Into the Dim Page 10

  I thought of my dad and how much . . . smaller he’d seemed without my mom. He’d withdrawn from everything. Especially me. At least until Stella came along.

  Staring at the birds, anger began to bubble inside me.

  “But how could they just give up like that?” I shifted, rocks digging into my thighs. “What if the eagles have babies? They just let them die? I mean, sure it’s tragic, but kind of selfish, too.”

  “I agree. Just because they can’t be with the one they love, they wither away and die? Seems like cowardice to me. Sometimes one has to muddle through, even if one isn’t happy. Isn’t that what life really is? Simple perseverance?”

  I shrugged. “Yeah. No matter how bad it gets, you just keep plodding along. Maybe you’re numb, but I mean . . . what else can you do?”

  “Well”—Bran cleared his throat—“this is titillating conversation. Dead birds. A numb existence. What else can I bring up to liven the moment? Starving children? Crippled puppies?” He tilted his head, examining me through long lashes. “You know, I’d almost given up on you.”

  “Chores,” I squeaked. “My aunt . . . She has lots of chores for me.”

  He nodded. “Oh. Well, that I quite understand. My mother is the queen of chores.”

  Sitting on a mountaintop alone with a strange boy should have felt odd. I’d never spent any time alone with a boy, if you didn’t count my snot-nosed cousins. My mother thought dating a bigger waste of time than having friends.

  Not that the opportunity had ever come up.

  Still, I felt strangely comfortable sitting there next to Bran, like we’d known each other for a very long time.

  “You know,” I told him, “before I got here, the only thing I knew about Scotland was from crusty old history books. Oh, and from Braveheart, of course. My dad loves that movie, though Mom hated it.”

  “Oh yes. Most Scots detest it. Makes their national hero look like a bloody outlaw. William Wallace was actually a very educated man. More of a politician than a grimy rebel. No murdered wife, either.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Had a pretty mistress, though. Does that count?”

  I scrunched my nose. “Disappointing. The dead-wife story is way more romantic.”

  The breeze whipped around us, playing backdrop to the symphony of crying birds and the soprano tinkle of sheep bells in the meadow below. I closed my eyes, letting the peace of it flow around me.

  “So,” Bran said, “what kind of duties does an American girl such as yourself perform all day, down there in that big house?”

  My serenity flattened.

  Oh, not much. Just what any normal sixteen-year-old girl does. Memorize a million books about the twelfth century. Practice speaking with a medieval accent. Learn to stab people.

  And then, of course, there’s the whole traveling-through-time thing.

  On the way up the mountainside, Bran told me he was out of school for the summer, and on holiday with his London-dwelling mother. He hadn’t offered anything further. I was okay with that. Of all people, I understood that everyone had their secrets.

  “Not much,” I finally said, staring down at the sheep. “This and that. My aunt likes projects. What about you? What does Bran Cameron do when he’s not out stalking?”

  Twirling a twig of heather between the palms of his fine-boned hands, he huffed. Instead of answering, he said, “And what is your view on knees?”

  “Knees.”

  “Yes, knees.”

  He grinned so wide the crooked eyetooth showed. A glowing warmth started to fill me when I saw that smile.

  “Absolutely. On Saturday, you see, there is a festival a couple of villages from here. It’s a small event to be sure, but the lads throw huge stones about, and there will be plenty of greasy food. Plus, bonus . . .” He waggled slim eyebrows. “I always wear a kilt to these events and thought it best to ascertain your opinion on knees. Just in case you feel unable to restrain yourself when you see mine.”

  Never had a boy asked me to go anywhere with him. Ever. I’d figured this ride would be it. Just his way of paying me back for saving his life. But now, maybe . . . possibly . . . this almost-beautiful boy was actually asking me out. I had no precedent. No idea what one said in this type of situation. So, like the loser-nerd I was, I found myself blurting, “Y-you mean like a date?”

  “No, Hope,” he said, tucking back a grin. “I don’t mean like a date.”

  “Oh.” Disappointment. Embarrassment. By the cartload. “Sorry. I—”

  I started to turn away, but he grabbed my hand. My skin felt like it was melting as I stared down at the inch of ground between us.

  “I don’t mean like a date,” he said. “I mean exactly a date. You. Me. Greasy food. Knees.”

  One adorable sideways smile later, and my heart started doing klutzy somersaults inside my chest.

  Then, like some celestial being had judged my happiness undeserved, his words penetrated, and my grin smeared away. “Wait,” I said. “Did you say Saturday?”

  At his nod, I continued, trying to hide my misery. “I can’t. I’ll be, um . . . away that day. For a few days, actually.”

  His hand sprang open, releasing mine. For an instant, his gaze sharpened before he shrugged and turned back toward the view. “I see. Well, if you’re busy, you’re busy. More knees for me, then.”

  “I’d love to go. Really. It’s just that—”

  “It’s quite all right.” He threw a rock off the ledge, watching it tumble end over end into the valley below. “Actually, now that you mention it, my mother likely has some things for me to attend to this weekend.”

  “Not fun things, I’m guessing.”

  He laughed, though now it sounded flat and humorless. “No.”

  “Maybe when we both get back?” I suggested.

  “I’d like to think that would still be possible,” he said.

  I blinked at the phrasing, and at the way his features had turned solemn. I knew the chances were pretty slim. If I even survived all this, and if we found my mother still alive, we’d likely leave as soon as possible. How that would go over back home I didn’t want to think about. Not yet.

  As I stared down into the valley, something brushed the side of my face. I held very, very still as Bran Cameron tucked the strand of heather behind my ear. Its soft blossoms tickled my cheek, and the sweet, earthy fragrance filled my senses.

  My lungs squeezed to half their normal size as I turned to look into his mismatched eyes.

  “Uh, Bran?” His name tasted like a piece of toffee that melted too fast on my tongue. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “Your eyes,” I fumbled. “They’re so strange.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Not used to making idle conversation, I take it?”

  My mouth dropped open in horror. I rushed to apologize. “I didn’t, I don’t mean strange as in weird or anything. It’s just that I feel like I’ve known someone with eyes like yours, but I can’t remember who. Which is totally bizarre for me, because I have this memory thing, and . . .”

  I trailed off as something fired behind his eyes. It was snuffed out so quickly, I wondered if I’d imagined it. He turned away, his gaze tracking a pair of lambs that had wandered away from the flock. “I assume it’s a family trait. Though I can’t be certain.”

  “You didn’t get them from one of your parents?” I said. “Because I thought heterochromia was hereditary.”

  “It’s possible.” He shrugged. “Never met the people.”

  Bran’s arms went up in a lazy stretch that exposed a strip of trim, tanned stomach. I gulped and tried not to stare. Despite the casual words, a tightness formed around his eyes.

  “You’re adopted?” I sat up straighter. It was disconcerting: I’d never met another adopted kid. My dad’s family—particularly my grandmother—always acted as if not having “Walton blood” was a disease. At Bran’s admission, for the first time I felt less . . . alone, somehow.

  I’d never been
very curious about my origins. I’d decided long ago that if my birth parents had just thrown me away like that, why should I care?

  Only once, after a fierce argument, I’d stormed to my room, determined to locate my “real parents.” I knew the name of the Eastern European orphanage where she’d found me. But the only thing I could find was a grainy black-and-white photo of a charred building that had burned to the ground the year I was adopted.

  “I am too,” I said to Bran. “Adopted, that is. And you know, it never bothered me until recently.”

  “Why is that?”

  I didn’t answer at first. Instead, I watched as the lambs’ mother nudged them back toward the rest of the group. “Not sure,” I mused. “I guess it’s being here with my mom’s family. They’re all so tight. And there are all these ancestors hanging on the walls. I swear to God they glare at me like Who are you and what are you doing in my house?”

  Bran snorted. “Try spending five minutes around my mother’s mum for any length of time. At least the portraits don’t tell you that to your face.” He tilted his dark head, peeking at me from the corner of his eye. “Do you remember anything? About your life before, I mean?”

  “Nope,” I said. “But I was only four or so. You?”

  Bran’s lips parted. The tendons in his neck tightened. His fine-boned fingers tightened into a fist.

  “No.” He bit off the word. “I was but an infant. Had a stepfather for a while. Gave me his name. Nice chap, but he didn’t stick around long. Not that I blame him.”

  Silence taut as a rubber band stretched between us. I could all but feel the anger boiling beneath the surface.

  “So,” I said, hoping to cut the uncomfortable tension, “do you have siblings?”

  His shoulders loosed, and a different smile from any I’d seen before split Bran’s face. He gave an emphatic nod. “Tony,” he said. “My brother. Oh, he’s a great lad. Sweet. And smart as a whip. I love him as much as I would if he were my own blood.” Like a cloud muting the sun, the smile faded. “I don’t see him much. He’s only twelve, and even though he’s her real son, Mother won’t often allow him to come home.”

  I noted the emphasis on the word “real.”

  “Why?”

  Bran’s sleek black eyebrows drew down over those Crayola eyes. His mouth opened, then snapped shut as though the words he was trying to dredge came from a faraway place. “Tony’s young.” He gave a careless half-shrug. “Too young to be of much use to my mother. Not yet anyway. And she places little value on anything that isn’t useful.”

  I decided I didn’t much like Bran’s mom. Not if she treated a twelve-year-old kid that way. And certainly not when talking about her made Bran’s mouth go all hard like that.

  As if it could sense our change in mood, the wind shifted direction. Cold tendrils filtered through the mild evening air, bearing aloft the heavy smell of rain. In the distance, a bank of ominous clouds boiled over the top of a mountain, devouring its peak. As Bran squinted at the gray-white mass, I could see an unease lurking behind his eyes. He turned back to me and plastered on a smile. But it didn’t touch his eyes. Unlike the ones before.

  “Rain’s coming. Shall we go?”

  Standing, he dusted off his palms. I grabbed the offered hand. He pulled me to my feet, but as I stood, I realized one of my legs had gone to sleep. Bran steadied me as it crumpled.

  I’d never been this close to a boy before and I wanted to freeze the moment. To bank it against the frightening, unknown void that my life had so recently become.

  I memorized the rasp of his calloused palm on my bare skin. The bleating of sheep and the rush of wind as it curled around us. When I breathed in, I could smell him. Bran Cameron. Clean cotton and fresh-cut wood. Saddle oil and sun-warmed skin that somehow reminded me of toasted marshmallows that dissolved melty and delicious on your tongue.

  “Hope.” Bran’s voice sounded oddly husky as I opened my eyes and looked up into his. “I want you to know that I—I’ve truly enjoyed today. It . . . This . . . was real. For me at least. Don’t forget that.”

  Me? Ever forget this day? Unlikely.

  Before I could utterly embarrass myself and beg to stay just a little longer, a crackling came from the underbrush behind us. Our heads whipped toward the sound as a large, rust-colored deer tiptoed out. A gangly, spotted fawn followed, nosing under his mother’s belly.

  Bran’s grip tightened on my wrists. Bound together, we didn’t move a hair as the doe raised a slender head and blinked at us with lashes so lovely, they seemed fake. Eventually, sensing we were no threat, her velvety ears twitched. She bent to nibble at the tough grass. The baby shifted with his mother’s movements, struggling to stay attached. Spellbound, we watched him totter on spindly, impossibly thin legs.

  Bran turned to me with a joyous grin. At the motion, the doe’s head shot up. In a flicker of white tails, both animals were gone.

  I exhaled, ready with a joke about Bran’s camera and how he wasn’t such a great stalker after all. But the words died when his hypnotic eyes searched mine.

  “So beautiful,” he whispered.

  He meant the deer—I knew that. But for an instant . . . a tiny space in time . . . it almost felt like he was talking about me.

  “Camera.” I blurted. “You . . . no camera.”

  When he grinned, I wanted to tumble off the side of the mountain.

  “I wish,” he started, then shook his head.

  We were so close, I could smell mint toothpaste and sun-kissed skin as his breath brushed across my lips.

  My eyes closed. Adrenaline shot through every cell in my body. Everything else fell away. My chest tightened. But this wasn’t fear. Well, it was. But not scary-frightening. No. Scary-exhilarating. Scary-wonderful. He’s going to kiss me. My very first kiss.

  Bran’s chest moved in a quiet sigh that I felt more than heard. His hands tightened on my skin. My breath hitched, and I barely had time to think, Ohh . . . this is it, before he stepped back and let his hands drop, the moment lost forever, except in my imagination.

  Chapter 15

  DOUG’S SHY, BARITONE LAUGH FILLED THE LIBRARY AS I practiced walking . . . again. I was getting better, though the gown I was using while Moira finished our actual costumes was way too long.

  “The trouble is,” Doug said, “you’re swinging your arms like an ape. Women don’t walk that way in the past. Here, Hope. Let me show you.”

  The big guy pressed his palms together at waist height and made a curiously graceful turn about the room. “See? Don’t use your arms to balance. Just kick the hem out as you walk.”

  Phoebe snorted. “No way, babe. I’m asking Gran to take our hems up. Hope will trip a million times if she has to do it like that.”

  “She can’t let her ankles show.” Doug dropped onto a squishy sofa beside her. “You either, come to that. You’ll drive the lads crazy. Or else they’ll jail you for a harlot.” He sighed in false annoyance. “Then I’d have to go crack some medieval skulls. And who has the time?”

  Phoebe leaned over and kissed the tip of Doug’s long nose. My throat tightened as I watched them exchange a tender grin. At first glance, they didn’t seem to work as a couple at all. Phoebe’s tiny delicacy against Doug’s brawn. But when he told me the story of how they’d met, I realized I’d never met two people more perfectly matched.

  “It was my first day at school after Lu brought me to live at Christopher Manor.” Doug’s hands had flown over the keys of his laptop as we sat alone together in the library. I’d never seen anyone compartmentalize so completely, doing three or four things at once with absolute precision. “Well, ye’ll notice there aren’t a lot of people here with my skin color? My mum was from Senegal, see, and while in Edinburgh there were plenty of kids like me, here . . .” He shrugged. “Add in that I was already a foot taller than anyone else in my year, and, well, I caught the attention of some of the older lads.”

  Phoebe entered. She stayed unusually quiet as Doug spun his
tale. But she stood behind him, her fingers curled around his shoulders as he typed.

  “They surrounded me on the playground. I was crying, missing my mum. Big as I was, it didn’t occur to me I could’ve beaten them senseless.”

  “And that’s the truth of it,” Phoebe interjected. “Could’ve smashed them to pulp had he not been so gentle.”

  “All of a sudden,” Doug said, “this tiny creature comes wading into the crowd, braids flying, yellow lunch box swinging in a mad arc. Let’s just say some of those brats lost their milk teeth that day.”

  He smiled at me over her head. “She passed me a note in class the next day. It said ‘Will you marry me? Check yes or no.’ Of course, I checked yes so hard it tore the paper.”

  “Made you fall in love with me, though, didn’t I?” Phoebe said.

  “Aye.” He tugged her into his lap. “I guess you did at that.”

  They giggled together, their warmth so genuine, it flowed over me like a summer wind. I turned away, knowing I’d never experience a love like that. One built on that kind of shared history.

  My mind flipped back to those moments at the river when Bran Cameron and I had said goodbye. The entire ride down the mountain, I’d felt like an idiot for being disappointed. I mean, why on earth would someone like Bran Cameron kiss me? He was just being nice because I’d helped him. That was it. Still, when we parted, he’d stared down at me with an odd look I was still trying to interpret.

  The next day, Lucinda, Mac, and Moira left for Edinburgh on some business they wouldn’t share, while Phoebe and Doug traipsed down to the village for lunch and some alone time. Collum? Who knew where he was. Probably eviscerating some poor, innocent target dummy with his big, shiny sword.

  Just before they left, Lucinda had entered the library, where I lay sprawled on the tatty leather sofa, idly skimming through yet another description of the coronation of Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine.

  “Here,” she’d said, placing a stack of leather-bound books on the long table. “Read through these while we’re gone. I believe they may answer some of your questions and give you a better background on what the early Viators faced.”