Authors: Janette Rallison
I kept reading the contract. I read about the First Party, hereafter known as Chrysanthemum Everstar, who was, as directed in Provision Five Article B, oblig-ated to fulfill three of my wishes. I read about the limitation on the wishes—there were a lot of those—including that I couldn’t wish for something that would violate any 155/431
of the already stated, or hereafter stated, provisions and articles.
Really, the sentence lengths alone were enough to give me a headache.
The part that made my stomach sink—about four feet down the parchment roll, near the end—was the statement that all wishes were considered permanent and binding, their consequences real and lasting. That meant I couldn’t undo wishes.
I laid the contract on my lap and looked down at Clover, who had stolen a pair of my socks and seemed to be using them as a beanbag chair. “How does this help?
It says wishes are permanent.”
“Aye, but didn’t you read the part that says you’re allowed to oversee all efforts made on your behalf to fulfill your wishes? That means if you ask, Chrissy is required to let you go to the Middle Ages and oversee Tristan’s progress.”
“And how exactly would that be a good thing?” Clover held out his hand in my direction. “Lass, it’s as clear as the ink it’s written with. You have to go back and help him become a prince so he can come home again.”
I pressed the contract against my chest, wrinkling the paper. “But I . . . I hated the Middle Ages. It was smelly and cold, and they didn’t have plumbing. Isn’t there an easier way?”
Clover leaned back into my socks and shook his head.
“Mortals. You’re a terminally lazy bunch. You can’t walk anywhere so you’ve got to invent cars. You can’t do your own work so you’ve got to invent dishwashers and washing machines. You can’t even walk up the bloomin’
stairs. You’ve got to invent elevators.” I didn’t point out that I thought all of those inventions were actually a good thing. I just said, “How can I help him become a prince? I thought the only way you became a prince was if your father was a king. Tristan’s dad is a dentist.”
“Aye, well that’s the fly in the ointment, isn’t it? Still, I’ve done me part to help you. Could you throw in a few Froot Loops for the trip? I’ve become fond of those.” I went downstairs, grabbed the box of Fruit Loops and the duct tape, and then stomped back upstairs.
“Okay,” I told him after I’d sprinkled a layer of Froot Loops into the box. “Once I dump the computer 157/431
gremlins in there with you, I’m going to tape this thing up tight. Any last bits of advice?”
“Aye. If someone tells you that you’re worth your weight in gold, they’re either ignorant or an insincere flatterer. Right now gold is worth upward of $9,000 a pound. And a lass like you”— he surveyed me for a moment—“must weigh at least $1,203,660.” He squinted and nodded a bit. “Maybe even $1,299,950.”
“Okay, thank you very much for that assessment on my weight.”
As I carried the trap over to the box, the computer gremlins clicked away in my direction.
Clover said, “The gremlins wanted you to let the rest of their mates know they can’t make that soccer tournament/data-eating party they throw in your computer every year. But don’t worry, I’ll just have the lads e-mail that information to your computer when we reach Ireland.”
Okay, there are some things it is just better not to know about, especially if you can’t think about updating your computer protection because you’ve got to plan a trip to the Middle Ages. And that’s what I was doing. I slid the computer gremlins into the box and slammed the lid on tight, but my mind kept going over the things I’d need to bring. Soap. Shampoo. Deodorant.
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I cut off pieces of duct tape and secured the sides of the box. “You’ll go out in the mail tomorrow,” I said loud enough for him to hear me. Which immediately presented a problem. I couldn’t wait until tomorrow after the post office opened to go back to the Middle Ages. It was nearly 6:30 now. Every hour I delayed going back to the other world would be another week gone by in Tristan’s life.
I mulled this over while I wrote out and taped an address label to the top of the box. Then I checked the computer for postal rates. According to the USPS Web site, it cost about $250 to mail a seventy-pound package to Ireland. After my prom dress purchase, I had about $35 to my name.
The only thing I could do was return the prom dress to the store, get my money back, and use it for postage. I took the dress out of my closet—a pale cream vision of lace and beading—and stared at it for a moment. Even though I didn’t have a date, even though my ex-boyfriend was somewhere in my house right now with my sister, it was depressing to take it back. It was like admitting defeat, like saying no one would ever again think that I was special enough to wear it.
I cradled it in my arms so it wouldn’t drag on the floor and left my room.
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Jane and Hunter sat on the couch in the family room with their schoolwork spread out in front of them on the coffee table. They stared at me as I walked down the stairs. I realized Jane would ask less questions about mailing the package than my parents so I walked over to her. “Hey, I need someone to mail a package for me first thing in the morning. Can you do it before school?” She looked at the dress and then at me, uncertainly.
“Okay.”
“I’ll leave you some money for postage. It’s going to cost about two hundred and fifty dollars since I’m mailing it to Ireland.”
“Two hundred and fifty dollars?” Hunter spit out.
“What are you mailing?”
I laid my dress on the back of our ottoman while I grabbed my purse from the coat closet. “It would probably be better if I didn’t tell you.”
“You have to tell me,” Jane said. “The post office clerks ask about the contents of international packages for customs’ paperwork.”
“Oh.” I sifted through the contents of my purse looking for the dress receipt. “In that case you’ll need to lie.” Which was a bonus reason for having Jane mail it for me. She could lie without creating reptile buddies to keep her company.
“It’s nothing dangerous, is it?” Hunter asked.
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I had to think before answering that question. Were leprechauns dangerous? Would the lie police send my mouth a special little gift if I answered the wrong way?
Slowly, carefully, I said, “Nooo.” Apparently my hesitation wasn’t reassuring. Jane let out a grunt and folded her arms. “This is another one of your revenge things, isn’t it? You’re probably sending firearms to the IRA, and you’ll have a good laugh when the police arrest me in the post office.”
“It’s not firearms,” I said.
“Then what? Explosives? Illegal drugs? I’m not sending it until you tell me.”
I located my receipt in my purse and walked back over to pick up the dress. “Fine, if you have to know, it’s a leprechaun, two computer gremlins, and a pot of gold.” She threw up her hand in exasperation. “That, of course, was my next guess.”
I slung the dress over my shoulder while I got the car keys out of my purse. “I’ve got to head off to the dress shop. The package is up in my room. I’ll leave the money on top of it.”
They didn’t say anything else, which was good. As long as she agreed to mail the package, I didn’t care what they thought.
• • •
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After I returned my dress I went to a thrift shop. I figured I would need to barter for a lot of things once I got back to the Middle Ages, and costume jewelry would be a great thing to barter with. Perhaps I could even buy a piece of land that Tristan could preside over as prince.
It was pure luck that I noticed they had a costume rack, and one of the costumes was a medieval princess dress.
Ten dollars for the dress, fifty dollars for a whole bag of rings, necklaces, and earrings. That’s all it cost me. I nearly skipped out of the store.
When I got home, Jane and Hunter were still sitting in the family room. I tried to ignore them as I ran around the house packing things I’d need. My parents were in their bedroom watching TV, which was a good thing since I’d dragged my dad’s camping backpack out of the garage to use for my supplies and was now dumping things into it. It was just better to avoid telling them why.
I took some of my mom’s spices from the kitchen cupboards. Spices were a big-ticket item in the Middle Ages that I could use for bartering. I also packed a flashlight, silverware, my Snow White dress, a couple of water bottles, a first-aid kit, granola bars, and—I couldn’t help myself—a bag of chocolate chips.
I walked through the kitchen and bathroom shoving more things into the backpack pockets. Matches, hand 162/431
cream, toothpaste, and an extra toothbrush for Tristan.
After I’d packed all the supplies that could possibly fit into Dad’s pack, I changed into the medieval dress. It was polyester and had a zipper, two things which I’d never seen the natives wear, but I would still look like a lady.
Finally I was ready to go. All that was left to do was to tell Jane, so that if I wasn’t back by morning, my family would know what had happened to me.
It was 8:30 here, which meant Tristan had been gone between twenty-one and twenty-two hours. Converting that into medieval days was . . . um, math . . . so it was going to take me a moment to figure out. I walked toward the family room calculating it. Twenty-two divided by four weeks in a month—nearly six months had passed. Which is when I realized I had not thought this through as clearly as I should have.
Jane and Hunter saw me walking toward them. Jane let out a sigh and under her breath said, “I guess this is the next lap of her nervous breakdown. She’s joined the Renaissance club.”
If it had been almost six months since I’d been there, it would be winter there now. I wasn’t dressed for winter. I walked to the coat closet and pulled on my long coat. Then I put on my gloves, hat, and scarf. I stepped out of my tennis shoes, slipped them into my coat 163/431
pockets, and put on my snow boots. When I turned back to Hunter and Jane they were watching me with disbelieving expressions.
“Air conditioning set too low for you?” Jane asked.
“Listen, I don’t have time for a lot of lengthy explana-tions that you won’t believe anyway. So I’m just going to tell you and be done with it: I’m asking my fairy godmother to send me to the Middle Ages. Time is slower there than it is here, so hopefully I’ll be back before Mom and Dad notice I’m missing, but if I’m not, please cover for me.”
“Cover for you while you’re in the Middle Ages?”
“Right.”
She sent me a humorless smile. “Your secret is safe with us.”
“Great. And don’t forget to mail that package. I left the money for postage sitting on top of it.” I turned, then remembered one last thing. “Oh, and be gentle with the package when you’re moving it. According to some of the Internet sites, leprechauns can curse you.”
“Sure thing,” she said.
I knew she wasn’t taking me seriously, but I didn’t have time to press the point. I needed to call Chrissy.
Fully dressed and with my backpack leaning up against my bed, I stood in my room and called her name. Nothing happened. I should have expected as 164/431
much. When had she ever come the first time I’d called?
I paced around my room, calling for her every few minutes. Still nothing.
Eventually the front door to my house opened and closed. Hunter must have gone home. I heard footsteps come up the stairs and then the noises of Jane brushing her teeth in the bathroom. I called Chrissy again, emphasizing that I needed to talk to her about our contract immediately. I watched the numbers on my digital clock creep higher and higher. In my mind I could feel the sun rising and setting in Tristan’s world multiple times.
Finally I decided that I could at least make good use of the time by reading my history book. Maybe I’d learn something about the Middle Ages that would come in handy. I sat down on my bed, still fully dressed, and opened the book. I should have known it was a mistake.
Somewhere in the middle of an explanation of icono-clasm, I drifted off to sleep.
• • •
After she left, I groaned, blinked, and looked at the clock. It read 7:12. I groaned again. Not only was I not in the Middle Ages, now I’d be late for school. There was no way I could go in a medieval dress and carrying a hiking backpack, which totally messed up my plans.
Plus, I hadn’t finished my homework. Mr. Morgan, my geometry teacher, was not going to buy my I-was-distracted-by-time-travel excuse. I rolled over and hit the side of my bed with my fist. “Chrissy, where are you?”
She came that time. My room lit up with a flash and then she stood before me in a tight red cocktail dress and spiky red heels to match. Her hair had turned platinum, and instead of a star, a bright red heart glowed on the end of her wand. Her sunglasses, also shaped like two dark hearts, perched on the end of her nose.
“Sorry it took me so long to answer you. I was busy playing cupid at a dance.”
“You do that for people too?”
She put the sunglasses on top of her head and gazed at me like it was a silly question. “Not for people. For me. There were some totally buff fairy guys there.” I stumbled off the bed and reached for my backpack.
“You know how my contract says I can oversee all wishes made on my behalf?” I swung the backpack onto 166/431
my shoulders. “Well, I want to go wherever it is that you sent Tristan.”
Her eyebrows rose in surprise. “I thought you hated the Middle Ages.”
“I do, but I can’t just leave Tristan there and not help him.”
She stared at me for a moment, her lips twitching in disapproval. “You know, people who don’t know what they want in life really shouldn’t make wishes. It’s a waste of perfectly good magic. But fine, whatever. You can stay with him in the Middle Ages until the terms of the contract are met.”
The next moment I stood on a hill overlooking a village. Beyond the village off in the distance I saw an imposing castle surrounded by high gray walls. A thick wall of trees crowded behind me.
It would have been nice for Chrissy to drop me off a little bit closer to the village, seeing as my backpack must have weighed forty pounds. But then, perhaps it was for the best. Maybe villagers didn’t take well to people flashing into existence in the middle of the town square.
I set off in that direction, peeling off my winter clothes as I went. A slight chill hung in the air but nothing that required a hat, gloves, or a scarf. By my calculations, it was now probably May and, judging by the angle of the 167/431
sun—I’d gotten quite good at that during my last trip to the Middle Ages—it was midmorning. I walked down the hill, too nervous to enjoy the scenery of lush trees, grass, and wildflowers. When I got close to the village the sounds became more distinct. The thud of horse hooves on the street. The twang of a blacksmith’s hammer. The occasional call of wares. I’d apparently come on market day. That worked out nicely, since I had things to sell.
I came to the outskirts of town. Rundown shacks, put together with mostly straw and mud, stood by the path.
Animals and children ran around while the children’s mothers tended to the cooking fires. Some of them whispered and pointed at me, probably pointing out to one another all of the ways I was odd and different—which pretty much described junior high for me, so I didn’t let it rattle me.
Next I noticed the smells. It’s funny how you can smell manure from so far away. Well, not really funny, more like horrible, actually. I had definitely returned.
I walked down the cobblestone street—no sidewalks—and kept checking to make sure I didn’t step on any animal droppings. Other than that, I looked around, trying to catch sight of Tristan’s blond hair. I saw a few blond men, their hair darkened by dirt and grime, but not Tristan.
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I found an inn—at least the sign read The Cat’s Paw Inn— but once I stepped inside it seemed more like a tavern. Benches and tables lined the room with a fair amount of people already eating their noon meal. A scruffy dog wandered from table to table begging for scraps.
A woman with a ruddy complexion walked up to me.
Her gaze traveled over me, clearly not knowing what to make of me. “Can I help you, miss?”
“I hope so. I’m looking for a friend of mine. Tristan Hawkins. Do you know where I can find him?”
“Ah, I should have guessed as much.” She nodded, wiping her hands on her apron. “A foreigner. Are you from the land of Herndon too?”
“Yes.” She knew who Tristan was. I was close. I could feel it. “Where can I find him?” She shrugged. “Probably up in the hills. That’s where he goes most days.”
“The hills?” I let out a sigh, and the energy immediately drained from me. I’d just come from the hills. He’d probably been within earshot. I’d been so quick to assume Chrissy had meant to send me to the village, I hadn’t even called out his name.
“He’ll be back,” the woman said, in response to my disappointment. “He hasn’t missed dinner once.”
“He’s staying here?”
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“Ever since he set out to slay the ogre.” She crossed herself after saying the name. “Filthy beast. We’ll all sleep better once it’s gone. Bad enough that we have to worry about robbers on the road and the dragon in the sky.” She eyed me over again, her gaze stopping on the many rings I wore on my fingers.
“Do you have a place to stay, m’lady?”
“I suppose I’ll need one.” I looked toward the stairs, and the rooms that must be on the second level. “I brought some things from my land to trade with.” I took out a sterling silver ring with three stones—probably glass, although they might have been cubic zirconia. I didn’t feel bad either way. Even glass was valuable in medieval times. “Will this be enough to pay for my food and lodging until I leave?”
She gasped and grabbed the ring from my hand. “I’ll have one of the girls make a room right up.” She also volunteered lodging for my servants and the stable for my horses, but didn’t seem surprised when I told her I had neither, or offended when I told her I’d rather not talk about how I arrived. Wealth apparently brings you unquestioned acceptance.
I ate a dinner of bread and boiled eggs while Scuppers the inn dog sat and watched every movement of my hand. He had such a pathetic expression that I had to feed him. After that I settled into my room. It was small 170/431
with a tiny window that only let a slice of sunlight into the room. A narrow bed stood in the corner, next to a washbasin perched on top of a rickety table. Still, it was private. I had passed by rows of beds in the main room where less wealthy patrons were staying.
Next I went to the market and traded some spices for money and a satchel to carry it in. Then I went to the shoemaker so I could be fitted for some proper lace-up boots, and to the tailor to be fitted for a dress. I also bought a funky-looking hat I’d seen other medieval women wear. This apparently was their answer to a bad-hair century.
All in all, it was the best day I’d spent in the Middle Ages. I went back to the inn and unpacked some more. I was sitting on the floor trying to decide where to put the shampoo and conditioner I’d brought when the door flung open and Tristan walked in.
I recognized him even though he wore a tunic and leggings like the other medieval men. His hair had grown to his shoulders, shoulders which had become much more muscular over the last eight months. He looked taller, tanner, and somehow so indefinably handsome that I could only stare at him. The medieval look worked for him.
He stared back at me, not especially happy to see me.
“You,” he said, and he glared at me for so long I wasn’t sure if he planned on saying more.
“Hi, Tristan.”
He pointed a finger in my direction. “You sent me here.”
I stood up and the bottle of shampoo slipped from my fingers to the ground. “No, I didn’t. It was all an accident, really.”
His eyes didn’t leave my face. I’d never noticed what an intense blue they were, although maybe they were just intense because he was using them to burn holes in-to me. He took slow steps across the room toward me.
“Your fairy godmother told me that you asked her to send me here.”
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I shook my head. “It wasn’t like that.” He took more steps and held up both hands for emphasis. “I know I announced to the entire track team that your bikini top came off, but most girls would just get over that, not call upon magical forces to toss somebody back into the Middle Ages.” I took a step backward, and then another. “I didn’t tell Chrissy to send you here. And I came to help you as soon as I heard you were missing.” His eyes narrowed. “It’s been over eight months, Savannah. It took you eight months to notice I was gone?”
“No. Time is different here. One week in this place is only an hour back home. In Virginia it’s still the Monday morning after you left. School hasn’t even started yet.” For the first time his shoulders relaxed, and he let out a deep breath. “How are my parents? Are they really worried?”
I shrugged. “I’m sure they are. I didn’t see them before I left.”
His expression grew intense again. “You didn’t tell them where I was?”
“Sure, Tristan. I marched right over to your house and told them my fairy godmother sent you back in time.” I held out a hand to him, trying to make him see my point. “They wouldn’t have believed me.” 173/431
He shut his eyes. When he opened them he looked at the ceiling and not at me. “I’ve been here too long. Magic doesn’t seem peculiar anymore.” He dragged his gaze away from the ceiling and looked back at me. “So is your fairy godmother going to set everything right?” I twisted the material of my skirt around my fingers just to give them something to do. “Um, actually no.
Technically you still have to become a prince before she brings you back.”
He folded his arms. “Then exactly how are you going to help me?”
“Well, I brought things from home.” I let go of my skirt, waved my fingers to show him my rings, then went and knelt by my backpack. “Besides all the jewelry, I also have spices, perfume . . . I took a bunch of my mom’s sterling silverware—the women here are all about the silverware—but I also brought things they’ll think are magical. Flashlights. Matches. I figure with all this stuff we can just buy some land and call you a prince. Voila, you can come home.” His arms remained folded. “Even if I buy land, it’s still land in someone else’s kingdom. They go by the feudal system here and every blade of grass on the continent already has a lord, baron, and king reigning over it.
What’s your second plan?”
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I didn’t say anything. Really, I’d never thought of Tristan as an intimidating person before, but he seemed to have aged so thoroughly in the time he’d spent here.
He wasn’t shy Tristan from the track club; he was a competent and assertive adult.
He raised an eyebrow. “You did have a backup plan, didn’t you?”
When I still didn’t answer, he grunted and looked at the ceiling again.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve just never been very . . .
smart.”
Instead of looking apologetic for insulting me, or at least sympathetic, his gaze shot back to me with exasperation. “Don’t give me that. I’ve known you long enough to know how smart you are.” Then, as if to prove his point, he pointed to the backpack. “You knew what to pack to bring to the Middle Ages.”
“That’s because I lived here for several memorable, if not enjoyable, weeks.” As soon as I said this, I remembered something that might help. I reached into one of the side pockets and handed Tristan my contract with Chrissy. I told him about it, adding that I’d brought it along to study for possible loopholes—or if worse came to worst, to use for kindling. Tristan might find something I’d overlooked.
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He sat down on the corner of the bed and read it.
After a couple of minutes he stopped reading and held the paper down to look at me. “You wanted to be Cinderella? You actually wished for that?”