A Tale of Two Centuries (3 page)

A large stage appears below the version of me dancing within the flame. A beam of light brighter than the sun suddenly shines over me, and the thunderous sound of applause breaks around me. Instinctually, I know they cheer for me. Pleasure washes through my core, and the Alessandra in the flame closes her eyes, savoring it. Triumph and rightness fill me to overflowing, even though I do not understand it. But when the girl in the vision opens her eyes again, the light no longer shines on her. The stage is eerily silent. And a young man enters the vision.

I cannot see his face, but his clothes are like those in the colorful pictures from the future. Dark pants hug his long legs. A faded black shirt frames his broad back and strong arms. And even though I am certain we have never met, he reaches out to embrace the Alessandra in the vision. Warmth pools in my belly.

“Send your desires to the stars!”

This time I jolt at Reyna’s shriek, and her grip tightens on my wrists.

Scared the image will disappear if I lift my eyes to the sky, I silently pray for the only desire I can think of in the moment and hope it is enough:
I want to be there. On that stage. With that applause. And I want to be with him.

The fact that I do not know who
he
is does not matter.

“Did you do it, Alessandra? Did you speak your heart?”

I nod frantically, and her nails embed themselves into my flesh. She tugs me toward her, chanting, “Gracious Lady Moon, ever in my sight, kindly grant the boon I ask of thee tonight.”

Reyna repeats it two more times, each time her voice growing louder and louder until her chant echoes in my ears. The ground under my feet rumbles. The table shakes.

Then every candle in the tent snuffs out.

The room is engulfed in black.

Chapter Three

My heart convulses against my rib cage as though it wishes to leap from my chest and run back to the pleasant safety of my bedroom.

Just like the rest of me.

Reyna releases my hands from her painful grip, and I draw them close, shivering with panic, fear, and strangely enough, excitement. Though I have never been more scared in my life, I have also never done anything quite as thrilling.

The table jostles, and I hear Reyna walk away, hopefully to light another candle. Gentle tinkling of crystal soon promises just that, and I tap my leg, eager for an end to the all-encompassing shadows. Her feet scuffle toward me, but before she strikes the match, a harsh, repetitive hum emanates from the other side of the tent. A peculiar deep, vibrating commotion follows, tickling the wisp of a memory. Somehow I have heard that unworldly sound before.

Light springs to life on the table, carving a hole in the darkness, tickling my nose with the smell of burning sulfur. A third sound, a piercing shriek, comes from just outside the tent. So close, it could be in my very own courtyard.

Throwing my hands over my ears, I crouch low in my chair. “What are those horrifying noises?”

Reyna ignores my question. “Alessandra, the adventure that you seek is full of possibilities,” she says in a serious, thunderous voice. “But always remember where your
real
strength lies.”

Tentatively, I remove my cupped palms from my ears, relieved to hear the shriek silenced, and blink up at the gypsy girl.

Another cryptic message.

Cat spent the whole of her time in Florence trying to decipher Reyna’s riddle about lessons to learn, yet my cousin left before getting any answers. Any that I knew of, that is. I have often wondered how it was she was able to return, if she managed to solve the elusive problem on her own, or if Reyna merely took pity.

Then I stop and realize…
I received my own message
.

I am on my own gypsy adventure!

A sharp squeal outside tempers my enthusiasm. Wincing, I swallow nervously and look to Reyna, hoping for guidance. What she gives is an impatient nod toward the front of the tent, wordlessly telling me it is time to go.

Well, then.

No longer timid
, my inner voice mocks.
Is that not what you said?

Rising from my crouch, determined to silence that voice, I plaster a wide smile onto my face and take a shaky step forward. Then another. And another. Soon I am just inside the tent, the fluttering flap the sole thing concealing me from the scary world waiting outside.

Where have you sent me?
I want to ask.
What do I do now?

Instead, I turn and curtsy. “Thank you.” It is not much, and my voice wobbles, but she seems to understand my distress, because she offers a small smile.

Without another word, I slide my feet into my slippers. When I stand, Reyna is suddenly right beside me. She hands me a folded piece of soft paper. “Give this note to the man waiting outside. He will take you where you need to go.” My hand closes tightly over the missive.

Reyna pulls back the flap, and blinding sunlight shoots through the opening. “Be brave, Alessandra. Reach out and take the adventure that you crave. On your journey, three signs will mark your time: an angel will speak, a soft-rose songstress will captivate, and life will imitate art. I will return at sundown when the third sign is revealed. Use your time wisely.” She looks deeply into my eyes as she says this, and I nod, knowing that I can live a lifetime of adventure in whatever time fate grants me. She watches me a moment more, then with a slight twinkle in her amber eyes, she whispers, “
Latcho Drom,
Less.”

Before I can react to her use of my nickname, or ask what the foreign phrase means, Reyna gives my shoulder a gentle shove.

…

Glaring sunlight permeates the thin veil of my eyelids. Even though it is noonday, the light is exceptionally bright, at least in comparison to the shelter of the tent. I shield my brow with a curved hand and force my protesting eyes open. At the sight before me, I promptly shut them again.

There is no need to fear
, I tell myself.
It is all but a fantastical illusion.

Regrettably, my escalating pulse begs to differ.

Sounds become crisper in the darkness. Rumbles, shrieks, wails, and hums. Unfamiliar chirps and impossible beeps. Piecing together my wilting courage, I take another peek and find nothing is as it should be.

Where my palazzo usually sits is an enormous structure with golden doors and red columns, a metallic roof, and a massive mounted dragon. A pair of terrifying sculpted beasts guards the entrance. The ground is no longer one of cracked stone or even the damp earth of my garden, but assorted gray blocks etched with handprints, slipper prints, and a series of strange markings.

I stare at the mysterious shapes on the stone before me and gasp as they all at once become clear:
Harry Potter, 7-9-07. Rupert Grint. Daniel Radcliffe. Emma Watson.

While a few of the letters are different than I am used to, it is as if my mind is faster than I, readily making sense of it all. Stooping to see the words closer, I set down Reyna’s missive, place my hands in the indentations below the word
Emma
, and marvel at the fit.

“Reyna,” I call out, raising my voice over the myriad of noises. “What brand of
crazy
magic is this?”

The voice that leaves my mouth is in a foreign tongue. My words echo back through my memory, and something pops in my ears like air escaping. New sounds trickle through my unclogged ears, people talking and singing like the music Cat played in her tiny box, but this time, I actually understand them.

I twist my neck around, hands still pressed into the cool hollows, wanting to share the astonishing news with Reyna. But she and the tent are gone. In their place, an overwhelming crowd in varying degrees of scandalous dress swarms the square, each costume more shocking than the last.

Exposed ankles, exposed legs, exposed
stomachs
…

I avert my eyes heavenward, twin flames of heat burning up my throat and into my hairline. Clutching the note, I press my hands against my knees and prepare to stand. The rough texture beneath my palms causes me to freeze.

A horrible unimaginable truth tries to be acknowledged, and I reluctantly run my hands along my thighs, hoping, praying my fingers will brush against the soft, cool silk of my surcoat. But when they follow the curve of my lap and meet in the middle, mortification demands a glance down.

Gentlemen’s trousers!

Gracelessly and clumsily, I push to my feet, searching for a place to hide. If Mama’s friends were to see my legs encased in trousers, I could be ruined. Shame would come to our family name, and Father would be disgraced.

Scanning the boisterous square, wildly jerking my head from left to right, I stumble over my own feet, lose my balance, and crash into a solid wall of rock behind me.

“Hey!” the wall growls before shoving me forward. “Better watch yourself, little girl.”

I swallow to push my heart back where it belongs and turn to the owner of the disagreeable voice which I can unfortunately comprehend. A scowling brute of a man lifts a scarred lip, exposing a golden tooth. The sun glints off a ring puncturing the middle of his nostrils, and I cringe, hearing Mama’s voice again, this time warning me never to leave home without a chaperone.

The world is full of danger, Alessandra. Especially for unescorted females.

It never occurred to me to ask what forms of danger the world holds. Now I wish I were more prepared. The man takes a step, and I shrink into myself, bracing for the harm to come. “My-my apologies, sir. Please do not hurt me.”

In reply, he grunts. I wait with firmly sealed eyes, but when the pain fails to come, I crack them open and see him shouldering his way through the crowd. I wrap my arms around my stomach, as if I can somehow hold the squirming mass together, and exhale.

If this is the start of my gypsy adventure, I believe I am quite ready for it to end.

A person dressed from head to toe in red and blue with a giant spider emblazoned on his chest walks past, followed by a man wearing all black and a flowing cape. I gawk at a huge man painted green. Is this the future or a strange, altered world?

On the fringe of the square, closer to the bustling road, a flash of crimson catches my eye. I waggle my head around the ever-moving crowd and spot a woman in a long, flowing surcoat.

Finally, someone like me.

A man holding a bright yellow sign leads a long line of people between us, and anxiety pulses through me. I cannot lose her. Pushing through the crowd, my weak apologies swallowed in the commotion, I fly past maidens sprawled on the dirty ground posing with various handprints.
Clicks
from boxes like the one Cat called a
camera
go off on either side of me. The chunks of gray ground give way to a smooth strip of road oddly marked with stars, and I stretch out my hand to reach the woman, the tips of my fingers just snagging her right sleeve. “Pardon me.”

She turns and eyes me strangely, glancing at my tight grip on her gown, and I hastily let go, rubbing my fingers together at the unusual feel of the fabric. “I am sorry,” I say before clearing my throat.
How do I ask this without appearing completely mad?
“It was my hope that you could perchance tell me where I am?”

The woman, dressed as
I
should be, bestows upon me a sweet smile. I am surprised to see her teeth lined with shiny metal. In a noticeably unnatural accent, she replies, “Ah, dearie, behold the world-famous TCL Chinese Theatre.”

Despite hearing the word
theater,
my hopes of rescue plummet. This woman is not like me, after all. She is an impostor.

Heaving a sigh, I turn around to behold the madness from whence I came.

It is
not
as splendid as the woman believes.

Towering buildings across the street capture my attention. A white sign sitting atop one proclaims it as the
Roosevelt Hotel,
and opposite me, past where all sorts of strange carriages seem to fly over a paved road, a colossal structure houses a variety of merchants. I smile at the happy orange
Hooters
, finding it an odd but intriguing location for an owl shop, and then pause at
American Apparel.

The woman remains beside me, watching me curiously. I ask her, “And the city in which this famous theater resides?”

My question elicits a slight waver in the woman’s pretend smile. “Why, Hollywood, of course.”

It takes a moment for the foreign word to sink in. But when it does, the weight of fear and anxiety that has nearly crushed me from the moment I discovered Reyna gone lifts, and relief streams in like a glorious sunrise.

Hollywood.

Cat spoke often about this land of actors and actresses, plays, and
movies
. Her satchel contained glossy portraits of such things and a device that allowed me to witness one of her father’s films.

Now understanding that the woman’s use of a false accent marks her as an actress, I curtsy in awe. “Yes, Hollywood. Of course.” I wiggle my fingers in anticipation and ask one final, important question. “And pray, can you tell me what century we are currently in?”

She fists her hands on her hips and tilts her head, now abandoning her role altogether. “Honey, are you all right? Do you need some water or something?”

I shake my head, impatient for her answer. Cat never confided the exact year she was from, but I know the era. And if by chance Reyna sent me to my cousin’s time, it is possible I could have a helpmeet through this worrisome journey of the unknown.

The woman scrunches her nose, and when she replies, her voice is high-pitched and questioning, as if she herself is not quite sure of the answer. “The twenty-first?”

Just as I dared to hope.

I clap my hands and do a little dance, enjoying the comfort of the peculiar slippers on my feet. Reyna’s cryptic message flashes in my mind, as though the very words are floating in the air, and I grin so wide it hurts.

Alessandra, the adventure that you seek is full of possibilities. But always remember where your real strength lies.

Cat’s time is a time of opportunity, freedom, and passion—a world full of possibility.

And now I am here, too.

Overcome with emotion, I throw my arms around the woman’s neck and kiss her ruddy cheek. She pats me awkwardly and leans back, a wobbly smile on her face. “And you’re sure you’re all right?”

Looking at the world around me with new eyes, I nod emphatically. “I am perfectly and wonderfully happy. Thank you for asking.”

A beep blares from the frenetic road, and the woman bobs her head toward the sound. “That your ride, honey?”

A disgruntled man waves his hand from inside a yellow horseless carriage, then pins me with an annoyed gaze. “Meter’s running, lady. Done enough sightseeing yet?”

With a glance behind me to confirm no one is there, I point to myself. “Are you referring to me, sir?”

He exchanges a look with the actress beside me that I cannot read, and the woman smothers a grin. She pushes me toward the carriage. “It
is
warm for January. Maybe it’s best you get along home now and rest.”

Though the word
home
sounds comforting, the idea of getting inside the modern form of transportation is positively terrifying. I clench my fists, and Reyna’s missive crinkles. I swallow. “I-I believe I was told you would take me where I needed to go,” I say hesitantly.

I slide him the visibly trembling note through the open window, and he yanks it from my fingers. He reads it, scowls, and juts his thumb at the back of the carriage. “So? You getting in or what?”

I frown. The future appears filled with unpleasant people whose manner of speaking is even stranger—and more improper—than my cousin’s was.

The woman squeezes my shoulders and mutters a good-bye. Determined not to give way to feelings of desertion, I stare at the door and wait for the coachman to come around and help me in. When he merely settles deeper into his seat and a footman fails to appear, I realize he expects me to get in by myself.