer for either of those, he'd say something else for which she didn't have an answer. Then she'd go and trip over her own tongue again, and Oliver would look at her with those big green eyes again, watching her make a fool of herself. Again.
So, instead of working out what to say to Oliver, her mind returned to the two fair folk and what they'd said about the well. It
had
been magic. If she'd made a wish, her wish would have come true. This is what she got for not being ready. She would never let it happen again. If she ever got a second shot at wishing, words would not be her downfall. I
wish that Mom and Dad were back together again,
that's what she'd wish. But though she'd never believed in magic until fifteen minutes ago, she'd heard about wishing and how tricky that could be, so she'd say:
I wish that Mom and Dad were back together again and that we'd all be happy again, forever and ever.
That's what she'd wish for them, whether they wanted it or not. But she probably never would get a second shot at wishing. She probably wouldn't even exist tomorrow.
Oliver put his hand on her arm, holding her back.
"What—?" she started, but he put his finger to his lips.
She looked around, saw nothing. Listened, heard nothing. She shook her head, but Oliver wasn't looking at her. He was continuing forward, but carefully, silently.
Stalking,
she thought.
For the first time Deanna realized that while she had been absorbed in her thoughts, the linoleum had ended, leaving only a path through the forest. And, now that she thought about it, there had been no flashing arrows for quite a while. She looked behind. No sign of red polka dots. In fact, the path seemed narrower back there, and overgrown, which she hadn't noticed as they'd walked. She checked forward to see the condition of the path where they had to go. Wide and clear as far as she could see—which, with the ups and downs and weaving between trees, admittedly wasn't far.
Oliver was developing quite a lead despite the fact that he was obviously taking care to move quietly.
She took one final glance backward. The path
had faded in the last couple of seconds, narrower yet, and—not twenty feet from her—a large tree had sprouted. Its gnarled roots and the cherry blossoms that had fallen from its branches obliterated much of the path where they had just passed. Cherry blossoms in August? Even as she watched, the cherries formed, then ripened, then browned and withered and dropped to the ground.
She ran to catch up to Oliver. He stopped immediately, with a scowl for all her noise. She grabbed his arm. "Did you see—"
This time he laid his finger against her lips. Now she could hear it too: voices, coming from up ahead. "Someone to help us?" she guessed. "Since the fair folk led us here?"
Oliver gave her that look again—the one that indicated she was an idiot but he was too polite to say so.
She walked beside him, wondering how her slippered feet could make more noise than his boots.
The trees thinned. She could hear the voices more clearly. A horse whinnied. Harnesses jangled. Deanna and Oliver stopped short at the edge of a clearing. It was bigger—though not much—than a football field.
There were two canvas-draped pavilions, one at each end of the field, both aflutter with flags. Several men milled about. They wore brightly colored tunics and tights, and most had swords strapped to their waists, though none, mercifully, had Day-Glo hair. They seemed divided into two groups, each centered around one of the pavilions. No, wait a minute. Deanna caught her breath. Centered around one of the two men who were steadfastly ignoring each other, dressed in chain-mail armor.
"Knights," Deanna whispered, remembering the stories she had read about Arthur and Charlemagne and El Cid. Defend the weak and come to the aid of ladies in distress: she knew the code of chivalry. Well,
she
was a lady in distress!
"Nights?" Oliver asked. He made as if to stop her, but she sidestepped him.
"Knights," she repeated, more loudly, more confidently. She pushed a branch out of her way, stepping into the clearing. "Knights can help us."
"Nights?" she heard Oliver repeat. But he trusted her, he followed.
"Hello," she called, approaching the nearer group.
That knight, who was getting shin protectors
strapped on over his chain mail, glanced at her, then returned his attention to his attendants.
"Ahm ... Excuse me?" What if he spoke French? Come to that, what if he spoke English? That was no guarantee he'd understand her or she'd understand him: she remembered how her ninth-grade English class had studied Shakespeare's A
Midsummer Night's Dream
, and she had certainly not understood that Her voice was beginning to fade. "Excuse me?"
The knight looked up again. "Well, come on, girl. Don't dawdle." She understood him perfectly, which made no sense at all. She decided not to worry about it. He waved her closer.
Deanna didn't look at Oliver for fear of seeing an I-told-you-so expression on his face. But she was aware of him walking beside her, warily evaluating the small crowd.
Gingerly she approached until she stood right before the knight.
He ignored her. He was a young man, though older than Oliver, and he had a droopy mustache that gave him a sad, whimsical look. His attendants were helping him get into metal gloves. Across the field, the other knight and his people were doing much the same.
"Ahm..She cleared her throat. "Hello."
"You already said that." The knight slapped away the hands of one of his servants, who was too slow about tightening the wrist straps.
"Sorry, Sir Baylen," the attendant said.
"Here, give me that." The knight, Baylen, took the helmet one of the other men held. "Can't you see I'm busy?" he snapped at her.
"Well, yes, uhm, I'm sorry—"
"No time for that, no time for that. Just tell me what you have to tell me, then get out of the way. Look around you, girl, this is important business." He handed the helmet to a second attendant, who placed it on Baylen's head.
"Well, you see, ahm, Sir Baylen, I'm on a quest—"
"What?" The knight lifted his visor. "Can't hear a word with this thing on."
"Oh, I'm's—"
"Is this very important?"
"Yes, I'm afraid—"
"Speak up. A lot rides on what happens here today."
Deanna gulped, realizing the men were preparing to fight. A wrong to be righted? Blood feud? War? "I'm Deanna, and this is my friend, Oliver, and—"
"
Friend?
" Baylen lingered on the
f
and rolled the r as though that were the most ridiculous
thing he had ever heard. Several of his attendants gave her sidelong glances also.
Deanna felt her cheeks grow warm. "Yes, you see, we're on a quest—"
"Oh, no, not another one of those." The knight let his visor drop. His voice came hollow and distant as he said, "See me about it afterward. Can't you see how important this is?" He started toward his horse—the other knight was mounted already—but turned back once. "
Friend,
" she heard him snort.
One of the attendants held the ornately caparisoned horse steady while another gave Sir Baylen a leg up. Yet another, scurrying forward with a lance that was twice as long as Deanna was tall, warned, "Coming through, miss."
"Oh, excuse—" She stepped out of his way and came down on the foot of another young man who was bringing a shield. "Out of the way please, miss," that one said.
"I'm so sor—"
Someone put a steadying hand to her elbow, and Deanna automatically turned to apologize.
"That's quite all right, my dear." This was an older man, a grandfatherly type dressed in rich, embroidered robes. "Perhaps we should step out of the way?"
"Oh, yes. Please."
He indicated a table that was set up between the two pavilions but off to the side, almost among the trees. Out of the knights' way, Deanna saw. She remembered a phrase from her reading:
out of the field, of combat.
She shivered, recalling other phrases having to do with slaying and smiting and striking to the ground. Yield or die. That sort of thing.
"Drink of lemonade, my dear?" asked the grandfatherly type.
Startled, Deanna turned from watching the two knights, who had begun riding at each other from opposite corners of the field, their long lances held steady before them.
The old gentleman held out a silver goblet.
"Thank y—" she started to say, but the gentleman, looking beyond her, called: "Good show, Baylen!"
Deanna saw that the knights had passed each other. One—not the one to whom she had spoken—had dropped his lance and weaved a bit in his saddle but then regained his balance.
"Well done, eh?"
"Mmmm," Deanna murmured, taking a big swallow from her goblet to avoid having to say anything else when she had no idea what she was supposed to say.
The knights' attendants handed them both fresh lances, and they wheeled their horses about to come at each other again.
The grandfatherly man poured another lemonade. There were several pitchers and a great many goblets, but most of the table was occupied by three men, who sat at it scribbling away on heavy parchment scrolls.
Oliver looked warily at the offered goblet and shook his head.
"I don't believe I know you, do I, my dear?" the old man said to her. "You're not from near here?"
"No," Deanna said. "My name is Deanna, and I'm from Greeley, and this is O1—"
"Greeley? Greeley? That's in Bretagne, isn't it?"
She took a deep breath, but before she could go on, he said: "I'm Sir Henri of Belesse. Pleased to meet you, Lady Deanna of Bretagne."
Whatever language they were all speaking, whether the old man in fact pronounced her name
Deanna
or
Dionne
—it came out sounding right to Deanna, which was an improvement over her French relatives. But
Bretagne?
"Actually, I'm not—"