Part 4 (1/2)
”Here, kitty, kitty,” Abby said. She beckoned. ”Come here, Sir Sweet-ums. Miles won't hurt you. He likes cats.”
Miles m.u.f.fled a sneeze in his sleeve.
”All right, his nose doesn't, but the rest of him does.”
Abby took a step forward. Sir Sweetums got to his feet, gave her a meow she couldn't quite interpret, turned on his heel and, with his tail held high, walked through the door.
Through the closed door.
Miles staggered. He threw his arms around her and clutched her.
”Merciful St. Michael,” he breathed. ”I did not see what I just saw.”
Abby would have felt the same way, but she had inside information. It was hard to swallow, but she had the feeling Sir Maximillian Sweetums 31 was a ghost. She held onto her shaking host and wondered just how to break the news to him.
”Things of this nature do not happen,” Miles said, his voice hushed. ” Tis a modern age. I do not believe what I have just seen.”
Abby looked up at him. ”Honey, I think you're living in the past. Everyone else has indoor plumbing.”
”How much more modern an age can it be?” he asked, returning her look, his eyes wide. ”I don't care overmuch for his politics, but King Henry is a most forward-thinking monarch.”
She rolled her eyes. ”Oh, brother. Not that again.”
”Aye, that again,” he said, some of the color returning to his face. He released his deathgrip on her and stepped back a pace. ”Saints, woman, where have you been?”
”Out to lunch,” she returned, ”obviously.”
”Henry rules England,” he insisted.
”No, he doesn't.”
”By the very saints of heaven, you are a stubborn maid! Have you for-gotten the b.l.o.o.d.y year? Who else would sit the throne in 1238?”
Abby blinked. ”Huh?”
Miles clapped his free hand to his head. ”That swim addled your wits, Abigail.”
”What did you say before?” she managed. ”What year?”
”1238. The Year of Our Lord 1238!”
Abby kept breathing. She knew that because she had to remind her-self to do it. In, out, in, out. Twelve-thirty-eight, twelve-thirty-eight. She breathed in and out to that rhythm.
It couldn't be true. She looked around her at the stone room. There weren't any fireplaces; just Miles s bonfire in the middle of the room. No elec-tricity, no central heat, no carpet. The walls were bare, leaving their stone selves fully open to perusal. No twentieth-century construction job there.
She looked down. There was stone beneath her feet, what she could feel of it beneath the layer of sc.u.m and hay. She looked around again. There were a pair of crude wooden tables near the walls, and chairs that
32 .
looked rustically crafted. But that was the extent of the furniture. She took a deep breath. Well, the place certainly smelled like 1238.
She looked up at Miles. He stood in homespun clothing exactly like hers, wearing a very medieval frown. He didn't have the benefit of mod-ern grooming aids, if his finger-combed hair and non-ironed tunic were any clue. He'd definitely been packing a sword the night before. He'd said he was a knight. Could that be true too?
Abby looked toward the door. Maybe if she stepped outside into the fresh air, she might have a different perspective on things.
She wanted to saunter across the great hall casually, but she had the feeling it had come out as more of a frantic get-me-the-h.e.l.l-back-to-my-century kind of run.
She struggled with the heavy wooden beam that obviously served as a dead bolt in 1238. Heavy hands came to rest on her shoulders.
”Abigail-”
”Let me out!” she shrieked.
”Abigail-” he said, starting to sound a bit concerned.
Abby wasn't just a bit concerned. She was on the verge of having hys-terics-and she was starting not to care just exactly what Garretts did and did not do.
”Please!” she begged.
Miles heaved the beam aside and opened the door, in spite of her at-tempts to help. She ran outside.
It was raining. She slogged straight into three inches of muck.
”Yuck!” she exclaimed.
She would have run anywhere just to be running, but she couldn't seem to get her feet unstuck from the goo.
”Abigail.”
Before she could tell Miles just what had her so frantic, she found her-self turned around bodily and gathered against a very firm, very warm body. Without giving his good or bad points any more thought, she threw her arms around him and clung.
”Oh, man,” she said, feeling herself beginning to wheeze again. It was a nasty habit she'd gotten into lately. She was certain wheezing was 33 something no respectable Garrett ever found herself doing. ”Oh, man, oh, man,” she wheezed again.
”By the saints, you're trembling,” Miles said, sounding surprised. He stroked her back with his large hand. ”There's nothing to fear, Abigail.”
”It's 1238!” she exclaimed against his very rough, very un-depart-ment-store-like s.h.i.+rt.
”See?” Miles said, obviously trying to sound soothing. ”You've re-membered the year. Tis a most encouraging sign. I'm certain 'twas sim-ply a bit of chill that seeped into your head and addled your wits for a time. Reason is most definitely returning to you.”
Abby felt her tights beginning to slip and she made a grab for them before they migrated any further south. She tilted her head back and looked at Miles.