CHAPTER ONE
It’s really not that complicated.
On my end, at least.
It goes like this: in the wee hours (I hardly ever get the call at noon), ITCH (Information Technology for Culture and History) reaches out to tell me we’ve got another Lostie. If I have time, I take a quick shower; there’s no way to predict how long I’ll be gone or if I’ll have access to niceties like hot running water and shampoo.
I grab my gear and hustle my sleepy self to their Secret Lab. (Yes. They really call it that. Discussions on the intense lameness of this have fallen on utterly deaf ears.) Then we all yell at each other for a couple of minutes, me about the sheer madness of them still tinkering with tech they’ve proven they can’t handle, and them about me wasting time yelling at them about tinkering with tech they can’t handle.
Then I jump.
That’s the best and worst part.
*****
I don’t pretend to understand the tech, and neither do the techs who invented the tech. We also don’t pretend to like each other, but more on that later. I don’t know why time travel doesn’t hurt, or why it doesn’t play with your brain. I don’t know how I can stand on the platform and take one step and find myself in the same general area five hundred years earlier, as easy and painless as stepping off a sidewalk.
And since I don’t understand any of that, I focus on what I do understand: finding the Lostie
(“We’ve been over this. The code for them is Travelers.”
“That is a stupid code. And what we call them is irrelevant. Also, I am not taking any nonsense from someone who thought up the name ‘Secret Lab’ for a secret lab.”)
and bringing them back to the present.
And every time, without exception, finding them isn’t the hardest part. Rescuing them is. All I have to do is follow the gossip, or the sermonizing or, sometimes, the screams. Then: voilà! There they are, sometimes about to be burned for witchcraft. Or tortured for being a witch. Or imprisoned for inadvertently breaking the law, tortured, and then burned as a witch. The 16th century enjoys Ku Klux Klan/ISIL levels of intolerance.
So, the first thing: I have to hit the ground running. Literally running, because I appear out of nowhere, in a flash of light, and for half a second you can see the lab and the techs gaping at me through the transfer window. If there are any witnesses to a sight that would freak people out in my time, never mind five centuries earlier, I have to get away. Quickly.
Fortunately, the portal tended to dump me beside an enormous willow tree, and the long fronds did a great job of concealing me until I was ready to be unconcealed. Fun fact: the locals think the willow is haunted, and they keep clear.
More fortunate: the lab was built on what has historically been an under-inhabited area, which is a good trick in Great Britain, one of those more consistently settled places on the planet. It’s on the outskirts of London, and “civilization” isn’t far away. This is good news for me, because it means I usually end up in the same spot. The bad news: the portals the Losties fall through can spit them out anywhere between here and twenty miles from here.
So the trick is to get going right away and keep an intent-yet-distant look on your face, like you know what you’re doing but you’re in a bit of a rush and thus a bit preoccupied, no time to stop and chat, so very sorry. Like a party where you don’t want to get hit on by random people, you’re looking for the guy your friend swears will be, like, perfect for you. Focused, yet distant.
*****
This time the only witnesses to my abrupt appearance were several ravens perched in the willow tree. This was better than being spotted by people, but only just. Ravens are creepy, creepy birds, intelligent rapacious predatory meat-eaters. Wolverines with wings.
I glared at them, hiked up my skirts a bit, and set out at a ground-gobbling trot. (Thank you, treadmill.) In no time at all, I was making use of the 16th century version of Hertz.
Important tip: in the past, as well as the present and probably the future, having money makes everything easier. In this case, the smith was happy to sell me his best horse.
“But I don’t want to buy it.”
“It is yours!” This with a dramatic flourish. Since he was a foot taller than me, with the build of a linebacker, grimy head to toe, and brandishing a hammer, this could have been terrifying.
“Yes, thank you, but I’m not buying the horse. I will bring it back. I promise.”
“I have other horses,” he assured me, pocketing gold. “When you return you may buy any of those you wish.”
“Yes, but I’m not buying, I—thank you.” How many times was I going to have this discussion before I wised up? It was tricky enough getting me and a Lostie through the portal; I didn’t want to think of the logistics of hauling back a horse as well.
But as annoying as this recurring argument was, it could have been a lot worse. As usual, my clothes had done most of the talking for me. As for my accent, people who didn’t sound like everyone else weren’t unheard of in 16th century London.
Rule number one: dress like you’re somebody. Not royalty—that was a test I would flunk. But nobility? I could pull that off with the right clothing. And because Henry VIII liked me. Annoying as it was to be in the good graces of a narcissistic sociopath, it gave me the confidence to pull off the attitude I needed to stay unburned. Even if, during trips like this one, I never crossed paths with His Royal Grossness.
So my deep blue gown looked like it was pulled together by a skilled tailor (this was a cut considered “old fashioned”, hilarious given where I was), hugging my figure until just past the waist, then dropping to the ground in a series of folds that looked artfully crumpled. My wide (detachable) sleeves were turned back to show a lighter blue silk lining (as uppity a cloth as I dared wear—only royalty and high nobility were allowed to wear silk), and draped so low and cut so full I could have a boulder strapped to my arm and no one would notice. I had a chain around my neck that looked like gold, and my low-slung belt was good for more than decoration; I’d attached a small book to it via another gold chain. My hair, a color exotically known as brown, had finally grown out enough to be pulled back and stuffed under my black velvet headdress.
If my clothes had been truly authentic, I would have needed at least two maids to help me get in and out of them, and another one to tackle my hair. If I was authentic, I wouldn’t be wearing my Notorious RBG underpants, I wouldn’t have any underwear at all. If you were a woman in this day and age and you had to pee and you didn’t want multiple maids crowding into the privy to help you pee, you lifted your skirts and went. No underpants. Gross, yet practical. And before you suggest that getting caught with 21st century clothing could get me in untold amounts of trouble, if whomever caught me knew what kind of underwear I had on, I was already in a lot of trouble.
“No underpants for this girl,” I said, before I remembered that was an exceptionally dumb thing to say out loud. Fortunately, my accent foiled the smith, who just blinked and said, “If you’ll allow a ‘pertinence, my lady—“
“Oh, sure.” I patted the horse’s broad velvety nose and smiled. Horses were growing on me.
“—why are you traveling alone?”
I was ready for that one. “I’m not, not really. My husband is just up the road.”
“Take every care.” His (mild) curiosity satisfied, he tipped me a casual salute, and in next to no time was boosting me into the saddle onto a pretty roan mare with a back like a dining room table. Oooh, sore thighs tonight. Guaranteed.
I had been surprised to find that riding a horse isn’t just work for the horse. Your arms, hands, legs, back—they’re all in play. It’s not like the movies, where everyone is effortlessly riding for hours and clearly having a good time. At worst, they’re in a hurry and once they climb down, they stretch a bit and then they’re back in business.
Nope. Being in the saddle for any length of time is exhausting; soon I would be able to crack golf balls with my thighs. But short of renting a carriage complete with a team and driver, my options were limited. My kingdom for a moped.
*****
I got lucky again. My Lostie had stumbled across one of the few people from this time who wouldn’t be horrified by someone popping out of nowhere dressed in never-seen-anything-like-it clothing and talking crazy: Thomas Wynter. I hadn’t been riding ten minutes before he loped (he was a human-shaped gazelle; 85% of him was legs) out of The Gray Horse and waved me down.
(About The Gray Horse: for some reason, though they could have picked any color and any animal, they went with the dullest combination possible. It was mystifying. But their bread was outstanding.)
I grinned at him, I couldn’t help it. It was always nice to see Thomas Wynter, and not just because I liked gingers with great forearms.
“And here you are again!” was how he greeted me, rushing over to help me down from Hi-yo Silver. “And as lovely as ever, if you’ll allow me, Lady Joan. You haven’t aged a day.”
I’d aged six months, actually, but Thomas thought we’d known each other for years, ever since the Field of the Cloth of Gold.
“My work keeps me young,” I replied, which was the biggest lie I had ever told, even bigger than, “No, no, it was good for me, too. I like when it’s over in under two minutes. Now I’ve got the whole evening to reorganize my basement.”
“You need a husband,” he reminded me. It was a recurring theme. The smith would have been shocked to learn I’d lied, was in fact single and ready to mingle. “You spend too much time on your own, unless you’re shepherding one of your lambs.”
Lambs. Ha! Bewildered hair-trigger feral cats was a little closer to the truth. “You’re the one lying in wait for me outside nondescript taverns,” I teased. “You need a wife.”
“Aye, I do.”
“So you loitered in the area to wait for me?” I’d pulled up by now, and Thomas caught my steed pro-tem by the bridle and held on, petting the horse’s nose with the other.
“Aye,” he admitted cheerfully. “You’re drawn to people like this, no need to deny it. Once I saw this poor lass I knew you’d be along directly.”
“The poor lass” was accurate. She’d sidled out of the pub a few feet behind him, swathed head to toe in a heavy dark wool blanket. That probably elicited comment, as it was August, but not as much comment as her clothes would have: shorts, probably—her legs were bare. Maybe a t-shirt. Flip-flops?
She blinked up at me with light brown eyes, squinted a little against the summer sunshine and rubbed her earlobe, which was bloody and torn where someone had yanked her earring. She had dirt on her forehead and her hair was a messy blonde cloud. Her hands were fisted in the blanket, holding it tightly around her like a fuzzy shield. “I’m having the weirdest dream.”
“It’s all right, I’m here to take you home.”
She was already shaking her head. “You don’t understand. I’m not supposed to be here. I have to wait until I wake up.“
“Amazon. Ebay. iPhone.”
“Oh thank God!” Yes, that always did the trick. And Thomas, bless his gingery heart, thought it was part of my charm.
“Your words soothe them, as when the monks chant,” he observed.
Sure. Exactly like that. “Thomas, give her a boost up here, would you?”
“Of course, my lady.” And he did, lifting my Lostie almost as easily as the blacksmith had tossed me. Thomas was in excellent shape for a man who self-identified as a scholar and spent most of his time reading. He had agreeably broad shoulders and long legs (if you were into that), and his hair was a deep, rich auburn, so dark in some lights it was the color of grenadine and Coke. (Mmmmm. Cherry Coke.) His bright blue gaze never left my face.
I’d only seen him wearing a hat once—the first time we met. Today he was bare-headed, dressed head-to-toe in black, and his wonderful dark mop made him easy to spot. Sixteenth century clothing, like clothing from any time period, was a code people in the know could crack. Thomas’ black doublet, full sleeves, venetians, and ankle boots all said, “I spend most of my days reading and writing; I don’t have to do manual labor in order to eat, though sometimes I will for fun”.
I blinked and decided it was time to get back to business. “I’ll take her to the doctor,” I lied.
“Or a priest,” he suggested, still absently patting my Hertz horse’s neck.
Oh. Yes. Yes, that will fix her right up.
I found a smile. “It was nice seeing you again.”
“I quite agree! I don’t suppose once you’ve tended to your charge, you might come back and—“
“I apologize, I can’t. Next time,” I lied (again).
He quirked half a smile at me. “No need to tease, my lady. If you keep to your pattern, I won’t see you again for months, perhaps years.”
It bothered me to turn him down, partly because he was always helpful and I owed him a lot more than a tankard of ale. Plus, he was gorgeous. Gorgeous, single, liked me, probably didn’t think I was a witch, always helpful when he ran into me, thought my essential weirdness was charming. The irony: I couldn’t get a second date in the 21st century, but I was catnip to certain men of the Tudor era.
Baffling.
But it was safer for both of us to turn him down. Nothing could ever, ever come of it. Every minute I was here, I was exposed. Lingering for the 16th century equivalent of a tall double foam wasn’t just indulgent, it was dangerous.
“I am sorry,” I began, hating how halting my tone was. “But—“
Steel fingers seized me by the upper arm.
“Ye-ow!”
“Will you shut up with the fucking chit-chat and get me the fuck out of here!” The Lostie had hissed this into my ear so rapidly, what I heard was, shupfuckingchitchatgetfuckoutofhere.
Annnnnd my cue. “Goodbye.”
He swept me a graceful bow. “Farewell, Lady Joan.”
I didn’t look back as we trotted back to the smith.
I never do.