A Kiss in Time (18 page)

that he may not see my face, but it is too late. He does. Hey, whats wrong?

I saw her again! Who? Amber? Worse. Malvolia. The witch Malvolia. She was in this very room. He kneels beside me and takes my hand. Nah, thats impossible. My parents have alarms and broken-glass sen- sors, the works. Not a single
witch is getting in this room, no sir.

I have no idea what a broken-glass sensor might be, and the word alarm means the palace
guards telling of the presence of an intruder. There are no guards around Jacks house,
though. It matters not. Malvolia can get past any- thing. She has done so already. It was
her. She is coming for me!

It was your imagination. She was in her cottage. She said she would take me there. She has been watching me forever. She knew every- thing about me, and I could see
her, even though she wasnt here. She was communicating with me through magic.

She was in your head. Exactly. Shes in my head! No. I mean, shes in your mind. Its all in
your mind.

You had beer and Jell-O shots, so youre dreaming about witches or fairies or whatever they
were.

Jell-O demons! Jell-O demons? I nod. They seemed so real. Thats because youve never been
drunk before. Believe me, last year, Travis and I drank some tequila from his par- ents liquor cabinet, and I
was seeing purple monkeys. Thats why I try not to drink much anymore. He pats my shoulder.

I suppose.

Then Jack takes me in his arms, and although I am still distraught, I cannot help but
notice how well I fit in them, my head perfectly right for the crook of his neck. I
snuggle closer, enjoying his nearness in a way which would have been scandalous in my
time. His arms are safe, warm, and strong, and he whispers, I wont let anyone take you
away.

But your mother said I could only stay one week.

Ill deal with my mother. Well find somewhere else for you to stay. You dont have to go
back to your parents if you dont want to. But if he does not love me . . . I remember Malvolias words. Do not worry, Princess. You
will not have to return to your cruel father. I feel a sudden chill from the air-
conditioner blowing on me. I do not know what to do.

Well figure out something, Jack continues. You could sell your jewelry and get an
apartment. Or you could be a model, like on South Beach. You know, Stewy Stewarts mom
works at a modeling agency. Maybe I can get you in there.

it.

I grip him more tightly. I do not wish to think about Okay. Its okay.

He holds me for a long time before saying, Hey, this air mattress could use some actual
air, huh? It must have a leak.

I laugh. Is that it? I thought perhaps your parents had put me into a torture chamber.

He laughs. Like yours did? I wouldnt put it past them, but no. Its not supposed to be like
that. Ill get the pump.

He retrieves the air pump, then installs it against the proper place in the mattress. It
springs to life. He uses a pillow to muffle it. He turns to me.

Look, about last night, Im sorry. For what? For using you to try and make Amber jealous.
Although I know this is what he was doing, I still feel a bit angry about it. So, did it work? Oh, yeah. And it was totally stupid. I dont even know what I saw in Amber.

I nod. Nor I.

I should probably go. My mom would freak if she caught me in your room. But well figure
out a way for you to stay.

After he leaves, I settle in on the air mattress. It is cer- tainly nothing like what I am
accustomed to, but it is not bad, and I am comforted to know that Jack cares about me. In
any case, I manage to sleep a bit. The demons do not return.

I
dont actually know why I went down to check on Talia. I just had this sort of weird
feeling that something was wrongnot that Talia was being visited by the witch Malvolia and
her Jell-O minions, but just . . . something.

And I felt responsible for her being here. Ive never actually felt responsible for anyone
before. A lot of things have changed since I met Talia. Im even working on that sketch of a garden, the one I started on the plane, to show her before she
goes. But I dont want her to leave in a week. I want her to stay.

Maybeprobablythats just the beer talking, but if so, its talking pretty loud.

It keeps right on blabbing away. I cant sleep, so I take out my pad and start working on
my garden design again. I even go online to see what kind of plants will grow in Belgium, since the gardens for Euphrasia. It looks pretty good. Not that Id ever show it
to anyone, except maybe Talia.

Its three oclock before I go to sleep.

I wake in a state of total alarm shock to the sound of the cleaning lady vacuuming my
room. The clock says eleven.

Excuse me? I pull the sheets up to cover my boxers and then realize I slept in my clothes.
The events of last night swim before meTalia, Amber, Jell-O shots, beer, French fries,
thinking I was in love with AmberIm not in love. Im also not hungover, but I feel like I
am. I can almost hear Talias Jell-O demons laughing in my head.

But, of course, they werent real. They were figments of Talias imagination.

Talia!

She might not have slept as late as I did. After all, shes way more well rested than I am,
seeing as how she slept for three hundred years.

If shes awake, she could be downstairs with my fam- ily. She might be telling them about
her sixteenth birthday ball and the curse and the witch and how she saw that very same
witch in our house last night.

And even though Mom pretty much ignores my friends, that she would notice.

Or she could be telling them about her Jell-O shot experience, which would get me grounded
for sure. Or how I left her to be pawed by that perv, Robert. Ditto.

By this time, Im out of bed, running downstairs, but- toning my shirt as I go.

When I reach the landing, I stop.

My governess would not let me read that bookcan you believe it? Claimed it was unfit for
young ladies eyes. But I sneaked it out of the library and hid it underneath the mattress.
I was quite ill-behaved, I am afraid.

Ill-behaved? My mothers voice, the voice she uses on her Junior League friends. Who would
prevent a child from reading Don Quixote? It is a classic.

It had something to do with Dulcinea being . . . er . . . a woman of ill repute. Neither
did she permit me to read Canterbury Tales. But I studied The Prince.

Machiavellian odd title for a young girl to read.

It was about diplomacy. And, of course, it helped me work on my Italian.

You read it in Italian? Mom is impressed.

Talia had an Italian art master, too, Mom, Meryl says. What was his name?

Carlo Maratti. It was nothing, Talia says.

Theyre talking about books. My mother loves to talk about books, but Talias so old that
she wouldnt have read most of the books Mom knows. The King James Bible was a new book in
Talias time!

Mom sighs. I was a lit major in college, but I cant get Meryl to read anything but comic
books Manga, Mom. and Jack reads nothing to speak of. Well, Jack . . . hes more of a vigorous
outdoorsman,

isnt he? Oh, I dont know. Yes. Well, he told me how he likes . . . plants. I clear my
throat, the better to drown out Talia telling my mother my deepest, darkest secrets. Good morning, sleepyhead, Talia says. Jack, youre
awake. My mother smiles tightly. Did you know that Talia speaks four languages and has read Arabian Nights in French?

Talia looks down, all modest. It is naught. I was in training to be a diplomat.

She is a diplomat, I realize, the way shes schmoozing my mother.

Hey. I stand next to Talia. I was thinking maybe after breakfast we could go to South
Beach and check out modeling agencies.

Meryl sort of snorts when I say that, and Mom says, We had breakfast several hours ago,
Jack.

Your mother made me something called pancakes. They were a bit like crepes, a dish from
Brittany.

My mother hasnt made pancakes since I was five years old. Howd you rate pancakes?

Talia shrugs. Sometimes, when one communicates with others, one produces results.

Like I said, a diplomat. Like Im going to get Talia to help me with my French, Meryl pipes in.

Exactement, Talia says. Or like I got you to bring me here and introduce me to your lovely
family. You should try talking sometime.

I shrug. Maybe so.

But its weird. Talias not a witch, and yet somehow its like shes put everyone under a
spell, her spell. Meryls talk- ing in more than monosyllables. Moms making pancakes. And
me, Ive totally forgotten about Amber.

S
o a model is someone who wears clothing and is photographed doing so? I ask Jack as our
car tra- verses a bridge. The water on both sides is deep blue,

and for a moment it reminds me of Grandmothers sapphires, then the view from the castle in
Euphrasia. What is everyone doing there? And are they sorry I am gone? The light off the
water gets into my eyes, and they sting.

Yeah, Jack says. And they receive money for this? Lots of money, crazy money. Its
degrading, actually, Meryl says from the backseat.

She has accompanied us on the car trip, apparently to serve as pseudo-governess,
protecting my morals.

It is not, Jack says. I read this book about a girl who became a model, and she had to pose naked!

Truly? I look at Jack. No ones posing naked, Jack says. No. No one is. Though I would
rather not pose at all. But how else to stay here? If I wish to stay. On the other side of the bridge, the streets are narrow and filled with people, and the buildings are each painted a different brilliant hue.

So many colors! Signor Maratti would adore this!

Hey, Meryl says, did you know that Maratti is the name of a seventeenth-century Italian
artist? After you told me about your teacher, I Googled his name.

I do not know what Google means, but I say, Yes. Signor Maratti was I stop as Jack elbows me in the ribs. Quickly, I say, That was Signors brother, er,
grandbrother . . . great-grandfather or some such.

Finally, Jack finds a place for his car. Guess well leave it here.

Ill stay with it. Meryl eyes a handsome young man in a very small bathing suit. Im going
to sketch.

I giggle. Will you be working on negative space? Or the positive space of that young man?

Both. She settles onto the front of Jacks car with her sketch pad.

We leave for the modeling agency. All the women in South Beach are enormously tall, impossibly slender. Per- haps there has been a famine or
a scarlet fever epidemic. I search for the telltale rash on their chests and abdomens (all
of which are exposed) but see nothing. Despite their sickly thinness, the young ladies
seem quite pleased with their shapes, strutting like peafowl down the bright streets.
Finally, we reach a door which says
WINIFRED MODELING AGENCY
.

I had a cousin Winifred, I say. She was a viscountess. Yeah. Dont mention her, okay? He
opens the door. Inside, there is a tree in a pot and a second door, one with glass windows. We step through that door. Jack presses a button, and it closes.

This is a very strange room, I say.

A moment later, the door opens. The potted tree is gone! The floor outside is a different
shade!

We have been transported to another place! I clap my hands.

Jack laughs. Relax. Its called an elevator. It takes you upstairs. Look. He gestures
toward a window. I look out. Outside, the sky is blinding blue, and we are closer to it
than before. I glance down, feeling suddenly dizzy.

Jack takes my arm and leads me to a door.

Were here to see Kim Stewart, Jack says. We have an appointment. He tells her our names.

The skeletal young woman at the desk barely looks up. Have a seat.

A moment later, a young man enters the room. He moves as if he is dancing in a ballroom, and his hair is bright green. I wonder if there
were always colorful-haired people in other parts of the world. He gestures us into a room
with sparkling white floors and white walls lined with glass windows.

So, which of you wants to be a model? Jack gestures toward me. Her. Who are you? He gives
us a look as if to say that is none of our business but finally says, Rafael. Im Ms. Stewarts right-hand man. He looks me up and down. I feel
a chill run through me, as though I were unclothed, but I do not clasp my arms around me
to stay warm. Indeed, I fear to move under his gaze.

Finally, he is finished. No, thanks.

Excuse me? I do not know about what, or to whom, he is talking.

No. We cant offer you representation at this time. Thank you.

He starts to walk away, and I once again feel I can move. Oh. All right. Thank you. I do
not quite under- stand what offer representation means, either, but I do understand that
our meeting is over.

Wait a second, Jack says. We were supposed to meet Kim Stewart.

The green-haired boy shrugs. I screen for Kim so she doesnt have to see anyone
unacceptable.

And why isnt she acceptable? Jack . . . I touch his sleeve. We should leave. The
green-haired boy turns so he is once again facing us but not quite looking me in the eye. As a princess, I am unaccustomed to being ignored
in this manner, but I begin to suspect that it occurs quite frequently.

To be brutally candid, he says to the air, shes too short. And too fat.

Fat? Jack and I both say at once.

These . . . He walks closer and gestures uncomfort- ably close to my bosom. . . . are out
of the question. Tyra had to tape hers down when she was modeling. There were designers
who wouldnt hire her because of her hips which were smaller than yours.

So let me get this straight, Jack says. Girls cant have breasts? Or hips? But breasts and
hips are cool.

The boy wrinkles his nose. If you say so . . . but you cant make a living off the SI
swimsuit issue, and horny teenage boys arent buying couture. Maybe she should try Playboy.