I huffed. “That’s true enough.”
The stud through Phoebe’s eyebrow glinted as we shared wobbly smiles, both of us thinking of the decrepit little nun who’d used up the last bit of her strength to save our lives. To us, Hectare had died only a few weeks before. Not a thousand years in the past. Her image, and that of the incomparable Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine, remained sharp in both our minds.
Though the history books chronicled many details of Eleanor’s life, Sister Hectare’s story had disappeared into the mists of time.
“So.” Phoebe sniffed and swiped at her eyes. “Is it broken, then?”
I examined the head in my palm. The carved wooden features were blessedly intact. But the paint was scratched, and there was a bald patch on one side where the kitty had snacked on the brittle golden strands of real hair imbedded in the skull.
“No,” I said. “I don’t think so.”
I should have known better than to leave it lying right there on the bed, with full-on feline access.
But I’d taken to sleeping with the doll. Stupid, I knew. Childish. Still, it was all I had left of that murky “time before.” And . . . the only thing I had left of him. Of Bran Cameron. The only physical evidence that we—?as a we—?had really existed. That what had happened between us was real.
Every morning when I woke, there were always a few sleepy seconds before it hit me. A hammer blow to the chest.
Not one word in all this time. Not since he’d gone back. To her. To his mother, Celia Alvarez, the woman who’d trapped my mother in the past, then left us all there to die. And though she’d allowed Bran to return to the Timeslippers, I didn’t want to think what kind of torments she’d inflicted on him for his betrayal.
“Oi.” Phoebe reached out and took my hand, squeezing hard enough to pull me back from the dark place. “He does love you, you know.”
“Oh, really?” I jerked away and rubbed my bloodless fingers. “Then why not one word in all this time, huh? It’s been nearly two months. Two bloody months.”
I scowled when her pointed nose crinkled and one side of her wide mouth curled up.
“What?”
“It’s just funny to hear you say ‘bloody.’” She grinned. “It’s all like . . . bluudee.”
“Shut up.” I jabbed her with an elbow. But a reluctant smile began to tug at my lips.
We sat in silence for moment. None of us had any idea what Celia was planning. Where or when she might decide to travel next. The only thing we knew for sure was that she would never give up, not until she found the Nonius Stone, the infamous opal she believed would allow her to better control the entity we knew as “the Dim.”
This we could not allow.
And the thing that knotted my stomach the most was that I knew Bran. He’d take crazy risks. To protect us. To protect me. And if Celia caught him thwarting her plans, adopted son or not . . . I had no doubt what she’d do.
As if she’d read my mind yet again, Phoebe said, “He’s okay, you know. I mean, it’s Bran. If anyone can talk themselves out of a tough situation, it’s him.”
I sat up straighter at that. “Well, that’s the truth. He does have a kind of knack for getting out of trouble, huh?”
When Phoebe beamed that grin at me, the one that lit up an entire room, I couldn’t help but return it.
“That’s my girl.”
She gave my leg a pat and launched herself off the bed, clearing the steps in one acrobatic leap. Despite her petite size, my best friend was freakishly strong. I followed, easing down the steps in my own distinctly unathletic manner.
“Gram can fix her, you know.” Phoebe plucked the doll’s head from my hand and stuck it in the pocket of her jammies. Cradling the battered torso in one hand, she said, “I’ll drop her off in the sewing room, then I’m for bed.” She gave a huge yawn. “It’s late and you could use some beauty sleep yourself. You look like something the dog dragged in.”
“Thanks a lot,” I said. “But I think I might—”
“To bed. No excuses,” she ordered, giving me her sternest—?no use arguing—?face.
In that moment, she looked and sounded so much like Moira, I raised my hands in submission. “Okay, okay.”
“Good girl.” At the doorway she turned. “Actually,” she mused, “think I’ll drop off our mangled friend here, then scoot downstairs and see if I can’t entice my Doug away from that damn computer of his. Lad’s been working around the clock, and it’s not good for his condition.”
“Good luck,” I said. “But you’d better watch out. I swear he and that thing have something going on the side.”
She gave a lewd wink. “Oh . . . I’m not worried. I’ve a few moves I doubt that blasted computer can match.”
She sashayed out the door, hips swaying. I shook my head, grinning because I knew she was right. Our resident genius might be deep down his computer rabbit hole. But I’d seen Phoebe bring it before, and I had no doubt that in the end . . . she’d have him—?probably literally—?eating out of her hand.
Chapter 2
THE GIRL’S GRANDFATHER, GANGLY AND STOOPED IN HIS scholar’s robes, held tight to her hand as they hurried through the huge, ornate chamber. She was feeling very important indeed as they followed the Lord Chamberlain through room after room, moving past all the handsome lords in their doublets and ruffs. Past ladies in their silks, their hair piled high and strung with pearls as they waited for an audience with the queen. Though she’d been instructed to stare directly ahead, back straight, chin high, she couldn’t help gawping at the ladies’ white-painted faces.
Her mother claimed painting one’s face was nothing but vanity, and silly besides. Though the girl wondered sometimes had her mother been a great lady, instead of the wife of a cloth merchant, if she might feel differently.
As they passed through the last pair of green and white doors, the girl saw her. The red-haired queen sat behind a small desk, eating orange slices. She felt a little stab of disappointment not to find Her Majesty seated on her great throne, beneath a canopy of state. But the queen’s jewel-encrusted gown sparkled prettily in the light that slanted down through the mullioned windows, and the girl thought that was very nice.
A tall, handsome man in a velvet cape the color of grass leaned against the queen’s chair, speaking quietly to her.
“That is Robert Dudley, the Earl of Leicester,” her grandfather told her in a whisper. “A great friend to the queen and to myself.”
When they entered, the earl straightened and came around the desk to greet them.
“Good morrow, John,” he said to the girl’s grandfather. “’Tis been some time. I’ve missed our games. No one else beats me at chess quite as soundly as do you.”