Catherine Asaro - Nebula Awards Showcase 2013

The girl put one hand to her throat and gave a very Miss LolaBelle-like little scream. “Antigua!” she gasped. “Antigua! Come here!”

A Negro girl appeared at her shoulder. “Yes, Miss Liza.”

A slave. A real, live slave. She was very pretty, with rosy-brown skin, and eyes the same Coca-Cola brown as Miss Lola—Miss Liza’s. Sophie noted the bright yellow turban wrapped around the Negro girl’s head and the little silver cross strung on a red thread around her throat and was surprised. She’d thought a slave would look more down-trodden.

“You put Miss Liza’s brush down!” the slave girl said. “Right now, you hear?”

Sophie dropped the brush with a clatter.

“I do believe she was fixing to steal it!” Miss Liza’s voice was a high-pitched whine, not nearly as pretty as her face. “Bring her along to the office, Antigua. Papa will know what to do.” She disappeared in a flurry of white ruffles.

Antigua grabbed Sophie’s arm and shook it. “You in trouble, girl! What you doing here, anyway?”

This was not how Sophie had imagined her adventure beginning. She licked her lips. “Um. I got here by magic.”

Antigua gave her a vicious shake. “Magic? I never heard of no magic that put folks where they don’t belong to be. You crazy, girl? Or just foolish?”

“It’s the truth,” Sophie protested.

“Crazy and foolish,” Antigua said. “Listen here, now. You don’t want more trouble than you already got, you best find some other tale to tell Dr. Charles. Magic! I never!”

The slave girl took a firm grip of Sophie’s arm and dragged her out to the gallery and down the back steps. Sophie was too shocked to resist. Were slaves allowed to hustle white people around like that? Wasn’t that the reason the old days were good? Because Negroes knew their place?

Antigua entered the house through a door that didn’t exist in 1960, and hustled Sophie down the back hall to Aunt Enid’s office—or what would be Aunt Enid’s office, a hundred years in the future. When she’d knocked, she propelled Sophie across the room to the fireplace, where Miss Lolabelle was sitting by a lady on a sofa, carrying on while a tall gentleman patted her shoulder.

Antigua released Sophie and stepped back, leaving her staring at her illustrious ancestors.

The lady on the sofa was blond and pale and thin as a rail, and dressed in grey silk and a lacy cap with long side-pieces. Wool and knitting needles lay on the sofa beside her. The gentleman, got up in a stiff high collar that made Sophie’s neck itch to look at, had a long, sad face and an aquiline nose. A Fairchild nose, in fact.

The gentleman seated himself in what looked exactly like Grandmama’s big wing-chair. “My daughter says she discovered you in her room with her silver hair brush in your hand.” His voice was firm, but not unfriendly. “I trust you have some reasonable explanation?”

Sophie was so astonished to hear someone talking just like a character in a Dickens novel that it took her a moment to realize he was actually talking to her. It took another moment to realize she was going to have to answer him.

The lady picked up her knitting. She was working on a sock. “Perhaps a whipping will loosen her tongue, Dr. Fairchild.”

Sophie went cold all over. It occurred to her that adventures might not be as much fun to live through as to read about.

“I think we can get to the bottom of this without whipping, my dear,” Dr. Fairchild said.

“I cannot agree. The wench is a thief. Even your mother believes in whipping thieves.”

“Now, Lucy, we don’t know she’s a thief.”

The lady raised her almost invisible brows scornfully. She had a good face for scorn, with ice-blue eyes and a thin mouth. She was knitting without looking at what she was doing. Sophie found her terrifying. “She’s bold enough for one. You, girl. Didn’t anybody ever teach you not to look at your betters?”

Hastily, Sophie dropped her eyes to her feet.

“You’ve nothing to be frightened of,” Dr. Fairchild said. “If you’re innocent. Now. What is your name and where you come from?”

“Sophie,” she said, her voice shaking slightly. “I’m from New Orleans.”

“There! We’re making progress. Can you tell me, Sophie, how you got here from New Orleans?”

It was all too obvious neither of the Fairchilds would believe any story involving magical Creatures and time travel. Why didn’t any of the books mention that adventures were like taking a test you hadn’t studied for?

“You got here somehow,” Dr. Fairchild prompted. “Did you come by boat?”

Sophie had had teachers who couldn’t wait for an answer. If she just stood there looking dumb and scared, he’d probably just tell her what he wanted her to say.

“Yes, Sir,” she answered eagerly. “A boat from New Orleans.”

Mrs. Fairchild clicked her needles angrily. “That’s a bare-faced lie, Dr. Fairchild. There hasn’t been a steamboat by in weeks.”

“They probably put her off at Doucette,” he pointed out. “Saved themselves some time.”

Miss Liza gave an impatient little bounce. “What does it matter where she came from? She was stealing my hairbrush, and she ought to be whipped!”

Mrs. Fairchild turned her icy glare on her daughter. “Your father is conducting this interrogation, Elizabeth. It does not become you to interrupt him.”

Miss Liza scowled.

“The truth now, Sophie,” Dr. Fairchild went on. “Did you get off the steamboat at Doucette?”

This might have been a trick question, coming from someone else. But Dr. Fairchild looked to be what Grandmama would call a Perfect Gentleman, and Perfect Gentlemen didn’t lay traps. “Yes, Sir.”

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Fairchild said. “We’re a good five miles from Doucette. Did someone drive you here?”

Mrs. Fairchild, on the other hand, was not a Perfect Lady. “No, ma’am,” Sophie improvised. “I walked.”

“Walked! Dr. Fairchild, I do believe this wench is a runaway as well as a thief. Just look at the state of her!”

“I disagree, my dear. She’s not much more than a child. She couldn’t have made the journey from New Orleans alone. It’s more likely she lost her way between here and Doucette and fell into a ditch. She seems a little simple.”

Mrs. Fairchild gave a laugh. “All slaves are simple when they’re in trouble.”

Sophie looked up, shocked. “But I’m not—”

Mrs. Fairchild laid her knitting aside and pulled something from her waistband—a leather strap, about an inch wide. Sophie looked down hastily. “—a runaway,” she finished.

“If you want us to believe you,” Dr. Fairchild said sternly, “you must tell us exactly who sent you here, and why.”

Sophie hardly heard him. How could anybody think she was a slave? Slaves were Negroes. She was white. In 1960, white people were white and colored people were colored and nobody had any trouble telling them apart. It was true she was barefoot and she had a tan. Couldn’t they tell the difference between tan and black? Hadn’t they noticed her Fairchild nose?

The silence lengthened: Dr. Fairchild wasn’t going to help her this time. Sophie was on the edge of panic when Mrs. Fairchild said, “If you look at her carefully, Dr. Fairchild, I think you’ll see why she’s reluctant to answer. Elizabeth, you may leave us.”

“ Mama !”

“Do as your mother says, puss,” Dr. Fairchild said.

“But, Daddy!”

“Now, Liza.”

Miss Liza flounced away. Dr. Fairchild took Sophie’s chin in his large, warm hand and studied her carefully, just like Grandmama. Sophie felt her face heat uncomfortably.

“Well.” Dr. Fairchild let her go. “Your master is Mr. Robert Fairchild, isn’t he?”