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Authors: John Stephens
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place; but such were the ironies of time travel. And truth be told, Kate was relieved that she wouldn’t be swimming through the long underground tunnel that led to the vault. The last time she’d done it, she’d watched a dwarf get pulled down by the creature that lived in the depths, and she was not at all eager to go back.
Her second idea was, on the surface, much simpler. Find Dr. Pym and have him send her home. The Countess had helped Kate travel through time without the
Atlas
; the witch had tapped into the magic inside her, the power of the Atlas that was, even now, coursing through her veins. Kate was certain that Dr. Pym coulddo the same. But how to go about finding him? Could the dwarves help? Michael had said that a dwarf might live for hundreds of years. Was it possible that Robbie McLaur was alive? Surely he would be able to contact the wizard. Once again, it seemed that Kate’s only hope lay in going to Cambridge Falls. But it was a daunting journey. She would need to take the train to Westport (provided that trains in this time ran to Westport). Find passage across Lake Champlain. Then there was the long road into the mountains. And she would need money to buy tickets and food and, as soon as possible, shoes and socks and a sweater and …
She willed herself not to panic. One step at a time. She could do this.
She sensed the boys coming up beside her, and glanced over to see them each juggling a blackened, smoking potato. They passed their prizes from hand to hand, blowing on them until they were cool enough to crack open, an act the pair performed with relish, inhaling as the released steam rose into their faces.
“You want some?” asked the boy named Jake.
Before she could answer, he’d ripped his in half and handed it over. The skin of the potato was black and flaky, but the inside was soft and smeared with a greasy, buttery fat, and as she ate it, Kate felt herself warmed, and she was grateful to the boy for sharing. She felt no ill will toward them for hoping to sell her corpse. They were clearly very poor, and in 1899, five dollars was no doubt a fortune.
As the trio threaded their way through the crowded market, Kate found herself wondering who the boys were. Did they have families? Unlikely. Their clothes were too hodgepodge,their faces too dirty. Perhaps they lived in an orphanage? Also unlikely. Kate knew what orphanage children looked like. Even the rebellious ones had an anxiousness that these boys lacked. So where did they live? Who protected them?
They reached an intersection. A bone-thin, dark-haired man stood in the midst of a small crowd, talking loudly in a language Kate didn’t understand. He had a long black beard, no shirt, and in his left hand, he held a flaming torch. With a cry, the man ran the torch over his pale, sunken chest, down his other arm, over his head, and suddenly the whole upper half of his body, including his long beard, was engulfed in flame.
Kate was about to scream, to call for water, when the small group of spectators began clapping their mittened hands. And she saw that the man’s skin was neither burning nor blackening; indeed, he appeared to be grinning. What was going on?
Then she heard:
“Dragon eggs! Real dragon eggs! Raise your own dragon!”
Coming toward her was a red-faced, frazzle-haired woman whose hands and forearms were marked with burn scars. The woman carried a basket lined with old hay in which were nestled three enormous eggs. The eggs were dark green and leathery, each one the size of a grapefruit, and they were all smoking ominously.
“Dragon eggs!” the woman called, continuing down the street. “Three weeks from hatching! Makes a wonderful companion!”
Kate turned to the boys, who were licking butter off their fingers and seemed totally unfazed.
“Did you see that?”
“See what?” asked Jake.
“What do you mean, what? That man’s on fire! People are clapping! And that woman’s selling those … eggs!”
The
Her second idea was, on the surface, much simpler. Find Dr. Pym and have him send her home. The Countess had helped Kate travel through time without the
Atlas
; the witch had tapped into the magic inside her, the power of the Atlas that was, even now, coursing through her veins. Kate was certain that Dr. Pym coulddo the same. But how to go about finding him? Could the dwarves help? Michael had said that a dwarf might live for hundreds of years. Was it possible that Robbie McLaur was alive? Surely he would be able to contact the wizard. Once again, it seemed that Kate’s only hope lay in going to Cambridge Falls. But it was a daunting journey. She would need to take the train to Westport (provided that trains in this time ran to Westport). Find passage across Lake Champlain. Then there was the long road into the mountains. And she would need money to buy tickets and food and, as soon as possible, shoes and socks and a sweater and …
She willed herself not to panic. One step at a time. She could do this.
She sensed the boys coming up beside her, and glanced over to see them each juggling a blackened, smoking potato. They passed their prizes from hand to hand, blowing on them until they were cool enough to crack open, an act the pair performed with relish, inhaling as the released steam rose into their faces.
“You want some?” asked the boy named Jake.
Before she could answer, he’d ripped his in half and handed it over. The skin of the potato was black and flaky, but the inside was soft and smeared with a greasy, buttery fat, and as she ate it, Kate felt herself warmed, and she was grateful to the boy for sharing. She felt no ill will toward them for hoping to sell her corpse. They were clearly very poor, and in 1899, five dollars was no doubt a fortune.
As the trio threaded their way through the crowded market, Kate found herself wondering who the boys were. Did they have families? Unlikely. Their clothes were too hodgepodge,their faces too dirty. Perhaps they lived in an orphanage? Also unlikely. Kate knew what orphanage children looked like. Even the rebellious ones had an anxiousness that these boys lacked. So where did they live? Who protected them?
They reached an intersection. A bone-thin, dark-haired man stood in the midst of a small crowd, talking loudly in a language Kate didn’t understand. He had a long black beard, no shirt, and in his left hand, he held a flaming torch. With a cry, the man ran the torch over his pale, sunken chest, down his other arm, over his head, and suddenly the whole upper half of his body, including his long beard, was engulfed in flame.
Kate was about to scream, to call for water, when the small group of spectators began clapping their mittened hands. And she saw that the man’s skin was neither burning nor blackening; indeed, he appeared to be grinning. What was going on?
Then she heard:
“Dragon eggs! Real dragon eggs! Raise your own dragon!”
Coming toward her was a red-faced, frazzle-haired woman whose hands and forearms were marked with burn scars. The woman carried a basket lined with old hay in which were nestled three enormous eggs. The eggs were dark green and leathery, each one the size of a grapefruit, and they were all smoking ominously.
“Dragon eggs!” the woman called, continuing down the street. “Three weeks from hatching! Makes a wonderful companion!”
Kate turned to the boys, who were licking butter off their fingers and seemed totally unfazed.
“Did you see that?”
“See what?” asked Jake.
“What do you mean, what? That man’s on fire! People are clapping! And that woman’s selling those … eggs!”
The
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