"Sisters?"
Wickham gestured to the women who had delivered their plates, standing patiently in the doorway. Flanders had mistaken one the previous evening for a servant.
Identical sisters. Older, with red and silver-streaked hair and identical smiles. "Lorraine and Loretta. They don't speak much Scots, but they understand more than ye might think."
One approached, reached out to pat his hand, and said something in the New French he didn't understand. Then she laughed and both sisters left the room.
"They're...like Brigid?"
"Aye," Wickham said. "Witches. And they can read yer mind, so tend yer thoughts."
As soon as the meal was over, Wickham disappeared, his chair suddenly empty, as if Flanders had supped with a ghost. That was Flanders’ first moment of trepidation. What if he couldn't adapt to this new century? What if it were too vexing for Brigid? Or her sister? What would they do then?
* * *
Later in the morning,Flanders and Bella were both back at their posts. The white box was still quiet. She held on her lap a pile of thin, fine parchment that would have cost a handful of Easterling silver coins. She then produced a narrow shaft from her pocket and began drawing on the topmost layer.
She glanced at him and lifted the shaft. “It is a pen.”
“A pen? But where is the ink?”
She leaned toward him and grinned. “The ink…is inside the pen!” Then she tipped the parchment so he could watch her draw the daintiest of lines. And she kept on drawing, line after line, creating leaf after leaf, without ever stopping to refill the supply!
“Clever indeed!”
“So many clever things. I cannot wait to share them with Brigid.”
“Aye, aye. So many things.”
Her pen stilled. She studied him for a moment, then laughed. “Flanders, ye needn’t learn it all at once, ye ken? None of this…” She gestured all around them, at the soft chairs, the windows, the lights that lit from inside, then the parchment. “None of it is going to disappear. We’ll learn it, and if we forget it, we shall learn it again. Take heart, man. Ye look like ye would turn tail and run back to Todlaw, back to certain trouble, if given the chance.” She tapped her finger in sudden thought. “Of course, if that is what ye wish, Brigid and I can muddle along fine together. Ye needn’t worry?—”
“If she stays, I stay.”
Bella bit her lips together and nodded, but he noted the smile she tried to hide. Was she merely teasing him, or had she decided to discourage him from staying? Was she clever or kind? It was impossible to know.
The sound of a large door creaking open ended the twisting of his thoughts. A woman’s voice called out Wickham’s name. Then, “Flanders? Are ye here?”
“Phoebe,” he whispered, then jumped to his feet and ran back to the chamber where he and Wickham had entered, albeit by magic. There, he found the woman he had once intended to claim as his own—a long eight years before. But had eight years passed for her? Perhaps not.
Her dark hair was shorter now, just past her shoulders. Her warm hazel eyes lit when she saw him, and in her arms, a lanky wee laddie with his father’s red curls already past his ears.
"Flanders Leesborn," she said in the heavily accented Gaelic he remembered. "We meet again!"
He strode forward until he could tower over her. "Ye have the advantage of me, mistress."
She smiled, unsure. "I'm Phoebe. James Ferguson’s—James Duncan’s wife." She set the child down, and he immediately toddled away. “And that, is our son. Don’t tell me ye don’t remember me."
He turned thoughtful and tapped his chin. “Did we share a kiss, once?”
“Aye, we did.”
“Mayhap, if I taste yer lips again, I shall remember ye, sure.”
Pheobe rose immediately onto her toes and he leaned down. She placed a quick, chaste kiss on his cheek, then laughed in his face before she threw her arms around his neck.
“Oh, Flanders. I’m so glad ye’re here! James has missed ye so.”
“Surprising, what with his new distractions.” He gestured to both her and the wee laddie who was back again and tugging on Flanders’ oddly loose hose, babbling and making bubbles on his lips.
