[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

in A blaze of triumph spasms across the older girl's face before she quickly
composes her features into a bland mask. Her sister is not so skilled, because she
looks up, her mouth open in a mute wail.
 Come along, Miranda, her mother says hurriedly.
 Your brother will escort you Miranda shuts her mouth, but she reaches over
and gives her sister's waist a pinch as her mother turns to lead them out of the
hall. Finally, they're gone and the hall is empty once more.  Wow, I whisper as
we step out of the closet.
 And you thought Rowena was bad, Gabriel murmurs. He rubs his hip.
 Something was poking me in that closet.
 Gabriel, I say.
 What did their mother mean about the strife 'between us all? Gabriel shrugs.
 I don't know.
 They were witches, weren't they? I frown, trying to consider the implications as
I think back over our history. I mean, I know the Puritans weren't the only ones
who came over with the Mayflower. Uncle Morris has traced our family roots to
the 1600s, but records are sketchy. But Gabriel is already on to something else.
 Okay, it seems everyone's going to be at dinner, so we've got a little time to
check this out. Suddenly, I look around.
 Why didn't we land in the drawing room of the painting? Gabriel looks slightly
abashed.
 Um, sometimes I can get close, but it's not an exact science.
 I nod, then say sweetly encouraging,
 Don't worry. It happens to a lot of guys. Grinning, he takes a step closer to me.
 When we get out of here-- But I'm already moving ahead of him.
 Upstairs. We cross the hall, duck past several open doorways, and steal up the
stairs after I rub the knight's helmet for good luck.
 Here, I whisper, and Gabriel, who is a fewsteps ahead of me, turns and comes
back. We enter the room I'm pointing out. Thankfully it's empty of people. We
navigate among the velvet couches and the settees, all the little knobs on the
ornate furniture.
 Wow, we could make a killing in the antiques market if we could carry this
back. Can you--
 Don't touch anything, Gabriel warns.
 Just this end table. We could sell it at the Chelsea Fair and-- Gabriel gives me a
warning look.
 Oh, fine. Be that way. But he doesn't respond because he's staring at the
clock.
 Tam, he whispers.
 That's it.
 I know that's it. I told you--
 No, he says, giving my arm a squeeze to shut me up.
 That's the clock. That's what he wants. Why, why? he says, turning the word
over as if looking for a way in.
 Why here in this time, but not in ours? I don't have an answer as I study the
clock. Up close it's even more beautiful than in either painting. It's small, about
two feet long and a foot and a half wide. The wood is burnished to a deep
cherry glow and the ruby chips on the face sparkle brilliantly.
 Can we take it down? I whisper to Gabriel.
 I mean, we did come for it. He looks doubtful, then moves forward, reaching
out one arm to touch it.
 Stop this instant! a voice rings out from behind us.
EIGHT
WE BOTH WHIRL to find a tall man dressed in a black frock coat and
glowing white shirt standing in the doorway. Even though his hair and his curled
mustache are iron gray, his face is unlined, giving the unsettling impression that
he could be any age at all. Moving toward us, he seems to be taking in our
appearance with a mixture of shock and stern resolution.
 Who are you and what are you doing here? he demands, stopping a few feet
away from us. His gaze settles on my sandals and he opens his mouth as if to
speak again but then checks himself and stares at us, his eyes the color of ice on
a river.
 We . . . I . . . just wanted to take a closer look at it, I squeak.
 Someone I know is looking for it.
 Who? Who sent you?
 A professor, I say inanely, as if that esteemed profession is going to ease all of
this man's doubts. He shakes his head, studying us in silence. Faintlaughter from
downstairs drifts through the room.
 You're children, he says finally, and the sadness in his voice makes me uneasy.
Gabriel and I exchange glances.
 And I gather --here his gaze lingers on Gabriel's torn jeans and my sandals
again-- you've Traveled quite a long way. Still, what must be must be, he says,
and then his thin lips harden into a fiat line and he lifts one palm. The flames in
the fireplace leap and heighten as if in response and then my eyes are drawn
back to the man's hand, where a spark suddenly flares into existence.
 Tam, Gabriel says in a low voice and wraps his arm around my waist just as the
man shoots his hand out as if throwing a fastball. Fire blooms in the air and slams
toward us like a tiny comet just as a wave of dizziness sweeps over me. Swaying
against Gabriel's side, I raise one arm reflexively to shield my face, expecting
any second to feel flames charring my skin. And then the fire disappears in
midair without ever reaching us. The air is shimmering with a weird intensity. It's so
clear that it's ringing in my ears, and with a start I realize that the same clear
intensity is echoing inside me.
 How . . . impossible, the man hisses and raises his other hand. This time the
fireball flies at us with twice the speed of the first one. But nothing touches me.
Again the fire vanishes. Gabriel's arm slips from my waist and I look at him. His
eyes seem huge in his face.
 What the hell just happened? he whispers fiercely to me.
 He tried to--
 No! I just tried to take us back. And . . . I couldn't. Before I can digest this, the
man raises his hand again and fire erupts from his palm. Only to evaporate a
second later. I blink, then take one staggering step closer to the clock, my eye
drawn to the scrollwork across the bottom half. Out of the corner of my eye, I
see the man shake his fingers as if burned by his own fire. He sways backward,
his lips shaped into a perfect O of surprise. Seizing the moment, I move toward
the clock, my eyes drawn to the hour hand, which looks sharp enough to cut
flesh. It's pointing toward the roman numeral XII.
 Tam, don't, Gabriel mutters, and I look sideways at him, amazed to see the
fear on his face.
 What?
 I don't think you should.
 Why? I am all too aware of the man a few feet away, listening to us. Gabriel
shakes his head.
 Something about this . . . let me He looks at me.
 Please, Tam. You don't have . . . I swallow, say nothing. Of course. I really can
get only so far. Frowning, Gabriel moves closer to the clock and reachesout one
hand to touch it.
 No, the man says, and I glance back to see him standing upright again,
determination etching deep lines on his forehead. Just before Gabriel's fingers
brush the scrolled edge, the man raises his hand again. There's a hissing sound
as Gabriel's hand fades right into the mahogany surface of the clock. From
where I'm standing, it looks as if his arm ends at his wrist. At the same time he
cries out, a single short breath of pain.
 It's stuck. My arm. Burning off. Get it off! His shoulder convulses, but he can't
seem to pull his arm back. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

zanotowane.pl

doc.pisz.pl

pdf.pisz.pl

qus.htw.pl