A Tale of Two Centuries (4 page)

Well, then. Perhaps chivalry cannot exist in a world of female equality
, I ponder, studying the unfamiliar frame of the carriage
.
But if women of this time can do this, so can I.

How hard can it be?

Lifting my head high, I run my hands along the cool, solid frame. I cannot find a door pull. I press harder against the metal and scratch at the glass window to no avail, then squat to study the apparatus closer. My driver sighs from the front.

I choose to ignore his ill manners.

On closer inspection, I discover a hand-sized metal indentation. The intricate detail is impressive, a truly modern marvel. With a triumphant grin at my discovery, I curl my fingers around it and yank. My reward is a gratifying
creak.

“Aha! Figured it out,” I proclaim, climbing onto the springy, cracked seat.

My coachman does not appear sufficiently impressed.

The cloth inside the carriage reeks with a disharmonious blend of sweat, food, and something undefinable, and the floor where I place my feet is filthy. But neither the coachman’s aloofness nor the unappetizing smell and dirt surrounding me can quell my pleasure.

I am well on my way to acclimating to this strange new world. My cousin would be so proud.

Keeping my back straight so as not to lean against the seat, I watch the man turn a dial, causing the music pouring from the front of the carriage to increase to an uncomfortable level. He grips a tattered wheel with both hands and looks to the left. The carriage lurches with a sudden powerful jerk. My head slams into the greasy window.

My pleasure dampens.

A shrill shriek emanates from below our carriage, and we advance with a jolt, moving faster than should be humanly possible. I brace my right arm against the dank seat in front of me and clench the stinky cloth of the seat behind.

“Sir, must we travel so fast?”

The coachman meets my gaze in the mirror above his head and rolls his eyes. I lick my lips and try again, raising my voice to be heard over his dreadful music. “Surely this is unsafe! Kindly remember you have a lady as a passenger.”

If it is possible, the horseless carriage actually gains speed. Deciding it best not to antagonize the man any further, I clamp my jaw and watch as my cousin’s world flies past my window in a dizzying blur of confusing gadgets, scary transportation, and indecent clothing. I hold on for dear life.

Chapter Four

What feels like hours later—but what is probably much shorter—the stomach-roiling ride ends. Exactly how long we careened through the hazy streets of Hollywood I cannot say. I was too busy keeping the contents of my stomach off the already grubby floor and doing my best not to notice the distressing speed, sights, or
creeptastic
sounds of the future.

After the first few minutes within the flying carriage, I fastened my eyelids shut and centered my thoughts on Cat, praying as my body jerked back and forth that her home was our final destination. And as we now roll to a stop, it is with a heavy heart that I slowly crack my eyes open to take a peek. A large, pointed gate sits in front of us, a swirling letter
C
inscribed in its center.

Joy floods me. If he were not so vile, I would kiss my maniacal coachman.

Crawford.

Cat’s last name is Crawford.

Before the notion is even fully thought, I yank the metal handle and throw open my door. Peeling my feet off the sticky floor, I practically leap from my seat, eager to feel solid ground beneath me again. Beyond the gate, a two-story white building looms tall and proud, and instinctively I know my cousin waits inside. I take a step toward it.

“That’s gonna be twenty bucks, lady.”

And lurch to a stop.

The man extends an open palm, and his meaning becomes clear. “Ah, yes.” I pat my shiver-inducing trousers and shove my hands inside a pair of pockets I find on either side. I am certain that I do not have any
bucks
on my person as even one such animal would hardly fit in the carriage with us, but perhaps fate has left me with something. Then I pause. “
Twenty
, you say?”

In my time, twenty florins could buy a home. Things have certainly changed in the last five hundred years.

When my hands leave my pockets empty, I am not surprised. Mama never allowed me to carry florins in town, and it appears as though I am fresh out of any
bucks
. The coachman’s eyes narrow disdainfully, and I chomp down on my lip. “L-Let me just step inside and get that for you.”

The gentleman—if that term even applies—watches, suspicious, as I stagger to a small gate off to the side. If this is not Cat’s home, then I can only hope it belongs to a benevolent stranger with currency to spare.

I hesitantly close the gate behind me and cross the paved ground to the front door. Lines string across the sky from wooden posts, and two glass-encased torches glow from the exterior walls. I have no idea what any of it is, but it is all extremely fascinating.

I lift a hand to knock on the red-painted door and spot a small, circular torch embedded into the stone. Just like the larger torch affixed above it, the blazing flame somehow remains contained within, and before I can think, before the possible consequences of touching fire can spring to mind, I extend a finger and press. Fortunately, the surface is cool and does not burn—but as the torch sinks into the stone and a series of
ding
s rings out, I snatch my hand back as if it had.

From inside, I hear the rhythmic
clack
ing of footsteps approach. I push my hair behind my ear, pull down the exceedingly tiny tunic that comes nowhere near my hips, and fretfully tap on my leg.

The door
creaks
open…and there stands my beloved cousin.

Thanks be to Signore above.

“Alessandra?”

Cat’s dark brown eyes look as though they want to pop from their sockets. Her mouth gapes, and she shakes her long brown hair as if to clear her head. She looks just as I remember, exactly as she did when I saw her last—except in lieu of the crimson, cut-velvet surcoat she wore then, my cousin has on dark trousers and a loose, flowing tunic. It is much longer than my own. I yank down my top again and meet her startled gaze, and a knot forms in my stomach. As it takes a leisurely path up to lodge in my throat, I cannot help but wonder,
Is she pleased to see me?

It has been two years. Perhaps she wants to keep our time together a happy memory left in the past…or worse, has not missed me at all.

Forcing a smile on the outside while restlessly twitching within, I say, “Greetings,
cousin
. I know my unforeseen presence must come as a shock, but I pray the surprise is well met?”

Cat blinks, either still in awe or severe discomfort, and I twist my fingers together behind my back. Her mouth opens and closes like a fish a few times before she says in a slightly dazed voice, “Well, of course it is. I mean, I’ve missed you sin—” She cuts off and grasps my arm, raking her gaze over me as if she, too, can barely believe this is happening. “Wait, did you just speak English?!”

Relief pours in, and I laugh aloud, happy and grateful to have a familiar face in the chaos. Pulling her into a hug, I say, “Is that not how gypsy magic works? After all,
you
do not speak Italian anymore.”

Cat laughs into my hair. “Touché.”

I inhale the sweet scent of rose clinging to her skin. Guilt for ever doubting our gypsy girl twinges, but it is hard to hold onto it in the midst of so much happiness.

After a moment, my cousin pushes me to arm’s length, smiling as she looks over me again. “To answer your question, of course I’m stoked to see you. But how is this even possible?” She shakes her head again. “What in blazing Hades are you
doing
here, girl?”

I lift a shoulder and grin. “Is it not obvious? The fates have sent me on a time travel adventure of my own.”

“Ah, yes. The fates.” Cat smiles, and with an audible exhale, her shoulders visibly lower. “I got a note from Reyna about a half hour ago, telling me to expect some kind of delivery, and I’ve spent the last thirty minutes totally freaking out. I didn’t know what or who was gonna be on the other side of my door, but I have to say—
this
is my exact brand of gypsy mojo.”

My cousin’s delightfully strange vocabulary, spoken in her native English, makes me grin like a giddy simpleton. It has been a long time without her.

As though she can read my mind, Cat’s eyes grow misty, and I feel my own begin to fill. She clears her throat and squeezes my shoulder. “Well, let’s not just stand around gawking on the porch. Get your butt inside, girlfriend.”

She takes my hand and pulls me back to the open door, but an impatient
beep-beep
stops us in our tracks. Cat lifts an eyebrow.

“Ah. That would be the ill-mannered coachman of my yellow horseless carriage. He requires payment for escorting me from the chaotic theater of etched handprints and strange creatures, but I am afraid my new trousers did not come lined with money.” He beeps again. “Any chance you have a deer or goat lying about?”

A squiggle appears on Cat’s forehead. “Deer or goat?”

“Hmm, is that not right?” I ask, pulling on my ear. I was almost certain that was what he said. “He informed me the ride was twenty
something
—I thought he said bucks. Could it have been ducks?” I scrunch my nose. “Are waterfowl a popular currency in the twenty-first century?”

My cousin’s sudden boisterous laughter is my first clue that I have made a cultural error. The second is the two pieces of green paper emblazoned with the number twenty that she pulls from her pocket.

Oops.

When Cat’s merriment ends long enough for her to catch a breath, she says, “No, no waterfowl or mammals. That would be awesome to see, but it’d unfortunately make shopping pretty difficult. Nope, we here in the good ole US of A circa 2013 use cold, hard, boring cash.”

Her continued giggles trail behind her as she traipses down the paved walk. She hands the
cash
to the coachman, who in turn gives her a shred of a smile that looks horribly amiss on his disagreeable face. Then he leaves in haste.

Cat grins as she walks back to where I stand waiting, her dark eyes surveying my outfit. She throws her arm around my shoulder and says, “You know, I never thought I’d see you in anything so scandalous, Less. Whatever will the neighbors think?”

…

Cool air blows from a vent in the ceiling. Cat’s soft mattress sinks below me, and a pleasing aroma wafts from her purple coverlet. A long white pillow lying across a sea of purple declares the bed
Heaven…
and I have to agree.

Cat’s room is not what I expected, though truly I had no idea what to imagine. Her walls are a cool shade of green, the wooden floors bare and reflecting the golden light from an array of
light fixtures
and
table lamps
(see how well I am learning?) around the room, and a row of glass doors runs along one wall. Her bedchamber is neat and tidy and, surprisingly, not at all shocking.

My cousin comes out of the huge room she calls a closet, arms folded. “Looks like the extent of my feminine wardrobe, or at least what
you
’d consider feminine, consists of a handful of fancy premiere dresses, a crazy long skirt Nana got me to wear to church at Christmas, and a frumpy frock that was shoved at the back for God knows why.” Her lip curls in disapproval as she holds out the garment in question, her thumb and forefinger extended as though it were made of poison.

I actually like it, but I dare not say so.

“Of course there’s also the dress I wore to my Renaissance-inspired sweet sixteen,” she continues, pulling out a long amethyst gown with clear reluctance.

I shoot from the bed to grab it, but Cat whisks it behind her.

“First the rules, Miss Forlani,” she says, eyes twinkling at my new name.

Once she processed the shock of my arrival, Cat quickly set to work on how my time here should unfold. First on her list was bestowing upon me a new identity. Apparently, if we divulged our familial relationship to anyone, her father would most certainly flip his pancake—whatever that means—so I have been rechristened. I am now Alessandra Forlani, foreign exchange student and budding actress.

The foreign part certainly fits.

“You can wear this dress around the house,” my cousin continues, “when we’re the only ones here. Unfortunately, although Jenna, my stepmama-to-be, is in New York until tomorrow, my dad should be home from the set any minute now. But either way, trust me when I say that unless you want everyone thinking you’re a crazy person, it’s best just to go with the flow. If I had to wear five pounds of scratchy clothing and a freaking corset when I lived in your time, you can put up with a little skin showing here.”

I gulp at the revolting image those words conjure, and Cat shakes her head. With an exaggerated sigh and teasing roll of her eyes, she hands me the next best choice, the gown she deemed a
frumpy frock
, and I eagerly snatch it from her fingers. The fabric is smooth and silky. I hold it up, judging the size and length, and declare it perfection.

“Now unlike you, we don’t have fancy lady servants to help get us dressed, though as modest as you are, I’m shocked you even let them, anyway. But this is the bathroom.” She opens a door to reveal a second room attached to her bedchamber, this one containing a wall of mirrors. “Feel free to get changed in here.”

I tiptoe inside, awed by the abundance of light and variety of basins. A box of glass and a huge white tub take up most of the space. It smells like the satchel of future items Cat brought with her during her stay with my family, and I close my eyes and inhale.

Behind me, the door closes, but Cat continues to talk, her voice easily distinguishable through the thin wood. “I still can’t believe you’re here,” she says as I set the gown on the smooth counter. I grab the hem of my tunic and lift, still in awe myself, and she adds, “But why do you look so much older? It’s only been, like, what? Two months since I left Florence?”

Arms in the air, tunic over my head, I freeze. I catch sight of my reflection, turn five shades of crimson, and spin away. “Dear cousin, either my English translation skills are defective, or your mathematics are. I believe you mean two
years
.”

Silence on the other end for a moment, then, “Uh, no. I mean two months.”

Holding the top against my chest and cracking the door open just enough to see one of her eyes, I ask, “But that cannot be possible. I assure you, when I entered Reyna’s mysterious green tent this morning, it was the year 1507.”

Her head snaps up from the row of books she is perusing on her shelf. “Did you say 150
7
?” she asks, emphasizing the last number. When I nod, she tightens her mouth and tilts her head to the side. “Have there been any interesting developments or, err, any
changes
in the last two years?”

As her sharpened gaze flitters about me, oddly focusing on my face and hands, I reply, “Other than that I was once fourteen and am now sixteen, no.” Cat nods distractedly. Obviously something is consuming her thoughts. “And last I saw you, you had just turned sixteen. How old are
you
now?”

“Still sixteen.” Cat nods slowly. “We’re the same age.”

The fact that I am now an equal with my older, wiser, daring cousin is not lost on me. My spine straightens with pride.

She blinks her eyes as if to clear away her thoughts, then grabs a thick tome and begins pacing the length of her room. “Since Reyna’s all about the cryptic, I’m assuming she didn’t give you an idea of how long you’ll be here?”

“In a way,” I answer with a shrug and wry grin. “It was Reyna, after all. She said that three signs would mark my journey—an angel speaking, a soft-rose songstress captivating, and life imitating art. When the third sign is revealed, she will return at sundown.” Then my grin turns into a frown. Now that I am here, with my beloved cousin I have missed so much, I know that however many days fate has granted me, they will be over in the blink of an eye.

The matching frown on Cat’s beautiful face tells me she is thinking the same. She forces a smile and says, “Okay, definitely in keeping with the cryptic, but I’d expect nothing less. By any chance, did she include a riddle-like message to go along with your gypsy adventure?”