Page 3 of Across Time

When my eyes open, I’m lying on a grossly uncomfortable bed in a sunlit room. It takes a moment of staring at the exposed wood ceiling, listening to squawking chickens in the distance, before I remember I'm not in my own time.

My arrival here is a bit of a blur, sort of like when you rise in the middle of the night to deal with something you're only half-awake for. I remember the man with the gun, and an exhaustion like I’ve never felt before.

Most importantly, I remember that I found Marie. Now I just need to figure out what it is she needs from me.

I rise slowly. Every muscle in my body hurts and the fatigue weighs so heavily on me that I am sorely tempted to lie back down. But the sooner I get downstairs, the sooner I can return home.

I’m still naked, but a dress lies on the chair across from me, white and dotted with small pink flowers. It’s already too hot for a dress. I think longingly of home, of tank tops and shorts and air conditioning, before I slowly pull it over my head.

I limp down the stairs like an old woman, gripping the handrail for support, and find myself in a room that is plain by the standards of home: stiff velvet chairs, a small coffee table covered with a lace tablecloth, a few vases. But the house itself is well-constructed and elegant, with high ceilings, arched windows, and French doors that lead to a small stone porch off the side of the room. If you have to pass out in a strange place, this wasn’t a bad one to choose.

“Ah, awake at last,” says a musical voice. I turn to find Marie-Therese there, smiling at me as if I’m long-lost family. “Three days you’ve slept! I thought you’d never get up!”

Three days, and I’m still so drained I can barely put one foot in front of the other. Any hope of getting this all over with quickly and catching Mark before he leaves for Nepal begins to dwindle. I blow out a breath. It was silly to hope for it in the first place, and I probably ought to focus on my present difficulties anyway.

"You’re much friendlier than the guy was,” I suggest, wondering for the first time if he still plans to hold me gunpoint and make me leave.

She glances over her shoulder before she gives me a small nod. "I’m sorry. My brother Henri—he didn’t like that you knew who I was and what I was, but he's being ridiculous. You already know what I am on sight, just as I know what you are. Come. You must be famished.”

She turns and I follow her into a kitchen that is slightly less ancient than I was expecting, but still pretty rustic. Cracked farmhouse sink, old cabinets that appear hand-made, copper pans hanging from the ceiling and a big white and black Aga stove.

“Please sit,” she says. "You must be famished. Is it always like that with you when you time travel? It must be highly inconvenient." She speaks of the gift so openly, so plainly, as if it’s the color of the sky or the day of the week. I was raised to do the opposite.

I take a seat at the rough-hewn trestle table where she’s placed a loaf of bread and a small pot of jam. I long to shove the bread into my mouth like a savage, like it might be ripped away from me. I’m so hungry it feels as if I could never get full. It’s only by force that I take reasonably sized bites.

“I’m not sure. I’ve never gone this far back before.” I flush. How is it possible that I'm ashamed of what I'm able to do, and also ashamed of the fact that I'm not good at it? “What year is it? I’m…not great at landing where I plan to.”

"It’s I938," she replies.

Three years closer to the Nazi occupation than I intended. I should have been more careful. "Then I've traveled...about fifty years."

"Mon Dieu," she says on a gasp. "Fifty years?”

For better or worse, the future remains a mystery to her, just as my future remains one to me. While the past is neatly blocked off, what lies ahead for my kind is hazy. It would be like jumping off a ledge on a foggy day, clueless to whether you were five feet in the air or five hundred.

I open my mouth to say more, but am cut off by a preemptory knock as the door swings open. A woman steps over the threshold, basket hanging off her arm. Her mouth is pinched, her eyes narrowed. "Marie, tes poules sont—," she begins, her words dying off as she notices me. "Qu’est-ce que c'est? As-tu un invité?" She sounds positively indignant to find me here.

Marie-Therese's mouth has opened to reply just as Henri bursts through the door, looking at the two of us with panicked eyes. I remember thinking he was handsome when I first saw him, but in truth the word barely does him justice. He has features that would be called exquisite were they on a woman—high cheekbones, full mouth—but with a strong jaw and broad shoulders that render him not feminine by any stretch of the imagination.

"Oui," says Marie, shooting an alarmed glance at Henri. "Notre cousine…um…Amelie. Amelie Durand."

"Our cousin Amelie," Henri translates, looking me hard in the eye, as if I’m a child in need of scolding. "Amelie, this is our neighbor, Madame Beauvoir. Amelie est Americaine. Elle ne parle pas le francaise."

I'm tempted to argue that I do indeed speak French, but the guy did just hold me at gunpoint. It might prove useful to overhear what he believes he’s saying in private. Between my exhaustion and how fast they talk I struggle to follow the conversation anyway. I catch a few sentences here and there: she's had a long trip, the daughter of our uncle, we were not expecting her. Mostly what I get from the conversation is Henri’s eagerness that I be gone. For every time his sister expresses pleasure at my arrival and suggests I might stay a while, her brother says precisely the opposite.

Eventually I tune them out and let my gaze drift toward the window, realizing for the first time that their home is in the middle of a vineyard, lush and peaceful in the late May sun. I wish Mark could see this, I think, though in truth it wouldn’t be his cup of tea. He’d want a luxurious vineyard experience, the kind that offers 600-thread-count sheets and a butler. Probably the sort where they actually want guests, too.

At last Madame Beauvoir rises to leave. She looks me over from head to toe like a dress she might consider purchasing, though she doesn't especially like it. "Elle est très belle, n'est-ce pas?" Madame Beauvoir thinks I’m beautiful. Maybe she’s not as awful as I thought.

Henri shrugs, looking me over once from head to foot. I don't see it, he replies, but not all men have options.

My teeth grind in response.

He walks her to the door and watches her drive off before turning back inside and latching the door behind him. "Dieu," he says, glancing at me. "Trust the old witch to barge in just as the new witch finally wakes."

Witch harkens a little too closely to the type of words my mother used all my life, because she views time travel as something akin to drug dealing or human trafficking. And I might put up with them from her, but I’m definitely not putting up with them from him. "I'd watch who you start calling names.”

He raises a brow. "Is that right? Because I'm fairly certain you can't jump right now, and I'm the one with the gun." He turns to Marie-Therese. "And why exactly would our American cousin have a French name?"