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Authors: Lynne Gentry
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“Who?”
“I’m guessing it was one of Rome’s many conquering legions. Pagan barbarians who won’t rest until they own the entire world. One of those surly brutes probably sold you to Felicissimus.”
“I thought I was kidnapped from a cave in southern Egypt . . .”
“Possibly. War always plagues the border provinces.”
Lisbeth paced, her mind racing to pinpoint the century. “Who’s in power?”
Ruth scowled and lifted a comb from the dressing table. “Emperor Decius, of course.”
“Mid-third century?” Some parents drill their children on multiplication facts. Lisbeth’s father had quizzed her on Roman history.
Ruth came at her with the comb. “I don’t care what Cyprian says; as soon as possible we must let the healer have a look at your head.”
“And Saint Cyprian is bishop?” Lisbeth’s vocal pitch had ratcheted up several ugly notches.
“Saint?” Ruth shook her head. “Cyprian would never elevate himself to the level of our Lord. I told you my husband is the bishop, remember?”
“This can’t be.” Lisbeth buzzed around the bathroom, intent on gathering her things when suddenly she realized she had nothing to gather. Panic clogged her airway. “I’ve got to get home.”
“Where is this Dallas of which you spoke?”
“It’s”—Lisbeth wasn’t sure how to explain that she’d somehow slid almost eighteen hundred years down a time continuum—“very far from here.” With nothing more to say and no strength in her legs, she plopped down on the nearest bench.
“Maybe you’ll feel like going later.”
Tears scalded Lisbeth’s cheeks. “How?”
“I don’t know.” Ruth let Lisbeth have a good cry, which only served to make Lisbeth more upset.
She never cried. Not even during the long torturous days of searching for her mother. Papa had cried enough for the both of them. She was the strong one. This rare breakdown must be chalked up to sheer exhaustion. Physical limitations had derailed her once again, and that made her even madder.
Between Lisbeth’s sobs, Ruth chattered on about how she would find her place in this house as she gently tended Lisbeth’s scrapes, plaited her hair, and layered her naked body with yards of flowing pink fabric.
Lisbeth worked to regain control of her emotions. Angry tears would not help her stitch illogical fragments into some sort of logical explanation. Strangely dressed people. Slave auctions. A male model dressed like he was ready for a frat house toga party. The faint smell of the sea that had swirled in the back of her mind from the moment she’d awakened in the cell. The fact that she’d passed over that clue far too easily hit her hard. How many other important pieces of information had she foolishly failed to register? Assigning each part a place in this crazy equation was the only way the truth would emerge.
No matter how she calculated or recalculated, the odds that she’d fallen down an Alice in Wonderland hole and ended up in the third century came up zero.
None of this made any sense.
A tug at her shoulder brought Lisbeth back to the present, which, to her muddled thinking, was really the past.
“This gown color is good with your dark hair.” Ruth smoothed the wrinkles. The touch of this foreign woman’s hand pressed reality into Lisbeth’s situation. This was not some crazy dream.
Lisbeth shuddered. Even though she knew Ruth meant to distract her, to comfort her with the tangible, sorting out this time-travel thing had given Lisbeth a tremendous headache and left her in no mood for chitchat. If the impossible had really happened, she was both miles and years away from Papa. She couldn’t bear the thought of her father facing his uncertain future without her. How was she going to get back to him? Could she even go back? What would become of Craig? Or her job at the hospital, tenuous as it was?
Ruth gathered the soft fabric at Lisbeth’s left shoulder and pinned the folds in place with a golden brooch
“I’m guessing it was one of Rome’s many conquering legions. Pagan barbarians who won’t rest until they own the entire world. One of those surly brutes probably sold you to Felicissimus.”
“I thought I was kidnapped from a cave in southern Egypt . . .”
“Possibly. War always plagues the border provinces.”
Lisbeth paced, her mind racing to pinpoint the century. “Who’s in power?”
Ruth scowled and lifted a comb from the dressing table. “Emperor Decius, of course.”
“Mid-third century?” Some parents drill their children on multiplication facts. Lisbeth’s father had quizzed her on Roman history.
Ruth came at her with the comb. “I don’t care what Cyprian says; as soon as possible we must let the healer have a look at your head.”
“And Saint Cyprian is bishop?” Lisbeth’s vocal pitch had ratcheted up several ugly notches.
“Saint?” Ruth shook her head. “Cyprian would never elevate himself to the level of our Lord. I told you my husband is the bishop, remember?”
“This can’t be.” Lisbeth buzzed around the bathroom, intent on gathering her things when suddenly she realized she had nothing to gather. Panic clogged her airway. “I’ve got to get home.”
“Where is this Dallas of which you spoke?”
“It’s”—Lisbeth wasn’t sure how to explain that she’d somehow slid almost eighteen hundred years down a time continuum—“very far from here.” With nothing more to say and no strength in her legs, she plopped down on the nearest bench.
“Maybe you’ll feel like going later.”
Tears scalded Lisbeth’s cheeks. “How?”
“I don’t know.” Ruth let Lisbeth have a good cry, which only served to make Lisbeth more upset.
She never cried. Not even during the long torturous days of searching for her mother. Papa had cried enough for the both of them. She was the strong one. This rare breakdown must be chalked up to sheer exhaustion. Physical limitations had derailed her once again, and that made her even madder.
Between Lisbeth’s sobs, Ruth chattered on about how she would find her place in this house as she gently tended Lisbeth’s scrapes, plaited her hair, and layered her naked body with yards of flowing pink fabric.
Lisbeth worked to regain control of her emotions. Angry tears would not help her stitch illogical fragments into some sort of logical explanation. Strangely dressed people. Slave auctions. A male model dressed like he was ready for a frat house toga party. The faint smell of the sea that had swirled in the back of her mind from the moment she’d awakened in the cell. The fact that she’d passed over that clue far too easily hit her hard. How many other important pieces of information had she foolishly failed to register? Assigning each part a place in this crazy equation was the only way the truth would emerge.
No matter how she calculated or recalculated, the odds that she’d fallen down an Alice in Wonderland hole and ended up in the third century came up zero.
None of this made any sense.
A tug at her shoulder brought Lisbeth back to the present, which, to her muddled thinking, was really the past.
“This gown color is good with your dark hair.” Ruth smoothed the wrinkles. The touch of this foreign woman’s hand pressed reality into Lisbeth’s situation. This was not some crazy dream.
Lisbeth shuddered. Even though she knew Ruth meant to distract her, to comfort her with the tangible, sorting out this time-travel thing had given Lisbeth a tremendous headache and left her in no mood for chitchat. If the impossible had really happened, she was both miles and years away from Papa. She couldn’t bear the thought of her father facing his uncertain future without her. How was she going to get back to him? Could she even go back? What would become of Craig? Or her job at the hospital, tenuous as it was?
Ruth gathered the soft fabric at Lisbeth’s left shoulder and pinned the folds in place with a golden brooch
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