Rachel Harris - A Tale of Two Centuries

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.”