Page 8 of Across Time

When I wake the next day the sun is beating down on me through the open window, and the air in the room is so thick and oppressive it would make me feel groggy no matter how much sleep I'd gotten. I should be in New York City right now with Mark. There was a new gallery in SoHo he wanted to take me to, and as much as I love discovering new artists, it’s the appeal of a darkened room and air-conditioning that speaks to me most at the moment.

I put on yesterday's dress and limp downstairs, a trickle of sweat rolling down my chest and landing somewhere inside the God-awful, too-small bra. Marie-Therese is bustling around, sprightly and all smiles. "Oh goodness," she says, coming to a halt. "You look worse."

I twist my hair off my neck, trying to cool off. “It’s just hot,” I say weakly. I take in the small basket she’s packing. “Are you going out?” My heart beats unsteadily at the prospect of being left here with Henri. I still don’t think he’s a killer, necessarily, but I like having her here as a buffer regardless.

She nods. “I teach German on Friday mornings, but if you'd like I could take you to town when I'm done.”

Despite my fatigue, the idea appeals to me. Here on the farm, life does not feel drastically different from home. But in a town, with the shops and all the people, it might truly feel as if I'm in France, just before the occupation. Sort of like a Renaissance festival or 50’s day in high school, albeit it one where the participants don't realize they've got nearly a decade of suffering ahead.

"I didn’t have time to milk the cows so there’s only water to drink, but I left you bread and cheese,” she says, grabbing the basket. “I’ll be back after lunch, but in the meantime, take a bath. It might help you cool off.”

I see her off reluctantly and then go to the bathroom. For a moment I simply stare at the tub, arms folded across my chest, wondering how I can avoid this. It’s been a decade since I last had a bath instead of a shower, but I assume it’s my only option here.

I strip and force myself into the tub, sitting in two inches of water and emptying a pitcher over my head to wash my hair. I find shampoo but no conditioner. It’s depressing to exert so much effort just to have my hair feel like straw when I’m done.

Showers, conditioner, shorts and cool air. This is what I miss most, so far. That and the absence of Henri.

I get back into my clothes. By the time I’m done dressing I’m hot again, and exhausted, but I grab the pail Marie uses for milking and head outside. Though ours ceased to be a working farm once my father left, I still remember a thing or two, and Marie has enough work to do without me adding to it.

I get as far as the pump when I sense something behind me and glance over my shoulder. Henri is in the field there, a vine in one hand and shears in the other, but he’s gone completely still, watching me. When our eyes meet he throws the shears to the ground and begins to march my way.

Right. Because I’m a criminal here to steal his shitty little apples or something. "You don't need to get the gun just yet," I say testily as he approaches. "I'm just milking the cows."

His tongue darts out to the corner of his mouth. He almost looks amused. "Do you even know how to milk a cow? Don't you have a magical device in your time that milks the cow and churns the butter and carries it all to your tongue?"

Well, for the most part, yes. I lift a shoulder. "I assume it can't be that hard if you can do it."

His hands link behind his neck, observing me. "Hopefully you've taken on this chore in lieu of making the bread."

"Marie-Therese and I are going to town today,” I reply, rolling my eyes, “so your bread is safe."

His jaw drops. "To town?" he asks, and then he laughs unhappily. "Non. My impulsive sister is so thrilled to have someone around that she's not using her head. You will stay on the farm and go nowhere else. You’ve caused enough trouble as it is."

I'm growing tired, standing in the sun, and though I do sort of enjoy sparring with him, my will to do so is dwindling by the second. "I must be growing on you if you're so desperate to keep me close."

"Hardly," he replies. "But Marie-Therese attracts enough attention and two of you together, in the same household? It could raise suspicion."

I throw out my hands. His paranoia is getting really, really old. "What does it matter?" I exclaim. "Is Marie-Therese a fugitive? A celebrity in hiding? Why would anyone care where she is? I don't care that she knows where I am."

His eyes shift away. Hiding something again. "It's never safe for any of you to know each other, and the fact that you're pretending not to know this isn't helping your case."

"How would I know that? Marie's the first time traveler I've ever even met!"

His eyes narrow. "Not your mother? Your grandmother? A sister?"

My family history is like an overstuffed closet. Pull one thing loose and you'll find yourself buried in the rest. I go with the simplest explanation instead. "It skipped my mother, and my grandmother died before I was born. I’ve traveled back to see her, but asking her to explain things would..."

"…let her know she’ll die before her time," he concludes. He understands because it’s the same reason Marie won’t at least try to go back and visit her mother. I see a flicker of something in his eyes. I'd suspect it was sympathy if he were anyone else.

"Yes." I feel unsteady now, between the heat and the exhaustion. I need to end this conversation before I pass out.

He reaches back to rub a hand along the nape of his neck, flinching. "You had no business jumping back like this when you know so little. What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking your sister needed help, because the information came from a pretty reliable source." Though I’m not sure a message from beyond the grave would necessarily be considered reliable.

I sway suddenly and he grabs my waist to hold me upright. I can feel the pressure of his hands through my dress, and this sudden awareness of him—of his size and his strength—unnerves me. “You need to lie down,” he says.

“I’m fine,” I reply, but it’s a lie. I can’t think straight right now, between the exhaustion and his hands on me. My eyes close for a moment and he scoops me up like a child and heads for the house. I’d like to argue but I feel like I’m about to pass out. And dazed though I am, I can’t help but notice that—for all his belligerence—he’s gentle with me now. Gentler than I’d have thought him capable of.