Page 180 of Feathers in the Wind
If I say it to myself often enough then it must be true.
My arm throbs, a reminder of my own mortality and the fact I am not dead and this is not some strange room in heaven in which I now find myself.
I lie in the unfamiliar bed with my eyes closed. I dare not open them for fear the situation in which I have found myself is real.
Fool, I know it is real. Is this not what we planned?
I can hear their voices downstairs. The man, Alan, who I think, believes my tale and the witch, Jessica, who calls herself a doctor. Whatever potion she gave me ensured I slept through the night but now I it is daylight and I must arise and confront this strange new world in which I find myself.
I am here because of powerful witchcraft, and what is more, I know the witch. She and I planned this but I never thought... never dreamed...
Alice. I call her name in my mind. Now what do I do?
For answer, she laughs. She will talk to me when she thinks I am ready to hear.
* * *
Alan slipped out early in the morning and returned before breakfast with jeans, a sweater and shoes for my guest. I poured us both a coffee and we sat talking until Nathaniel emerged, looking like any ordinary male; unshaven, groggy and disheveled with his auburn hair sticking up and Mark’s dressing gown loosely belted around his hips. My heart skipped a beat. Even in his tousled state, he looked better than any man I had ever had in my kitchen before.
‘How’s the arm?’ Alan inquired.
‘Passing well.’ He cleared his throat, sat down at the table and looked at me expectantly.
‘Are you hungry?’ I asked.
He smiled, the corners of his mouth turning up in a particularly fetching way. ‘Ravenous.’
Explaining cereal or toast was beyond me so I did something I have done for no man in my life. I cooked my guest a substantial breakfast of bacon and eggs, a largesse on my part, which Alan indulged in as well.
Coffee was apparently a novelty and not one Nathaniel found palatable until I put two teaspoons of sugar in the cup.
Alan’s clothes fitted well but when Nathaniel rubbed at the stubble on his chin, the question of shaving arose. Alan suggested the razor I used for my legs. I glared at him.
‘The unshaven look is fine,’ I said. ‘We can pick up a razor later. Now, what about your hair?’
‘What’s wrong with my hair?’ Nathaniel asked.
The thick dark auburn hair fell to his shoulder. It was the sort of color many a woman in a hairdresser’s would point to with longing. I had a sudden mad urge to run my fingers through it.
‘It’s fine, but let’s tie it back, shall we?’ I suggested.
I found a rubber band and tied Nathaniel’s hair back in a neat pony tail, allowing me to subtly indulge my desire.
‘Very trendy,’ Alan remarked.
Very attractive, I thought. With his hair away from his face, I could see the well chiseled cheek bones and strong jaw line. Nathaniel Preston could have graced the cover of any up-market men’s magazine.
I allowed my gaze to stray across the expanse of his chest, the well defined lines of his musculature straining beneath the plain t-shirt. While talking with Alan the previous night, I had picked up the sword and been surprised by the weight. Who needed expensive gym memberships when you could spend your day riding horses and wielding weighty weapons?
As I backed the car out of the garage I saw Nathaniel reflected in the rearview mirror. He jumped to one side, his hand going to his left hip, where his sword would have hung, had he been wearing it.
When I stopped the car, he approached it as if it were a wild animal, circling it several times, his hand lightly touching the paintwork.
‘Extraordinary. A coach with no horse.’ He leaned in through the window. ‘How do you make it move?’
I held up the key. ‘You turn it on.’
Alan, apparently eager to prove his manhood, lifted the bonnet and the two men inspected the engine. I had never suspected my geeky historian brother had such an intimate knowledge of the workings of cars but, despite his best efforts, even he couldn’t supply the answers to all the questions Nathaniel bombarded him with.
