Wildwing (6 page)

Going

O
f course I listen at the door, but Mum’s voice is only a wordless murmur, and I have to settle for the moments when Mr. Greenwood’s mumbled responses rise into outraged clarity.

“Two weeks!” he cries. “A live-in? That girl? … Smart as a whip … she can think circles around … and you’re sending her to do work the dullest drone … Insanity! Let her …”

Their voices come closer, and I rush to the kitchen just in time as the drawing room door swings open.

Now Mum’s words are clear as can be. “What kind of mother would I be otherwise? It’s for her own good. Two weeks, sir. Good day.”

I open the front door for her. She sighs at me, shakingher head, but I look at her straight on, not a tear in my eyes. Yes, I feel sorrow, and anger, but more than anything else I feel excitement rising in me like a great wave.

Mr. Greenwood comes out of the drawing room soon after, grabs his coat, and throws open the door. The chill air surges in; I pull his muffler from the shelf and thrust it in his hands.

“I must think,” he says, lifting his head to look at me. “There’s a way around this, if only I can think of it.”

“My mother has made up her mind, sir,” I say. “You can’t change her when she gets like that.”

“I’ll help you,” he says, briefly reaching out to touch my hand before he steps outside. “I’ll find a way.”

My heart catches. In that moment I almost tell him he’s already found a way to help me, that he found it years ago. But I bite my tongue. I won’t endanger my plan with anyone’s ideas of what’s safe or proper or wise.

I force myself to wait, washing the breakfast dishes and dusting the drawing room, until I’m sure he’s truly gone for the day. Then I pull out my keys and walk down the hall to the library. For the second time in fifteen years the door opens.

The lift rises in the center of that circle blown clear of dust, like a tree inside a fairy ring, or a stone for ancientrites towering on an altar. Something sharp and strong shivers through me, and for a moment I’m frozen on the threshold. An invention, I tell myself. Not magic, but science and math, knobs and dials. I take a step forward?and there’s that shiver again, almost an electric shock, as if some tremendous power waits in those bits of steel and wire, reaching out to me. I need a minute before I touch it again.

I turn my steps to the wall where an oval frame tells me a mirror is hiding. I wipe it off and stare at the girl looking back at me: her hungry green eyes, her stubborn mouth.

You, I think. I know what you want. You want to start over, like this breath, the one you’re breathing now, is the first you ever took. And the step you’re about to take is the first time your foot touched the earth, and the word you’re about to speak is the very first time you ever heard the sound of your voice ringing in the just-born air

And all you have to do is go in that lift and shut the door

I tie the door to the lift open with twine so it doesn’t slip shut and whirl me back before I’m ready. Then I step inside and start examining the panel with its dials and labels. On the top row, the word TODAY is engraved on a small copper plate, followed by boxes for day, month, and year, looking for all the world like the board in a railway station where thenumbers flip over as trains arrive and depart. The date reads, 11
OCTOBER
1913, still accurate after all these years. A small clock ticks away as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

Next come dials for how many days or years you wish to travel into the past. I’ll leave it the same as it was yesterday, 673 years. I do the numbers in my head. It’s the year 1240 I’ll be living in soon.

There’s one last row on the bottom, but the print is so small, I have to sit on the bench and lean forward to read it.
MANUAL ADJUSTMENT
, it says.
RETURN TIME PLUS
, and then the dials. It seems you can choose to stay in the past a week—or a year—before you return. That could be useful, I think, coming to my feet.

I walk to the desk and start sorting through the typed pages, the scribbled notes, the books and journals. An ancient map shows Little Pembleton, the road, and the bridge; a circle of ink outlines the empty spot where this house stands now—the exact spot where the lift waited in the past, as if it always stayed in one place and the years whipped by around it. There’s a calendar labeled “Julian” and another labeled “Gregorian,” and a paper on determining the age of trees, and page after page in a scrawling hand with mathematical equations and sketches of the liftand wiring diagrams. I thumb through books on medieval manners, clothing, farming, battles.

I throw the last book down with a bang, sending up another cloud of dust. I could read for weeks and not learn a fraction of all there is here. Don’t I know enough already? The lift will take me to the past, where all I need is one nicely woven cloak and I’m a lady. And that was just a tablecloth. There’s a red and gold gown hanging back in the costume room, and it fits me just right. I wonder how people will treat me if I go back dressed like a queen.

I clean the room until the lions are bright-eyed and the books stand proudly at attention on the shelves. I’m not sure why I do it. Perhaps so I’ll have a fitting sendoff when I go. In some strange way I feel it’s for Mr. Greenwood, though he’ll never even notice.

He doesn’t come home for tea.

As the light fades, I lock the door behind me and head down the road into town. But I don’t go right home, not just yet. Everyone must be at dinner; the streets are empty, and there’s no one to see me turn the corner to the theatrical society. The door is unlocked. Inside, everything is dark.

I feel my way down the stairs and to the wall with the electric light switch. The room shimmers into life, the pileof fairy wings glittering as if they’re rising in full flight, the great shaggy bear’s head growling down at me from its shelf. But there’s no time to stop and look. I need to be home in a few minutes.

Where is it?

The hangers are a jumble of possibilities. The flounced skirt and crook of a saucy shepherdess, a nurse’s sturdy uniform, a bottle-green Elizabethan gown with a wide ruffed collar.

Where is it?
Did the old woman take it away to alter it for Caroline? The thought makes me feel almost sick to my stomach, and I pull the next hanger so roughly, a robe falls to the floor. I bend to pick it up. Something brown-skinned brushes against my hand and I startle, drawing in a quick breath. But then I see it’s only an old leather glove, oversized and rough, like something a hunter might wear. For some reason I slip it on. The sturdy leather rises to my elbow, and cords dangle from it like little leashes. I twirl my hand to see them swing, and they snag a bit of fabric, red and gold—

The queen’s gown! I toss the glove back down. My heart pounding, I pull the dress from its hanger, fold it up small enough to fit in my satchel, and run out the door.

The Ocean

I
look out from the drawing room window, watching Mr. Greenwood shuffle stoop-shouldered through the gate, and I see he’s forgotten his muffler yet again. I grab it and run out the door after him.

“Mr. Greenwood!” He stops and sets down his old leather valise. “Didn’t want you getting cold,” I say. Which I’m saying instead of good-bye.

He wraps the plaid wool around his neck, then surprises me by reaching for my hand and giving it a warm squeeze. “I won’t be back for a few days,” he says. “I have matters to sort out with my solicitor.” He lets go of my hand to peer at his watch. “My train!” he exclaims, grabbing the valise. And then he’s gone off down the road.

Gone for days, so I have all the time in the world. And yet I feel the need to hurry as fast as I can.

I dash back to the kitchen, finish the dishes, shove them in the cupboard. Scrub the kitchen counters. Run into the drawing room and polish the table where we’ve shared books and tea. It will be hard enough for Mr. Greenwood, getting used to someone new; I won’t have him coming back to a mess.

I glance at the clock. Fifteen minutes have passed. I open the door and peer down the road. No, he isn’t coming back. The house is mine.

My heart flutters as I open the cleaning cupboard, reach down into the dark, and pull out my satchel. I set it on the table, unbuckle the straps, and pull up the flap. And there it is, all sparkle and silky flowing wonder: the queen’s dress.

I pull off my sturdy navy blue, right there in the kitchen, and tug the red and gold gown over my head. It shimmers down, and I take a few steps, feeling the luxurious fabric swish around my legs. It barely sweeps the ground. The belt drapes around my waist, its long ends hanging down, proclaiming what a very grand lady I am.

The one thing I don’t have is a proper covering for my hair. But there was that other picture in the costume book. I undo my thick braid, spreading the strands across my shoulders. Mum can’t make me hide my hair away now.

underneath the gown are my much-mended shoes, my only pair. Well, there’s nothing to be done about that. These skirts are long enough to hide them. I start to gather up my navy blue, and then I realize that with any luck I won’t need it ever again. I toss the dress back on the table.

With any luck, I say, because Mum may call me headstrong, but I’m not stupid. I’ve got a plan in case things don’t work out in the past. I’ll set the return dial to read, 15
DAYS.
That’s long enough to know if I can make a life for myself there. If not, the lift will be waiting for me at sunset. But I don’t expect to need it. And I certainly don’t want it. I’ve a new life to live.

I grab the key ring and hurry down the hall. The black key clicks into the newly oiled lock. Now everything is dusted and mopped; there won’t be any cobwebs draping across
this
dress. The desk shines under its stacks of neatly arranged papers. I pull open the curtains; not a speck of dust flies out. In the light I turn to look. There it stands: the lift to the past.

I push the handle to fold the door inward, and step in. I turn the dial, and then I slide the door shut. Something clicks, the numbers start whirling and the cage rattling and the room spinning and everything turning black… .

Things are different this time. I can tell before I even open my eyes. Wind weaves through the metal filigree, teasing my hair; great gusts toss the tree branches, sing through the grasses in a long, low dirge.

I open the door, step across the threshold, and breathe in a salty ocean tang. Across the steel-gray sky, darker clouds sail to the east. That always means the tail end of a storm. The air is so brisk, I almost wish I’d brought the tablecloth cloak again. But it wouldn’t have been grand enough with this dress, and I’ll warm up once I get moving. I have a town to visit.

I turn toward the woods. Rising before me like a church steeple is the same dead tree, and there, on its outstretched branch, sits the same magnificent bird, almost as if it had been waiting for me all this time. It stares right at me with piercing black eyes, then lifts off with great easy flaps of its wings, like oars rippling through water. But this time it’s flying away from town, toward the cliffs that tumble down to the sea. And something calls in me to follow.

I hesitate. I’d been planning to retrace my steps from last time, right up to the church, and pretend to have hurt my head so badly, I don’t remember who I am. They’ll have to take care of me since I look so grand, while they search for where I belong, and that will give me time to figure out howto live here. That was the plan. But after a storm, the ocean is so wild and free… .

All right, then! I’ll take the long way around. It will be the perfect start to my new life. I’ll fill myself with the waves’ surging, shouting voice, and then I’ll head over the lowlands and back into town by the river.

There’s no path on this side of the field, but I know where Mr. Greenwood’s house stands in relation to the shore, and I make my way into the murmuring trees. The land starts down a familiar slope, then opens up at the top of the bluff. I look down on the river, white-capped where it meets the sea. The wind itself is flowing through my veins.

It’s lucky I know the way down, because I don’t find the broad path I’m used to, just a thin deer trail. Now the wind shifts direction, pushing me until I’m running—no, flying!?my arms spread like wings, the long skirt flapping behind. Down I run, around the curve, and down, my ears filling with the roar of the surf and the shriek of gulls, until I reach the place where the hill butts against the cliffs, and boulders loom out of the water like something giants hurled from above. I don’t care if it’s cold, I want to feel the sand with my feet, so I take off my shoes and stockings and set them atop a large rock. Then I follow the strip of shore under the cliffs, heading out to the point.

But as I go farther, it turns out I have to watch where I step. The beach is littered with tangles of seaweed and piles of branches—even a whole tree, roots and all. What a gale it must have been! I lift my skirt as I edge past great clumps of flotsam and jetsam, long jagged boards, the curve of a cask, an oar.

And the wind is still singing, whipping foam from the crests of the waves!

From the depths of a glistening green tangle, something glints as bright as silver. I bend to pull the slippery strands of seaweed aside, and gasp as I pick up the most amazing little treasure box. The sides are patterned silver, and the top is ivory, carved into the funniest mermaid with two tails, one pointing to each side, as if she can’t decide which way she’s heading.

I feel joyful and smug and shivery all at the same time. Not here thirty minutes and I’ve already found treasure! This must be valuable indeed, worth enough to sell or trade for something to get started in my new life.

The box is heavy for something the size of a small loaf. My fingers trace the clasp, turn it; I lift the lid. Staring up at me is a gold cross as big as my palm, inset with stones so red they look like fresh-spilled blood. Like rubies. could it be?

The cross is on a heavy chain. I place it around my neck.

Next I find a chunky ring with a snarling bear’s head, surrounded by a circle of glittering little stones. I put it on my finger. Rubies, gold: I can live on this for years!

As I close the box, a tumble of boards catches my eye. Maybe another treasure is hiding in there. As I clamber closer, I see the boards are curved like a boat’s hull, and I remember the tales of shipwrecks on this shore, long, long ago. Was it smugglers? Yes, that’s it, and now I’ve found their riches!

I’m in luck again. Rich purple fabric peeks out from under the boards. It’s bound to be too wet to use for a cloak, but maybe I can clean it once I’ve got myself a place, and make another dress.

I bend to pick it up … the surprisingly heavy fabric … wrapping an arm, a limp arm … heavy with death.

I leap back, the cross banging against my chest like a fist on a door. I breathe deeply, then lean forward and gingerly lift a board away. It’s a man all right, dead and drowned and newly gone. No smell, no rot, just a beautiful young man with dark hair, a sodden tunic clinging to his body, jewels at neck and sleeve, caught in a snarl of splintered wood.

My head jerks up, and I stare at the pounding sea. A boat crashed on the rocks last night! And I’m the only one here to help.

I whirl around, searching for any movement, a sign of life. A pile of seaweed shivers, and I run over, but it’s only a crab scuttling around a barrel. Another barrel bobs up and down in the water as waves wash it near shore only to snatch it back again. Something else is floating, too. Another body. Is it moving? Could this one be alive?

I run into the surf, the water wrapping my heavy skirts around my legs. When the waves bring the body close, I grab a handful of velvet, and tug, and tug, until I pull it clear of the water—a torso without any legs.

I let go, leaping back with a scream.

A shout answers me from the cliffs above.