Month: July 2025

The Crystal Kingdom

by Dakota Orlando

Chapter 2

Another Girl Who Thinks She’s an Artist

The bell to end school sounded, and Edie wandered to the wrong side of the school to catch her bus. She had to run through the halls to reach her bus on time.

Pushing open the double doors at the other end of the school, she watched the first few buses in a long line pull out.

Sprinting, she raced past the unmoving buses, reading their numbers. When she spied bus number 366, it was pulling away. She dashed to the bus doors and pounded on them.

“Hey, wait for me. Wait for me!”

The bus stopped, and the doors flew open.

“Who are you?” said the young male driver, glaring at her with a horrific scowl.

“I’m the new girl. I’m Aida Campobasso.”

Doinkers! How I hate to say my real name.

The man yanked a clipboard off the dash and examined it. “Yes, you’re on here.” He slapped the clipboard back in place. “Get aboard. You’re holding up the entire school.”

Edie climbed on, but the man threw an arm out, blocking the aisle. Bouncing off it, she glanced down to discover him pointing at the first seat across from him. “Sit there.”

She moved her book bag into her lap, sat in the empty seat, and opened her notebook as the bus drove away from the school. During the three miles to her stop, she sat thinking about nothing but Johnny Rivers.

The bus stopped where a badly eroded asphalt road led up a steep hill to her house. She jumped off and started walking until she heard feet plop down behind her.

She twirled around, and her heart tripled its beat rate. “Johnny Rivers? You live in one of the six houses up the hill?”

Johnny tossed his hands onto his hips and glowered as the bus pulled away. “Bizarro, man. Just my luck.”

Edie scurried toward him, unable to keep the smile small enough to prevent her buckteeth from showing. “What a coincidence. This is … great. Just great!”

Johnny darted around her. “I’m glad you think so.”

“Let’s walk together,” Edie said, dashing to catch up to him. “I already told you it’s my dream to become a geologist. My second choice is veterinarian … since I love animals so much.” She glanced down at him as they strode side-by-side. He stared ahead like a stone statue—only like one that could walk fast. “My father used to tell me I had a special rapport with animals. That means a special relationship … a closeness … a bond.”

“I know what rapport means.”

Yeah, I bet you do. I understand boys. If you don’t know a thing, you pretend you do … but you are awfully cute.

“Well, Johnny, my father believed that I could read the feelings of animals. Now, do you think that would be a wonderful gift for doctoring animals?”

He stopped and spun around. “Look, don’t you ever stop talking?”

Giggling, Edie halted as well. “Of course not. I’m a girl. And I tried to tell you that all the research into human behavior shows that girls are—”

“Look, don’t you get it, you bizarro, four-eyed freak? I don’t want anything to do with you.”

Edie stared at her feet and fought off the tears. “I draw, too.”

“Oh, wow,” Johnny said, looking at the sky and shaking his hands beside his head. “Another girl who thinks she’s an artist.”

A tear leaped from Edie’s right eye, but she flicked it away as she pretended to scratch an itch on her cheek. Gazing at her feet again, she wondered why she was so attracted to him—why he made her heart twitch, her stomach tickle, and her skin tingle.

Edie looked up, but Johnny was already far off and strutting like a racehorse after hearing the starting bell.

She stood by the poorly kept road as a Hummer stretch limousine screeched to a halt beside her. She jumped aside and threw a hand over her heart, gawking at the shiny white vehicle.

The door behind the front passenger’s seat sprang open, and Edie peered inside. Heavy black tinting covered all the windows, and a black glass filled the space between the front and the seats behind it. The limo interior appeared as a dark cave that her eyes couldn’t penetrate. A maroon hood eased out of the dark void and, with no body visible, seemed to float in the air.

“Little girl?” a deep, scratchy voice boomed. “Come get in my car.”

Edie snorted. “Duhhhhhh. What planet are you from? Don’t you watch the TV news? Girls who do that end up dead.”

The front passenger door flew open, and a huge arm thrust out, grasping a large handgun. “This is a forty-five Magnum,” a high-pitched, squeaky voice said. “When the bullet goes through you, it tears out your stomach and ejects it through your spine and out the back side. Now, get in!”

The scratchy voice continued. “You’d better do as my driver says. He has an itchy trigger finger.”

Almost wetting herself, Edie coughed until she choked, then edged toward the limo. As she neared the hooded figure, she watched its hood float from the car with two hands visible. After staring at them, Edie froze. The grayish-orange hands appeared so wrinkled they would have been right at home on a ninety-nine-year-old man. Blue veins snaked down each finger, and every nail protruded out an inch, ending in a sharp point. Edie, unable to move or think, watched the hands grab her and yank her inside the limo. Then the Hummer backed out onto the main road and sped off.

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CHAPTER ONE

My New School Uniform

Oh … my … God!

My life nearly ended the day someone forced me to wear it in front of Miss Kornbaugh’s last-period class. Every kid in there laughed, pointed fingers, and teased me. And if you think that’s bad, you should have seen what happened after the bell rang.

A substitute sat at Miss Kornbaugh’s desk for my sixth-grade social studies class. The name “Mr. Etee” stretched out in crooked, uphill letters on the dry erase board in red.

Tall, about thirty years old, he wore a smirk just above his tiny beard. Small, circular eyeglasses with wire frames rested on an enormous nose that stuck way out.

What a rookie! The suit and tie give him away. This is going to be a fun period.

I exchanged glances with my partner in crime, Frankie Thornbladder, who sat next to me at the back of the class. We winked and gave each other a high five. Facing the front, I rubbed my hands, grinned, and looked around at all the girls in front of me. A medium-sized kid for my age, I still had the reputation of being tough—and girls were my number one target. Frankie’s too.

Chaztity sat writing in front of me, so I yanked on her ponytail and whispered to the other kids, “Yee-haw. Ride that wild pony, cowboy. Yee-haw.”

The nearest kids laughed, and the girl turned, yanking her hair out of my hands. “Leave me alone, you freak.”

I threw my arms out to either side. “Hey, I wanted to tell you this funny joke I heard. That’s all.”

She turned around and wrote something on a piece of paper.

“Come on, Chaz, it’s hilarious.”

She continued writing.

“What does a chicken use to count its eggs?”

She spun around. “Just shut up. I don’t care.”

“A cackle-ator.”

She squinted and puckered her lips like she had bitten into a lemon. “Jerk. You’re a stupid jerk.” She whipped around and started writing.

I turned to Frankie. “I thought it was funny.”

“It was hilarious.” He chuckled.

I pulled Chaztity’s ponytail again.

She shot to her feet and raised her hand. The substitute pointed at her.

“Mr. Etee, please move me.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “Sir Pest-A-Lot is bothering me.”

The substitute rose. He stood over six feet tall, but that never scared me. I sent many big men running to the principal, begging to be put out of their misery.

“I’m well aware of Eric Prinzul and his tendency not to treat you ladies the way you should be treated … like gentle ladies.”

Glancing at Frankie, I closed one eye and shook my head.

The substitute glanced down at the seating chart, then looked up at the girl. “You may move for this period, Chaztity, to whatever seat you so desire.”

Mr. Etee sat as Chaztity collected her notebook, grabbed her book bag off the floor, and stuck her tongue out at me. Then she moved to an empty seat near the front of the same row.

I looked at Frankie, nodded, and raised my hand.

“Yes, Mr. Prinzul?”

I stood up, stuck my nose in the air, and rapidly shook my head. “Chaztity stuck her tongue out at me. Now, how can she be a gentle lady if she acts like a child?”

Mr. Etee smiled. “She did it because you deserved it, and that does not detract in the tiniest bit from her being a gentle lady.”

“Hey.” I threw my arms out to either side. “Girls aren’t goddesses, you know.”

“Far from it,” Frankie added.

Mr. Etee nodded. “They should be. But as it is, they are Earth Princesses, and that is fine enough.” He pointed to Frankie. “And stay out of it, Mr. Thornbladder. We’ll deal with you soon enough.”

I sat down, reached for my book bag, and removed a sheet of notebook paper and a straw. A touch on my arm made me turn to see Frankie fighting to hold back his laughter. He pointed to Rosa Rodriguez a few seats in front of him.

Mr. Etee gave out the class assignment before I finished loading my plastic cannon.

Phew—flew the soggy wad. Splat—it landed on Rosa’s left ear.

The dark Hispanic flew her hand to her ear and slapped away the spitball. Turning, she gave me a glare that could have melted lead. I laughed and held up the straw.

She turned around, and the Black girl, Tamika, got one on the side of her face. Tamika flicked it off and turned to see me giggling. She tapped the redhead, Kira, sitting next to her while I loaded and aimed. As soon as Kira turned around … kerplat!

Right between the eyes.

Frankie and I giggled so hard that our desks shook. Kira brushed her hand across her forehead and stood up, staring at Mr. Etee while pointing at me.

“Mr. Etee, make Eric stop shooting spitballs.”

Mr. Etee crossed his arms. “Mr. Prinzul.” He stuck out a hand, palm up, fingers wadded in a fist, and whipped his forefinger back toward himself several times.

I arrived, and he pointed to Mrs. Kornbaugh’s tiny supply room.

“In there, young man.”

“You’re locking me in a closet? You can get in big trouble for that, you know.”

“You won’t be locked in. We’re going in together to give you a little advice.” He looked at the rest of the class. “Continue with your bookwork, please. Chaztity, you will take the names of any boys that misbehave.”

A big smile settled on her face. “Yes, sir, Mr. Etee.”

Shaking my head, I followed Mr. Etee to the supply room. He turned on the closet light, and we stepped in. He shut the door.

“So … what’s up, sir?”

“Don’t be cute. You are the reason for my presence here today.”

“Me? You mean you took over Miss Kornbaugh’s class just for me?”

He poked me in the chest. “That’s right.”

I laughed. “Wow, thanks for the honor.”

“I didn’t come here to honor you, only to punish you. You are the biggest girl bully in the school, and it’s time your shenanigans stopped.”

“If I knew how to start shenanigans, they’d surely be stopped.”

He folded his arms. “You know what I mean. There seems to be no end to your unacceptable behavior.” He pulled a little black notebook out of his inside jacket pocket and flipped through it. “There was the incident with ten-year-old Tabitha Giggleswick, your neighbor across the street. Your buddy Frankie went over to your house to spend the night, and you two sneaked into Tabitha’s yard and painted her bicycle hot pink.”

I laughed. “Oh yeah. That was really funny.” He glared at me. “Well, girls like pink anyway. We did her a favor.”

He jabbed his hands onto his hips. “Oh, you were helping her?”

“Look, sir, how did you know I did that kind deed for her?”

He shook his head. “Kind deed? You can’t treat girls like that. Girls are … well, it’s like I said in the classroom. They’re Earth Princesses, and you must treat them like royalty.”

I threw my hands out to either side. My right hand knocked over a stack of printer cartridge boxes. “Man, what planet are you from? We don’t do things like that here on Earth. It’s every being for himself, and the geeky girls take care of themselves the best they can.”

Mr. Etee slapped the notebook closed and shoved it back into his inside jacket pocket. “That ends for you today.”

He thrust his hands toward me. One held the back of my head while the other covered my face. He chanted something as I struggled, but I couldn’t pull my hands away against his overpowering grip. Several seconds later, he let go and folded his arms.

“There, Eric Prinzul. Now, go forth and learn a valuable lesson.”

I shook my head and ran my lips around in a circle to get rid of the pushed-in feeling his hand left on my face.

“Hey, man, you can be sued for that. Teachers aren’t supposed to put their hands on kids. You wait until the principal finds out.”

What happened to my voice? It doesn’t sound right. I must be really upset.

Mr. Etee leaned back, whipped one hand under an elbow, and stroked his beard with the other. “You look … nice.” He dropped both arms to his sides. “Now, get back to class and suffer the consequences.”

I flipped a hand at him and stepped toward the door. Opening it, I walked into the classroom. A roar of laughter thundered through the room, and soon all the kids pointed at me.

“What’s so funny?” I asked. “Why don’t you all shut up?” I pointed to my seat. “Frankie, get out my straw.”

A book bag still sat beside my desk.

What the …? It’s pink!

I rammed my fists onto my hips and turned to Frankie. “All right. Who took my book bag and gave me a sissy one?”

Frankie gawked at me, frozen like a giant icicle.

The kids laughed louder. They pointed at me and jeered. I walked to Jason, pushed him, and his seat toppled over.

“Just stop laughing. What’s so funny about Mr. Etee and me going into the supply room?”

“Nothing,” Chaztity said, pointing at my legs. “It’s not going into the closet that is funny. It’s how you look coming out.” She bent over guffawing, and the rest of the class doubled the level of laughter in the room.

Shooting a glance at Frankie, his forehead rested on his desk. He rolled it slowly from side to side.

Why is he doing that? What’s wrong with me?

I looked down at my legs and couldn’t see them. Some fabric blocked their view. Pushing it inward, my legs came into view—bare from the edge of the cloth down to my socks—which disappeared into sissy-looking shoes.

I jerked my head up and stared straight ahead as my insides turned to ice.

“Oh … my … God. I’m wearing a skirt!”

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CHAPTER ONE

ACTING ALL WEIRD

My bedroom door flew open. “Piper!” my mother yelled. “I’ve had it.” She whipped her hands to either side of her head. “I’m sick and tired of your father making fun of my frizzy hair.” She stamped her foot, plunked her hands on her hips, and stormed to my bedside. “Ugggggghhhhhh! I’m so angry. I feel like smacking him, but you’ll get mad and ground me. So,” she pointed toward the door, “I want you to go downstairs and talk to him right now!”

Her eyes opened wide. Covering her mouth, she lowered her hand slowly. “Sorry, Piper. I didn’t mean to yell at you. You’re not mad at me, are you?” She dropped to her knees and clasped her hands as if praying. “Please? Will you tell him? Will you get him to stop? Pretty please?” Tears fell from her eyes. “Please?”

******

This happened on March second in Bonn, New Hampshire—the date my mother changed into someone weird I may be stuck with for eternity. I’m a thirteen-year-old girl who used to have a normal life until the day my mother stormed into my room, behaving like a child.

But before I go any further, look at a typical morning around my house.

******

On March first, my bedroom door flew open. I peeked from under the covers, and my mother rushed in, wearing her usual long dress for work.

“Piper,” she said, jamming her hands onto her hips. “You overslept again. Now, you’ll have to rush to get dressed, rush downstairs, rush to eat breakfast, and rush to catch the school bus. Don’t you ever get tired of rushing?”

I glanced at the clock on my nightstand. Seven-eighteen, I thought. “Mom, I have forty-five minutes before the bus comes. That’s plenty of time.”

“Plenty of time?” She marched to the bed and yanked off my covers. “You get out of that bed right now, young lady.” She surveyed my room. “What a dump? I swear, if the city refuge people saw this room, they’d think it was the perfect place to unload all their garbage.” She glared at me. “Don’t you get tired of living like a pig?”

I sat erect and rubbed my eyes. “Chill, Mom … you don’t see any mud, do you?”

She reached under my bed and lifted one of my Air Jordans by the laces. “What do you call this … chocolate? Don’t tell me you’ve been walking around in chocolate!”

“Not chocolate, Mom. It’s as hard as a rock.”

“Why did you walk in the mud?”

I scooted to the edge of the bed. “Walking on hard dirt, you mean? Dad drove me to the astronomy club field trip. We set up our telescopes, and I guess I didn’t notice where I stepped.”

She let the shoe drop. It hit the floor, and pieces of hardened dirt flew everywhere. “You stepped on the back floor of your father’s car. You stepped across the kitchen floor … and you stepped all along the hall floor. I know because I had to clean it up.”

I dropped my feet to the floor, stood, and stretched. “Look on the bright side, Mom. I didn’t get a speck of dirt on my bedroom floor.” I yawned and lowered my arms. “Until you came in here and let my shoe drop, that is.”

She shoved a finger in my face. “Don’t get cute with me, young lady. I should have grounded you for tracking in all that mud. You’ll be lucky if your father doesn’t remove your computer and cell phone privileges for a few days.”

I trudged to my bureau, opened the drawer, and selected clean underwear. “Sorry about that, Mom. I’ll be more careful next time.”

She turned in a circle, scrutinizing my room. “When you get home from school…,” she smacked a finger on her left palm. “… one, you will clean this room.” She smacked two fingers against her palm. “Two, you will hand-wash those shoes until there isn’t a speck of mud on either.” She smacked down three fingers. “And three, you will gather all these dirty clothes you have lying around, bring them downstairs to the basement, and wash them yourself.”

I raised my arms. “Aw, Mom. I’ve got something planned after school.”

She shook her finger in my face. “Watch it, or I’ll make you wash your clothes by hand.”

I lowered my gaze to the floor and kicked at the rug. “Okay, Mom.”

She hurried downstairs, and I strutted along the hall, humming. Shane darted from his bedroom and dashed for the bathroom.

“Hey,” I said. “My bus comes first. I’m supposed to go before you.”

He stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “You were supposed to go first twenty minutes ago. It’s my turn, now.” He twisted the knob.

I dashed to the door, caught his arm before it disappeared, and yanked him back. We met head-to-head, face-to-face, nose-to-nose.

My brother and I faced off in the doorway of the only upstairs bathroom. He stood just inside it and had the advantage. I stood outside, and the glaring contest had begun. The winner would get to use the bathroom first.

“Shane, show some respect for your older sister. I’ve got two years on you.”

His glare softened as the drooping corners of his mouth turned up a little. “You’re right, Piper. Excuse my being so rude. You should go first.”

He stepped out, easing me back with one hand. “Wait a minute. I dropped my socks.”

He strode into the bathroom and slammed the door in my face.

That little … why do I always let him fool me? I should know I can’t trust anything he says.

I stomped forward and pounded on the door. “Shane Littlejohn, you come out of there right now.” No answer. I beat harder on the door. “Shane, I mean it. I’ll tell Mom.”

Since he got his way, he’s giving me the silent treatment as usual.

I rapped again. “I’m going downstairs right now to tell Mom.”

Treading in place on the wooden hall floor, I made each footstep softer.

“Come on, Piper, you can’t fool me. I know that trick. Mom will tell you it’s your fault for sleeping in, and she’ll let you use her bathroom. You lost again, sis. Get over it.”

I smashed the side of my right fist on the door several times.

Ohhhhhh! I’d like to get my hands around his scrawny neck … and squeeze!

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Spitfire Girl in Queen Victoria’s Court

“It will be very dull when I shall . . . live only in trying to do, and to be, as other people like. I don’t see any end to it. I might as well never have lived.”

Molly Gibson in Elizabeth Gaskell’s 1865 novel, Wives and Daughters.

CHAPTER 1

By the magistrate’s whiskers, my mother had given me leave to visit a most mysterious neighbor—our newest neighbor. A woman, though young, who held a secret all girls my age desired to know. With everyone at my household away for the day, I strolled to Mrs. Kilrush’s row house door late one spring afternoon in 1843 and rapped on it several times. Now is my best opportunity to pursue her secrets under the guise of a more innocent pretense.

When the door opened, my mouth did as well, but no sound uttered forth.

“Ah, you’re Mrs. Wimpole’s daughter from a few doors down.”

I smiled. “Top of the morning to you.”

“Oh, you know that Irish expression, do you now? I’ll give you the answer then … and the rest of the day to you.”

“I would love to see Ireland someday.”

Mrs. Kilrush flipped her hand. “Not these days. There are terrible times afoot and worse to come. You mark me words.”

Having relocated from their homeland three weeks since, she dubbed the destitute Hunter Street neighborhood a far better place to live than any she had known.

“My mother said you requested some assistance.” I stretched a hand toward her home’s interior. “May I?”

“Come inside, please.” She stepped aside, opened the door wider, and gave me leave to stride into a house as minuscule as my own—one main room to serve as living room, kitchen, and dining room—and three tiny bedrooms.

Tables occupied much of the floor space, laden with various cloth and sewing accouterments. She earned extra money by making clothing. Her husband could not obtain employment when first they arrived, because many Londoners despised the Irish. He took to self-employment as a tosher and combed the London sewers for lost treasures—such as gold, silver, and copper coins.

Mrs. Kilrush handed me an open missive. “I must admit something pretty darn hard to own up to, but the truth is … I’m desperate for help.”

I batted my eyes. “Of course. Anything, ma’am.”

“Neither me husband nor I can read much. I’ve received this letter from a neighbor where we used to live. Your mother said you and your father are the best readers in the neighborhood. Can you be a dear and tell me what it says?”

I reached inside my apron pocket, removed my rimless, round-eyed spectacles, and slipped them on. Holding the paper within a few inches of my nose, I scrutinized the letter.

“How old are you, Charlotte?”

I eased the paper away. “Sixteen.”

“And you’re wearing spectacles?”

I laughed and removed them. “An accident. I spilled lye in my eyes four years since.”

She laid a hand on my cheek. “You poor darling. Ruining your eyes at the tender age of twelve.”

“I can still see at a distance.” I slipped on the spectacles and inched the paper closer. “It says here, a Mr. Fitzsimmons removed your parents from their house.”

“Oh, my.” She raised a fist and bit it. “It’s happening.”

“What is happening?”

“The money-grabbing landlords are evicting the tenants, and it’s because times are tough. People may starve for the lack of a decent potato crop, and they come along to make matters worse.”

Pulling off the spectacles, I handed the letter back to her. “At any rate, the neighbor says your parents are not in a bad way. They moved in with your sister Michaela.”

“Good sweet-hearted Michaela. I ought to have known she’d have helped Mama. Thank you, Charlotte.”

I opened my mouth to ask one of my burning questions, but nothing issued forth.

Mrs. Kilrush snatched a strip of yellow muslin from one of the tables and handed it to me. “Your mother said she could use a little yellow in her latest sewing endeavor.”

The muslin dangled from her outstretched hand, but I did not seek that favor. I want the knowledge she held in her head—the knowledge that would set me free, put me at ease, and stop the ground from shaking beneath me. I yanked my hand away. “I have no money to pay you at the moment.”

She thrust it into my hands and closed hers over them. “It’s all right, Charlotte. I’m giving it to her.”

I tried to tug my hand free. “Oh, no. She will gladly pay you for it.”

She squeezed my hands harder. “Take it. It’s for reading me letter. I am now comforted to know me mother and father are doing fine.”

I offered her my sweetest smile and drew the muslin closer. “Thank you, Mrs. Kilrush. She will be grateful, I am certain.”

Withdrawing her hands, she scrutinized me for the longest time.

I endeavored to read her face but could not decipher a clue. “What is it, ma’am? You appear quite content.”

“I wonder about you, Charlotte. You’re quite a splendid girl, you know. Every time I see you, you’re running an errand for someone else.”

I could not keep a grin from stretching my face and glanced at my feet. “Oh, I mind not.”

“Are you a writer too?”

I giggled. “I understand well enough my family is known as the literary Wimpoles of Hunter Street, but it is my father’s doing. He wants at least one of his sons to become a writer and has gone so far as to name my younger brothers after famous authors. Fenimore is named for James Fenimore Cooper, John for the Scottish novelist John Lockhart, and Shelley for the great poet Percy Bysshe Shelley. He makes them pen stories, and they come to me for assistance. However, Father would never tolerate a daughter for a writer, as he despises women authors.”

“What of Shelley’s wife?”

“Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley?”

“Didn’t she pen something?”

“The novels Frankenstein and The Last Man. I can understand a woman can write as well as a man, but unfortunately, my father cannot fathom it. I always deemed it would serve him right if I became a namesake for some famous ‘Charlotte’ writer yet to be.”

“Who are you named after, then?”

“My father’s mother, Grandmother Charlotte Wimpole.”

She touched my nose and let loose a giggle. “I’d say you’re smart enough to be a writer.”

I need to stop procrastinating and beg her privilege. She seemed amiable enough, and being so young, she would very likely tell me what I needed to know.

I bowed my head and swung my arms as my face flushed with increased temperature. “Thank you for saying so, but I must give my father the credit because he insisted on my enrollment in the Soho Church of England’s School for the Poor.”

“You attended school now, did you? Among the poor, I thought only boys attended school in England.”

I stretched the muslin, pretending to examine it and realized we had digressed. The timid notion popped into my mind that asking Mrs. Kilrush may have been a big mistake. I should simply forget the whole matter. “My father persuaded the school. He does believe a better education will attract a better class of suitor for my future marriage.”

“He’s always in control of your life, then … and you find it somewhat unsettling.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Just so.”

“And though your three brothers are younger, you tend to do their bidding with the full support of your father.”

How did she know me so well? I nodded. “Have you a Gypsy’s crystal ball?”

“He wants you to marry and have children?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Has your father had the conversation with you about coming out?”

“Not yet, but I know it will happen by and by. I am seventeen in June.”

“I can see in your eyes you want something more than marriage.”

How can she see that? “But in London, a young girl’s future is already planned, is it not so? Is it not every woman’s ambition to marry and have children?”

I realized the moment the words flew from my mouth I ought not to have steered the intercourse in that direction. My eyes darted aside. “Pardon me, Mrs. Kilrush. Please forgive my last remark.”

She beamed. “It’s all right, Charlotte. I’ve settled it after six years of marriage.”

I hesitated but knew the moment had grown ripe for my intrusion into the world for which I so desired to obtain familiarity. “Why do you not have children?” My hand wanted to smack my brow, but I halted it. That is not the question I needed to know. Why am I so afraid to ask it?

“Oh, well, that’s a story, I can tell you. You see, Charlotte, me dear, we keep kissing and kissing, but nothing ever happens.”

“Whatever do you mean? I thought you had to do more than kiss. Do not you and your husband ….” I had finally sprung the cat from its bag. Once free, I could pursue it.

She slipped an arm round me and started walking towards the front door. “I’ll not tell a fib. Yes, me husband and I surely do more than kiss. It’s God who’s not cooperating.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I do not mean to pry.”

“Oh, yes, you do. I understand the curiosity of a sixteen-year-old girl.”

This is it. I may never have the opportunity again. I halted and spun round. “Perhaps you can tell me what it is like to lie with a man?”

She jerked her arm from round me and widened her eyes as a knock sounded. Turning her eyes off me, she sauntered towards the door. I followed. A twelve-year-old girl of a higher social station loomed in the door frame, bouncing up and down.

“What is it?” Mrs. Kilrush asked.

The girl swiftly shifted her weight from foot to foot. “Oh, please! Where is Charlotte Wimpole? There’s a note posted on her door saying she is here.”

I stepped from behind the woman and peered at her. “My father is at his clerk’s position, my mother is on errands, and my brothers are wandering about earning extra money.” I gaped at the girl. “Whatever is the matter?”

She whipped her hands to her face. “Come quick! It is your brother Shelley. He is in a bad way.”

Mrs. Kilrush and I stared into each other’s eyes. I broke it off and dashed through the doorway.

END SAMPLE CHAPTER

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CHAPTER 1

CODE RED

I eased my hands onto my abdomen, breathed deeply, and looked at my ninth-grade science teacher. As nervous as a mouse that hears a cat through the wall, I knew the time had come. Part one of Mom’s plan began when I raised my hand.

“Yes, Chartreusa?” Mr. Frost said.

“I’m supposed to call my mother to pick me up early. I have an appointment.”

“Oh, all right.” He hesitated as if considering that I might be lying, but he had nothing to fear. Since moving from California to Gainesville, Florida last month, I had gotten all my teachers to trust me; so, Mr. Frost would never suspect that I stretched the truth.

“I’ll write you a pass to the office so you may call her.”

After grabbing my briefcase, I stopped by the restroom on the way. On entering the office, my emotions wanted to bust out all over the place as I handed the pass to the younger secretary behind the left side of the long counter.

“Well, you look chipper.” She watched me set my briefcase on the counter. “You’re standing there grinning like a Cheshire cat.”

“Was I grinning?” I straightened the curve out of my lips with my fingers. She giggled. I glanced behind me through the front window. “Wow, it’s a great day, isn’t it?”

The secretary stared at the drizzling rain. “Yeah, if you’re a frog, maybe.”

I smacked the counter with my hand. “Well, I’m as happy as a toad in a damp, dark cellar.”

“Cellar? Boy, can you tell one of us is not from Florida?” She pointed to the little table by the wall to my left. “Students use the President’s phone.”

I raised my eyebrows. “The President … in Washington?”

“Under the picture of Mr. Carter there. You won’t have to dial nine. The phone’s only for calling outside the school.”

I looked at the table below President Carter’s picture. “Oh, I get it. Thanks.” I walked to it, lifted the receiver, and dialed.

Mom had gotten a job at a new car dealership after she and her new husband, Cody, moved us to Gainesville last month before school started. Cody Talon had gotten his first position as a professor at the University of Florida.

A woman answered the phone.

“I’d like to be put through to the cashier, please.”

Silence. “Hello? Cashier,” Mom answered.

“Mom, this is your daughter with the weird color name, you know … Chartreusa Dickinson?”

“Char! What’s up? You sick, honey?”

“Code red.”

“What? What? Code red? I’ll be right there.”

She hung up.

The secretary leaned on the counter. “Code red? That’s it? That’s the message to your mother?”

“Code red.” I hung up and sauntered back to the counter.

“You some kind of spy,” the secretary said, “sending secret codes over the phone?”

I bobbed my eyebrows and grinned again. “Could be.”

The secretary pressed her lips together. “I see. A nineteen-eighty version of Mata Hari.”

“Mata Hari?” I tilted my head and pursed my lips.

She flipped a hand at me. “Forget it … before your time.”

I held up my free hand with an index finger pointing at the ceiling. “I get it. She was a spy, right?”

“World War Two.”

“I’m not spying, but my secret is ….” I leaned over the counter, and she did, too. I whispered in her ear so the other secretary wouldn’t hear.

My secretary popped her head back and out-grinned the Cheshire cat. “Congratulations!”

******

Mom burst through the door twenty minutes later and offered her best owl eyes. I slipped a hand over my abdomen and nodded. She exploded in squeals that made me quickly glance around. Two boys stood at the right end of the counter talking to the other secretary, and a male teacher listened to a dean beyond them by the far wall.

Unable to block my growing smile, I whipped a finger to my lips. “Shhhhhh.”

Mom strutted over, grabbed me by the shoulders, and danced us around in a circle. Breaking free, she announced, “My daughter’s started her first period!”

Usually, I’m not very good at remembering faces—but that day, the first day of my womanhood, four faces I had never seen before burned themselves into my memory forever.

My secretary grinned again. “Code red?”

Mom nodded. “Code red.”

The older secretary wrinkled her nose and flattened her lips while the male teacher turned and raised his eyebrows. The boys jerked their heads around so fast they nearly twisted off. Their wide-eyed faces glowed red before splitting into devilish grins. They stared at my pelvic area as if they could see through my skirt. I wondered if they saw me naked or with a Kotex® on.

“Did you take care of it right away?” Mom asked, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Mom?” I looked at the floor, hoping that everyone would disappear—and they did—until I looked up again. “Not so loud,” I whispered. “I stopped by the bathroom on the way here.”

She leaned back and beamed at me. Her smile widened so much I thought it would leave a permanent mark on her face. “You want me to take you into the bathroom to check it?”

“Mom!” I lowered my voice. “It’s all right.”

“You sure it’s secure?”

“Arrrrrrgggggg! Mom!” I grabbed her arm and pulled her to the door.

My secretary walked to the counter and pushed a ledger book toward us. “Your mother must sign you out.”

“Oh, yes.” Mom dashed back to the counter. “What a day.” She sighed. “What an incredible day this will be.”

“Mom?” I stood by the exit, wishing the urgency in my voice would hurry her. The two boys stared at me until I felt my clothing peel away. I stared into their faces—and saw lust to the six-hundred-and-sixty-sixth power. I slid my briefcase in front of my pelvis, but then I realized that if they could see through fabric, they could probably see through leather and cardboard as well. “Come on, Mom. Let’s go!”

Dropping the pen on the ledger, she pointed at the secretary. “At fourteen, she’s my youngest daughter of two. Caroline is ten months older, but Char here … she started first. Can you believe that?”

“Well ….” The smiling secretary nodded. “What do you know?” The male teacher looked at Mom, then at the secretary grinning back at him. He looked once more at Mom and escaped into the vice principal’s office behind the older secretary’s desk.

I threw out my free hand. “May we go now, Mom?”

The younger secretary stared at Mom. “Obviously, you’re not taking her to a gynecologist.”

“Of course not,” Mom replied. “We’re going out to paint the town red!” She threw her arms in the air and danced around.

“That’s it, Mom! I’m out of here.” I opened the door and stepped into the covered breezeway that cut the administration building in half.

Mom strutted out and faced me with her childish grin. I set my briefcase down and crossed my arms. My sneer felt worse than Miss Gulch’s in The Wizard of Oz when she came to take away Dorothy’s Toto. “How dare you make a spectacle of yourself like that.”

We stared at each other as long as we could stand it before bursting into laughter.

Picking up my briefcase, I thought of how much I loved it when she let me reverse roles with her. She’s the greatest Mom ever.

She threw one arm around my shoulder and walked toward the front of the building. The rain had stopped, and the sun shone brightly. “So, my little girl is a woman now. Did you see the looks on the faces of those two boys?”

“I was only aware of them straining to see through my skirt. What about the male teacher? You sent him into full retreat.”

Arriving at the car, Mom opened the front passenger door for me. “Men just aren’t comfortable with a woman’s body. That’s one thing you’re going to find out for yourself.”

I climbed in, and she shut the door. Leaning through the open window, she shoved her face close to mine.

“Female is everything, Char. It may be a man’s world, but it’s a woman’s universe.”

She walked to her side of the car, and I couldn’t help admiring her. What a clever, intelligent, open-minded, confident woman. How lucky can a girl be?

“Okay, Char-baby.” She climbed in, shut the door, and smiled like a carnival barker who had just suckered his one-millionth customer. “Char the woman, I should say. Where are we going to celebrate?”

“The Silver Saddle Corral. You were going to buy me a big, medium-rare steak, remember?”

She pointed at me and winked. “Good choice. You’ll need the iron.”

We drove to my favorite steakhouse, ordered enormous meals, talked ‘woman-to-woman,’ and two hours later, we headed home.

“How am I going to handle Caroline?” I asked.

She pulled herself back until her arms stretched rigid to the top of the steering wheel. “I’ve been thinking about it. It wouldn’t be right to hide it from her. It wasn’t your fault you started first.”

I leaned against my door. “She’s got to start soon, Mom.”

“She will. She will.”

“Aren’t you worried about it? She’ll be fifteen in December.”

She dropped one arm in her lap. “I’m not worried. Mine started at fourteen and six months. Your fourteenth birthday’s next month. How about that, Char? You beat me by seven months.” She turned left onto a two-lane road.

I hung my left arm over the back of my seat. “So, what about Caroline?”

“Do what you would do if you were an only child.”

“Well ….” I held out my left arm and opened my hand, but nothing came to mind. “I wouldn’t have anyone to tell except you. I’d let you tell Cody and kind of ignore it with him myself. And then … and then I would just take care of it.”

Mom nodded. “Sounds good. You take care of it and don’t say anything to Caroline. After she discovers it, treat it like nothing special.”

I slapped my right hand onto the dash. “You know she’ll start trouble. She’s the jealous one.”

“Yes, she is.” Mom stopped at a red light, drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, and looked at me. “Caroline’s probably been worried about you getting yours first. I don’t know what reaction she’s planned. She pitched a fit over Cody and me getting married last July, then over moving to Florida in August. She’ll probably pitch one over this too.”

Mom thrust her left hand over her abdomen. “Ouch! Damn that hurt.”

I tore my hand off the dash and leaned toward her. “What is it?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been having these sudden pains. Owwwwww!” She glanced at me. “There it is again.”

“It can’t be cramping. Your period was two weeks ago.”

She looked at me with widening eyes. “You’ve been following my menstrual cycle?”

I nodded. “Mine was coming soon, so I watched you closely last month.”

The light turned green, and Mom accelerated. I watched as she returned her hand to her lap. The pain seemed to have gone away. She started whistling her favorite tune, I’ll Never Love This Way Again by Dionne Warwick. After making another left turn, she grabbed her stomach with both hands and threw her head back. “Oh, shit!”

“What is it, Mom?”

The car veered to the right.

I slid toward her with both arms poised in front of me. “Mom, the car!” I waited for her to recover, but she continued holding her abdomen, leaned back, and turned her head toward me. Her eyes closed, and I grabbed for the wheel. She fell against me, preventing me from getting a solid grip.

After taking out a street sign, we plunged through a shallow ditch and narrowly missed a pine tree. The jolting car forced her foot to jam the accelerator. I fought against her pitching body and tried to shove my foot on the brake.

Concentrating on our feet, I didn’t see the wooden fence charge at us. Looking up, I could only squeeze the wheel and scream. Lucky for us, it was frail, and we blasted it to bits without slowing down.

I leaned forward and allowed Mom to fall behind me. Her foot lifted off the gas, and I jammed on the brake. We stopped just shy of a covered picnic table. The family sitting there hadn’t seen us coming, and the parents and three elementary-age children sat ashen-faced with sandwich debris hanging from their mouths.

“Help!” I screamed, keeping my foot on the brake. “My mother’s sick!”

One parent ran to each side of the car. The father opened the driver’s door and quickly threw the automatic gearshift into park. Then he eased Mom out as his wife opened my side.

I didn’t wait for her to pull me out. Instead, I pushed past her and ran around the other side of the car.

“Mom! Mom! What is it? What’s happening?”

END OF SAMPLE

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Prologue

In a universe parallel to ours, the Confederated Provinces of Lybrenia, the CPL, occupy a massive island in the eastern portion of the North Atlantic Ocean just off the coast of Africa. Once called Atlantis, this ancient, highly advanced civilization nearly died out.

While moral fortitude lies rotting across most of the present-day globe, a few champions still exist. One such champion works in the headquarters for the Lamnardy provincial office of the National Environmental and Consumer Protection Agency (NECPA) in Tonsheega, the CPL’s capital city. She is Destiny Jones, the slayer of greedy corporate dragons.

{NOTE: Destiny Jones is kidnapped and dies. Tina (TeeTee) Tendo is the office clerk and Destiny's best friend from their college days. Due to getting her yearly flu shot, and mixing her blood with Destiny's, urged on by Destiny as she lay dying, TeeTee gradually develops the ability to morph into a she-hulk super human whenever she is frightened. Hence Destiny Jones's Legacy.}

{Keep in mind there are differences between parallel universes ... such as having a real Atlantis and a Russia as an 18 century colonial power ... or even a movie hero named Illinois Jones.}

Taken From Two Internal Chapters

After hours of hacking a narrow corridor through suffocating dense greenery, agents Darren McGivers and Tina Tendo reached the base of a natural terrace rising nearly a hundred and fifty feet above the dense jungle floor. Foliage thinly draped the steep slope, blanketed with stunted ferns and wiry shrubs. Long gullies scarred the earth.

Darren wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and pointed up the steep incline. “This is the correct plateau. I’ll climb partway, anchor the rope, and you can climb up behind me.”

TeeTee cocked an eyebrow. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Do you have enough strength to pull yourself up?”

She flexed her right biceps. “Yuppers.”

Darren smirked. “Cute. We’ll find out soon enough.” He strode to the base of the incline and began his ascent with TeeTee following. After a few feet, he paused and looked back. “I changed my mind.”

I hope the new one is a vast improvement.

“Hang tight down there. Once I reach the top, I’ll toss you a rope.”

“Oh? You don’t think I can do it without one?”

“I don’t think you can do it with one.”

“WAB.”

“What?”

Wise-Ass Butthole. She rolled her eyes. “Nothing. Go ahead.”

Darren reached the plateau top and chucked down one end of the rope. TeeTee clasped it, but as he snapped it taut, it jerked free.

“Looks like you’re not even strong enough to hold on to a rope,” he shouted.

It’s a good thing I’m not the Incredible Hulk. My anger’s boiling sufficiently enough to have made the Hulk run up this incline and separate his head from his shoulders. “Oh, I’m strong enough. I just wasn’t expecting a jerk on the other end of the rope.”

“I’ll take that to mean I yanked the rope too hard.”

TeeTee grimaced. “Yes. You could interpret it that way.”

She retook hold of the rope, and he helped her climb by bracing himself and pulling her up. At the top, she dropped the rope. “Wow, that was too much like teamwork.”

He coiled the rope around one hand and elbow. “Don’t get carried away with it. Always follow my instructions, and everything will be fine.”

TeeTee snapped to attention and saluted. “Ja, Komendant.”

He draped the coiled rope over one shoulder. “Try to keep your behavior at least above fourth-grade level, will you?”

They stared into the thinning foliage of waist-high saplings, tufts of grass, and clusters of ground vines.

“I wonder why the vegetation is less dense up here?” TeeTee said.

“Higher altitude.”

She smacked her lips. “Yeah, right. You bet. A hundred and fifty feet brought us into a new climate zone.”

“Hey, I’m just kidding. Didn’t you study any geology? In all probability, the plateau consists of a soil type less conducive to jungle growth.”

Yes, Professor Know-It-All.

Darren pointed to his left. “Staying close to the rim will help us find our way back to the rope.”

Duh!

They walked along the edge, looking into the treetops below. Something whizzed by them. Darren clutched TeeTee’s shoulder. “Watch out!”

Whoosh!

He fell to the right as she sprawled toward the incline. Tumbling off the edge, she plummeted down the steep embankment, bouncing and rolling until she caught hold of a protruding root.

“Darren! Help, Darren!” The root bent severely as she goggled at it. “Holy guacamole!” She watched the root split … then separate. “Stop, please!” She glared at the root, and it ceased its cracking. Her eyes opened wide as she panted. “You’ll hold. Bless you.”

Her face started to contort. “Wowpers! The powers that be, don’t let me morph into Super Destiny now! She’s a lot heavier than—!”

The root snapped, and a transformed TeeTee fell, screaming with each bounce down the incline. Her last bounce threw her into open air, and she fell onto a treetop.

Plunging through the branches, she landed astride a black leopard, its muscles bunching beneath its glossy fur.

Rooooaaaar!

She felt the beast surge upward. After the wild feline stomped back to earth, TeeTee sprang to her feet and discovered the leopard bearing its fangs a mere six feet away. She backed against the tree trunk.

Rooooaaaar!

“Nice kitty. Be a good kitty and leave.”

Rooooaaaar! The leopard pounced.

TeeTee pressed her back against a tree as the black beauty flew toward her. She snatched the beast from the air by its throat and held it aloft while plowing her other fist into its gut.

How am I doing this? It’s as if the big cat has no weight at all. I know Destiny was strong … but she wasn’t this strong.

TeeTee tossed the beast several feet away. It rolled to a stop, sprang to its feet, and gawked at her.

Believe me, leopard, I’m just as bewildered as you. I don’t want to hurt you, so just leave me alone.

The leopard trotted off, shaking its head.

It must be a mind-reading leopard because I swear it’s taking my advice. But Destiny never had that suggestive ability that I know of.

She stared up the incline. “Darren? Darren! Are you there?”

TeeTee strode toward the spot where she and Darren first climbed the plateau.

We couldn’t have strayed too far. If I follow the cliff, I should see the rope soon.

She halted and looked toward the top.

I should have reverted to my usual scrawny self by now. It’s as though the effect of changing into Destiny lasts a little longer each time. I think I’m a little taller too.

“Darren? Are you there?”

She continued sauntering along. After morphing into her original self, TeeTee halted again and stared at the cliff top.

I’m so stupid. As Destiny, I had the strength to climb, but it’s too late now.

She stepped to the edge of the incline.

What just happened? Did someone ambush us up there? Did Darren get attacked by someone who pulled up the rope? Does Empire know what we’re doing? I can’t get there without a rope now … not as TeeTee Tendo.

TeeTee peered at her watch.

I’ll just have to wait.

She sank onto a fallen log and scanned the area. The low, slanting sunlight gilded the grass blades.

I hope there are no more leopards or other wild animals.

Her gaze lit on a brilliant splash of purple high in a young kapok tree—a single Kalmanari orchid on a limb twenty feet overhead glowing like stained glass.

Holy guacamole! If Darren doesn’t return, I can at least bring back the orchid sample to Tonsheega. I must find a way to get it.

TeeTee snatched up the nearest stick and hurled it upward. It flew past the orchid.

Close. I’m sure glad I played baseball while growing up with my brother, Regis.

TeeTee scooped up another stick and hurled it. It glanced off the base of the orchid but failed to dislodge it.

Damn! It’s affixed to the branch. She scrutinized the trunk from the ground to the plant. There are no branches to help with my climb. Maybe the trunk is small enough for me to grip.

She inched toward the trunk and stretched her arms around it. Just barely.

Holding on, she wrapped her legs around it, slid her arms higher, and pulled the rest of her body up a few inches.

At this rate, I might get there by sundown.

She continued upward at a snail’s pace, her muscles trembling with strain. Five minutes later, at nearly ten feet high, her grip loosened, and she fell to the ground. She lay still, struggling to get air into her lungs.

That hurt! I’ve got to stop being so reckless. I wish something would come along and scare the crap out of me. As Destiny, I could run, jump, kick off the tree trunk and ricochet high enough to grab the branch.

TeeTee leaned forward and gazed into the foliage. Another Kalmanari orchid occupied the branch of a smaller tree.

Holy guacamole! That one’s within reach.

She scurried over, gently unwrapped the tangled roots of the delicate flower, and cradled the blossom’s delicate stem, scrutinizing it.

So, you’re the little rascal causing all the trouble. Hopefully, one orchid will be enough to draw all the serum we need for analysis.

“Nang bootoo!” A chorus of harsh voices cut through the late afternoon hush.

TeeTee spun around to face six scantily clad natives—lean, painted in ocher, and carrying spears, axes, and machetes. Their eyes glittered, their chants insistent.

Her back stiffened as she backed up, placing her orchid gently in her sample bag. When they reached her, some raised their weapons.

With her heart thudding loudly, TeeTee shoved her arms forward. “Wait a minute! What do you want?”

They chanted, “Nang bootoo!” and pointed to her bag.

She stepped away from their menacing encroachment. “Nang bootoo to you too.”

The natives pranced around her, taking turns pulling at the bag.

TeeTee wheeled around as the natives infringed further into her space. “You’d better leave. You’re scaring me, and you don’t want to deal with me when I turn into Destiny Jones.”

Two natives jerked harder on her sample bag. “Nang bootoo! Nang bootoo!”

“What is it? Did you see me put the orchid in my bag?”

One native slunk behind her and yanked the bag. It held fast to TeeTee but dragged her to the ground. The other natives leaned over, attempting to separate her from her bag.

“You can’t have it. Go hunt your own orchid.” They’re frightening me! “I need that orchid! It can save lives!”

One native kicked her in the ribs.

“Hey! Stop that!”

The native raised his machete.

TeeTee thrust up an arm. “No! Don’t do it!”

The machete swung downward. She turned to look, and her nose mashed against the quivering blade where it protruded from the ground.

TeeTee shivered as an icy wave radiated outward from the center of her body. Already her face tingled, and her cheeks burned. “Noooooo! Leave me alone!” She leaped up.

In an instant, her body convulsed, her chest broadened, and her limbs lengthened, thickening with musculature strength. As seven-foot-six-inch Destiny Jones bent and grabbed one native by his feet, she swung him around like a rag doll a few times, then let go. The man plowed into three others. The natives lay strewn on the ground, three unconscious, the fourth groggily trying to regain his feet.

Advancing on the other two standing natives, she ripped the spear from one and snapped it in half. The natives gawked until TeeTee almost reached them, then they fled into the jungle, pulling at their hair while screaming, “Kanaima! Kanaima!”

TeeTee breathed rapidly for several seconds. “My name is not Kanaima!”

Kanaima. Kanaima? Oh, yeah … that legend about a half-human, half-wildcat creature that’s supposed to be roaming these parts. He’s too primitive to realize it’s just another myth, such as Sasquatch or the Loch Ness Monster, manufactured for weak minds.

“Ouch.” She examined her left shoulder. “Blood? He cut me.” Sitting up, she slid her fingers over the three-inch surface wound. “Behold the superhero who bleeds.”

TeeTee lifted her sample bag and continued toward the base of the cliff. She realized she had not resumed her normal stature.

What’s taking so long? I’m not scared. I still have a sense of danger, though.

A hulking creature burst from the jungle undergrowth to her right. The beast rose to eight feet and sported a leopard’s hairy head planted on a muscular, hairless human body. At the ends of its human-like fingers and toes protruded long claws. Leopard spots dotted its body.

“Kanaima?” TeeTee whispered, stepping forward.

Kanaima approached, baring sharp teeth and clawed hands. It stopped short, and TeeTee saw it rise six inches over her superhero height. The beast beat on its chest and roared again.

TeeTee stepped toward the creature and shoved it backward. It hit a tree and gaped at her. Tears dribbled down its face. “Go on … scram!” It whirled around and sprinted away.

As the sun retreated from the day’s brightness, TeeTee morphed again into her normal self. With the orchid secure, she retraced her steps to where the jeep was due. It arrived at the pickup point just as she did. She plopped down next to the driver and fell asleep.

END SAMPLE CHAPTER

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Leopard Spirit Guide

Sample Chapter (16)

A Dangerous First Encounter

Regina traveled hard and fast all night. She figured the slavers would use aircraft to search for her in the morning. The farther west she could get, the less likely they were to spot her. Though the jungle could mask her from prying eyes above, technology could strip away that cover.

The sun rose on July the first, and Regina kept traveling. Determination pushed her until the sun hung overhead. She ate some plants in her sack while still on the move and stopped only to perform bodily functions. When the sun stretched overhead, she stopped, found a massive tree with a sizeable aboveground root system, and filled the space between two surface roots with underbrush. Setting her internal alarm clock for three hours, she lay down to rest and plunged into a light sleep.

******

Three hours later, Regina ate again and continued marching west. Her mind had raced, but as she continued to plow through the dense jungle, the natural sounds secured her attention. Birds and other wild animals called to one another with an intensity that insisted on an answer. The jungle’s dampness exploded in a musty wave that spread like one in the ocean and permeated everything.

Regina had become quite adept at picking her way through the jungle underbrush. She made much better time than with her family at the crash site. Her high-spiritedness helped her fly through the spaces on the wings of her ambition.

By sundown, she chanced upon a little stream about waist deep. Before bedding down, she removed her clothes and cleaned herself in the refreshing liquid. Since discovering the brook at the plantation, she had learned to appreciate the medicinal uses of water. It kept her body clean and provided her psyche with rejuvenation—and she had grown to adore it. She wished she had stood under the Ribbon Falls at Yosemite and allowed the spray to charge her naked body electrically, caressing and cleansing every curve, crevice, and pore.

Regina didn’t dress after stepping out of the water. She washed her clothing the best she could and hung them up before settling in the place she had prepared for sleeping.

She ate the last of her plants. Tomorrow, I’ll forage while on the move, and it be the last day I travel westward. It should be safe to turn north toward the coast the next day.

That night she slept a little more comfortably.

******

Not long after crossing the stream the following day, she found two wild plum trees. She picked as much fruit as she could carry and set out again to the west, eating plums as she strode through the jungle.

She stopped to rest when the sun reached overhead.

I can’t believe how smoothly everything’s gone so far. There’s no sign of aircraft. I fooled the slavers into thinking I headed north. If what Lily says is valid, they usually have an easy time re-capturing slaves fleeing on a northerly trek. What will they do when they can’t locate me? Will they assume I fell into the moat? Perhaps I should have left evidence of trying to cross the trench to the east. That would have been an excellent idea.

Regina looked up at the sun and spun away. No, that wouldn’t have been so good. It would have tipped them off that I had crossed the moat, then they would have checked in both directions. Picking up her things, she traveled west for the rest of the day.

******

The next day, she started north

At long last, I’m on my way to the coast.

She figured she could do about twenty miles a day at the pace she set for herself. She was young, and the hard labor of the plantation had made her physically fit.

The sun rose, beaming rays of golden bands thrust into the cerulean darkness of the morning sky. However, the poet Regina Sherwood paid little attention to it. She lost herself in her search for freedom.

Late in the afternoon, Regina broke into a small clearing and hurried onward. She halted halfway. Across the clearing on the jungle’s edge stood a black leopard staring at her.

The female leopard padded slowly toward Regina. The thought of being caught out in the open with one of the fastest carnivores alive tightened her muscles. She dared not run because she remembered her parents’ instruction that it would only provoke the big cat to charge. The leopard quickened its pace forward.

Regina whipped out her chopping tool and knife. Holding one in each hand, she spread her feet and arms as far apart as possible to appear more foreboding. She stood her ground and tried squelching her demoniacal fear, but it welled up in her like the surf during a raging hurricane.

The mighty carnivore stopped within six feet of her. Regina remained motionless.

The cat paced around her. She turned with it. The leopard stopped downwind and sniffed the air. Then it hissed and growled. Regina cocked her head, and the black behemoth leaped.

Regina swung the chopping tool just before being knocked to the ground. A sharp pain dug through her abdomen that felt as though someone had dropped a large rock on her. Barely able to breathe, she struggled to regain her feet.

Dazed by Regina’s blow, the leopard meandered toward her. She struggled to prepare herself to meet the giant feline but couldn’t move because of her labored breathing. The cat staggered close. Regina glanced at the sun-soaked sheen of the wildcat’s chest and saw the leopard spots, shimmering beneath her fur, black on black.

Their eyes met. Regina couldn’t stop her fear from surfacing. They gazed at each other for several seconds, the cat’s essence blending with hers. She remembered a quote from John Muir in her Yosemite Valley research. “The clearest way into the universe is through a forest wilderness.” For her, it became, “The clearest path into the heart of the universe is through the power of a wild beast.” She projected thoughts of her resilient desires and her sheer willpower that won her freedom. They spearheaded her escape from the plantation. The leopard snorted and bounded off toward the south.

The experience of the leopard piercing her eyes haunted her. Chills rippled along her spine. She had met death face to face, and it made her realize that her mortality was much more fragile than she had ever imagined. Yet, she couldn’t help feeling a bit exhilarated by it. She had seen deep into the psyche of the might of Mother Nature—and found it awesomely inspiring.

She pulled herself erect, and a sharp pain hit her mid-torso. She fell to her knees again and clutched under her potato-sack top. Pulling her hand out, a red stain greeted her. She yanked up her top to discover three deep parallel gashes oozing blood.

Great. More blood.

She had brought one of her old rags from her first period and placed it on the wound, applying pressure. A location with water commanded her immediate attention, so she continued staggering in a northerly direction.

What a useful substance … water. If I can’t have electronic rays for healing and cleaning … water sure makes a wonderful substitute.

She stopped by a massive tree and surveyed the surrounding plants. Spying one with huge curved fronds, she trudged over to it. Peering into the frond, she discovered water trapped from the rains and splashed some onto her wounds. After applying more water, fatigue took charge and ordered her to lie down and sleep. Being early afternoon, she knew she needed to be on the move by sunset. Instead, she fell into an uncomfortable, shallow sleep.

END SAMPLE CHAPTER

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“Oh, tiger’s heart, wrapped in a woman’s hide.”

William Shakespeare, Henry VI

“It is rather challenging for a woman in 1862 to achieve more than motherhood.”

Sam Lee, Esquire

CHAPTER 1

Judgment Day

Baltimore, Maryland, Thursday in the late forenoon, June 12, 1862

Quietude refused to reign in the courtroom of the Honorable Judge Henry Wainwright. He raised his gavel and surveyed the gallery, but still the murmuring continued. He brought the ceremonial mallet down hard on its sounding block. “The requested recess has ended, and this court will now come to order!” He fixed his steely gaze on me. “I do believe this is your witness,” he intoned, each word dominating the now subservient silence.

Mark Anthony! The long-awaited moment has arrived. Seated before the anxious court gallery, I felt the expectant, judgmental eyes of the assembled spectators ready to evaluate my every utterance and movement. I stole a brief glance next to me at Mr. Benjamin Talmadge Sage, Esquire—my trusted mentor whose quiet nod steadied my resolve. You have been a most agreeable guide in my understanding of jurisprudence, and I will not disappoint you.

Rising from the prosecution table, I began my measured march forward—every step precise and deliberate as I approached the witness stand. Remember Mr. Lincoln’s advice … ‘Your own resolution to succeed is more important than any other thing.’

Mr. Runnels, a rather slovenly man with a face as unruly as his appearance, grinned with a mouth full of large, yellowed teeth. Leaning far to one side in his witness chair, he gnawed and sucked at the bulge in his cheek. He smacked his fleshy lips, revealing a plug of tobacco continuously oozing dark-brown juice from one corner of his mouth. His once-crisp button-up shirt now bore several stains, a testament to years of neglect.

“Well …?” Judge Wainwright’s commanding tone penetrated my thoughts. “Have you decided on a staring contest as your mode of cross-examination?” A ripple of mild snickering danced through the gallery.

Mr. Runnels snorted, his eyes narrowing as he fixed his gaze on the judge. “You ain’t trying to yank my legs clean outta their sockets, is you?” He pointed a calloused finger at me. “A female lawyer? The courts ain’t been overrun by insane asylum escapees, has they?”

The judge’s gavel boomed sharply. “You shall be civil whilst in my court, Mr. Runnels. Miss Samantha Lee has endured two years of rigorous training as an apprentice. How well she performs today on her first unassisted cross-examination shall determine whether she stands before the bar Saturday next.”

“Saturday?” Mr. Runnels scoffed, whisking a hand through his grimy, thinning hair. “This court ain’t open Saturdays!”

“This court is open every Saturday for all business except jury trials … and has been for years.”

Mr. Runnels let out a derisive laugh as he pointed at me. “She’s gonna see you on Saturday, and you’re gonna hand her a law license?” His eyebrows drew together. “You let a woman in the courts, and trials is gonna take twice as long.” He harrumphed. “Twice as long, I tells ya.”

Judge Wainwright’s gaze hardened as he pointed his gavel in a threatening manner at Mr. Runnels. “Cease your idle chatter and answer her questions.”

“All right.” Mr. Runnels relented, though his tone retained its defiant edge. “But she better let me get a word in edgeways.” A stifled chuckle rose from the gallery.

“Please continue, Miss Lee,” the judge prompted with an imperious nod.

Here I am, the sole attorney ever to navigate a courtroom in skirts … a pioneer of my own making. I endeavored to imagine the manner in which I would be perceived as I glided delicately in my frilly white blouse paired with a vibrant green skirt, my red hair flashing like a beacon in a storm. Approaching the witness with a deliberate, confident smile, I leaned in. “Mr. Runnels, where were you on April nineteenth, eighteen hundred and sixty-one?”

“You know where I was,” he drawled. “Your first question …,” he waved a dismissive hand at the judge, “… and it were a stupid one.” The gallery erupted in raucous laughter.

The judge’s gavel struck again, silencing the room as I raised a cautious hand in deference. “It is all right, Your Honor. It shall gladden me to enlighten him should you have no objection.”

“Please do.”

Looking back at Mr. Sage seated at our prosecution table, I pointed to a man seated at a small desk to his left. “This gentleman is Mr. Styles.”

Mr. Styles looked up and lowered his pen with an almost imperceptible nod.

I stepped towards him. “He is the official stenographer. He sits there with his four-dollar Esterbrook gold pen, an artifact whose price has soared since the war began last year. Every spoken word is captured with meticulous care.” I edged forward and swung my hand towards the defense table to the right of ours, in the gallery’s direction between, and back to Judge Wainwright. “I ask questions to which everyone, doubtless, knows the answers so Mr. Styles can enter them into the official record.”

Lowering my hands, I clasped them before me. “Now, if you will, please answer the question.”

Mr. Runnels shrugged and lifted one hand, palm up. “You took so dad-blamed long I plum forgot the dang question.” Mild laughter rippled through the courtroom, and the gavel sounded again.

The judge glared at the gallery. “Do not encourage this witness in his rude behavior.”

I edged around to face the witness. “Where were you on April nineteenth, eighteen hundred and sixty-one?”

Mr. Runnels wrapped his forefinger and thumb around his stubble-ridden chin and rubbed. “Let’s see … that was over a year since.” He brightened and shoved his index finger upwards. “Ah, I was near that there train station where them Massachusetts troops come in on.”

“The Massachusetts sixth?”

“I don’t rightly know what number they was,” he admitted with a nonchalant shrug.

I dropped my hands to my sides, pivoted, and stepped away. “Let us understand you better. You refer to the President Street Station of the Philadelphia, Wilmington, and Baltimore Railroad.” Stopping, I swiveled back. “Is that correct, sir?”

He bobbed his head.

“Please speak up.”

“I s’pose that’s the station,” he mumbled, punctuating it with a guttural sound akin to a pig clearing its throat. “Anyways, I was up on Pratt Street a little ways watching them Union troops marching alongside the train cars.”

I approached him. “Are you from Baltimore?”

“I sure as hell ain’t.”

“From where, then?”

“Arkansas. Fort Smith.”

“And what were you doing in Baltimore?”

Pressing his pudgy lips together, he tilted his head slowly, the rolls of fat on his neck expanding with each measured word. “Oh, I don’t know. It seemed like a nice place to visit.”

I stepped to the side and faced the jury. “Is it because Baltimore is a city awash in Southern dissent … or because you were disillusioned that Maryland did not secede from the Union?”

He leaned towards the judge and pointed at me. “Does she have to talk like a confounded book?”

“Yes,” Judge Wainwright insisted. “If she continues to talk like a book, I allow that she may very well receive her law license Saturday next.”

Mr. Runnels leaned back, a snicker escaping his lips. “Funny, I ain’t never heared no book say the first word.” Again, laughter stirred in the gallery.

The gavel banged once more. “Mr. Runnels, do not mock my court, or you shall warm a jail bench for a few days.” His glare swept over the gallery with icy precision. “And those who deign to encourage the witness’s antics will, likewise, be encouraged straight out of this courtroom.”

After Mr. Runnels’s face sobered, I approached him. “Did you travel east to cause dissension?”

He narrowed his eyes, his voice thick with dismissive disdain. “Course not. I don’t give a hoot about no dad-blamed war.” He laughed. “I’m a man of peace, I am.”

I eased my left-hand fingers to my lips, then lowered them enough to speak. “Do you suppose, Mr. Runnels, that it was just a coincidence that your nice visit to our fair city came just seven days after Fort Sumter was captured by the Confederates?”

Mr. Farmer shot to his feet. “Objection, your honor.”

“State your objection.”

“Miss Lee is editorializing, despite its being in the form of a question.”

“Sustained.” Judge Wainwright glowered at me. “Don’t waste your time with frivolous questions you know will be targeted by opposing counsel, Miss Lee.” He shook his head. “Continue, please.”

I sauntered to the prosecution table, where Mr. Sage handed me two sheets of paper. I took one to Mr. Farmer’s defense table and the other to the judge. “Your Honor, please allow me to enter this document into the record. You hold an intercepted note concerning Mr. Runnels’s genuine reason for being in Baltimore. Your Honor, you have the original note.” I beamed at Mr. Farmer. “And you, sir, have a transcribed copy.”

I edged towards the jury and surveyed their expectant faces. “This note is from Mr. Quarrels, a known Confederate agitator. It contains information on the meeting places of Southern dissidents who contrive to harass Northern troops passing through on Baltimore’s railway system.”

Facing Mr. Runnels again, I continued with measured deliberation, “Anyone arriving at the President Street Station, whose destination is south of Baltimore, must disembark and wait for the railroad cars to be detached. Horses then draw the cars along the Pratt Street tracks to Camden station. Usually, passing troops congregate and proceed on foot alongside the cars, thus rendering them susceptible to harassment. Is that not so, Mr. Runnels?”

He squinted. “Susceptible?”

“Vulnerable,” I clarified.

“Vulnerable?”

I folded my arms. “Then, if you please, allow me to rephrase. Bystanders can easily throw rocks at these troops.”

He sighed, his eyes wandering. “I s’pose they can.” He stabbed a thumb onto his chest. “But I didn’t.”

I pounded a fist into my palm. “Come now … is that not the real reason you journeyed all the way from Arkansas to Baltimore?”

He threw his head back and glared down his nose. “It ain’t.”

“Did you bring a weapon with you from Fort Smith?”

“No gun,” he grumbled.

“What then?”

Fat bulged again as he rocked his head from side to side. “Uh … I always carry my Arkansas toothpick.” He thrust forward. “But that ain’t no weapon.”

I stepped towards him. “No? A long-bladed Bowie knife … and you do not consider that a weapon?”

“No, it’s just a tool.”

“A tool indeed,” I scoffed. “A formidable implement capable of piercing a man’s torso, would you not agree?”

“I ain’t never used it for that.” He shot back.

“What then … for picking your teeth?”

Mr. Farmer jumped to his feet. “Your Honor, I must object.”

I swiveled towards the bench. “I will withdraw the last question, Your Honor.”

Mr. Farmer remained steadfast while leaning on his table with both hands. “I still object.”

“And what is the nature of your objection, Mr. Farmer?”

“Mr. Runnels is not on trial here. We are seeking to determine Mr. Baines’s guilt or innocence.” He pointed to his client seated next to the other defense attorney. “He is accused of throwing a few pebbles at some Massachusetts regiments.”

Mr. Sage rose. “Scarcely pebbles. Rocks, all of them … except for the half-brick that struck one soldier in the head.” Mr. Runnels scowled at the judge as Mr. Sage continued, “This vile act resulted in a vicious wound, which detained the soldier for weeks.”

With muted determination, I approached the bench. “Your Honor, it goes to the intent of this witness … his potential lack of political impartiality.” I slowly turned to observe Mr. Farmer. “How can one who comes here fraught with fervent Confederate sentiment offer impartial testimony at an event where citizens assailed U.S. troops?” A furious repartee erupted at the defense table.

The judge’s gavel resounded sharply. “Overruled. It goes to the witness’s credibility, and this note will be accepted into the record.” The lawyers reseated themselves.

I turned my attention to the beleaguered witness. “Please remain focused on the task at hand, Mr. Runnels. Now, can you describe the actions of the defendant?”

Pointing vaguely towards the defense table, he mumbled, “Mr. Baines?” His hand dropped to his lap. “Right. I watched the goings-on when I seen this man, the one that was Baines …. I seen him scurrying about with the common people picking up stones and stuffing them in his pockets. Other folks was yelling foul names and cursing … some throwing rocks. Bigguns too!”

I folded my arms. “And what did Mr. Baines do with his rocks?”

Mr. Runnels lowered his gaze and furrowed his brow. “What do you mean? I done told you. He just shoved them rocks in his pockets.” The gallery laughed.

I drew a deep breath. “My meaning concerns what he did with the rocks once they were in his pockets. So, what did he do with them?”

He hesitated. “He looked about for a spell … then ran off. I follered him, and some few streets away, he took them stones and pitched them in a ditch.”

“And where did he go thereafter?”

He executed a dismissive swing of his hand to one side. “Away. He walked away from the ruckus. I figured he was done, so I just moseyed on back to my hotel.”

“But you do not know for certain that he returned to his home, do you?”

He squirmed. “I said, I figured he did.”

“Then tell us, is it true that figuring is not necessarily knowing?”

Drawing his elbows in and letting his shoulders rise in defiance, he retorted, “I don’t know the law. That’s for you pettifogging lawyers to know.”

I ambled towards Mr. Sage and raised my eyebrows. He nodded slightly, and I spun back towards the witness. “Mr. Runnels, do you know a Mrs. Strudelmeier?”

“No,” he quipped.

“Were you aware that she testified for the prosecution?”

“Course not. We ain’t allowed in the courtroom ’cept to testify. We dunno nothing ’bout the case ’cept what we know.”

I stepped towards Mr. Runnels. “Please give me leave to restate your answer.” Slowly, I turned towards the jury, letting my voice resonate clearly. “Any witness knows what occurs in a courtroom only during the brief time of their testimony.” I pivoted back towards the witness stand. “Mr. Runnels, you know naught about the trial except for what you witnessed today. Is that correct?”

His face contorted as he scrunched lower, muttering, “S’pose so.”

I inched closer. “You appear to be in a rather bad way. Could you speak a little louder, sir?”

He stiffened, his voice rising slightly. “That there’s how it were. It ain’t my fault.”

Mr. Farmer sprang to his feet. “Accounts of trials are reported in the tabloids. Is that not correct, Mr. Runnels?”

“Course.”

“Thank you.” Mr. Farmer sternly reseated himself.

I redirected my attention to Mr. Runnels. “Are you literate?”

He squinted and glanced toward the judge as if seeking confirmation. “I ain’t got no idea what you’re blathering on about.”

I leaned on the rail between us. “Are you able to read?” His body stench reached my nose, inviting me to take a step back.

“Uh ….” He scanned the room. “I ain’t never had no book learning, if that’s what you mean.”

Mr. Farmer stood. “I object, Your Honor.”

“State the nature of your objection.”

“Miss Lee is straying off-topic. She started by mentioning Mrs. Strudelmeier’s testimony.” He extended a hand towards the jury. “A testimony we are all familiar with … and now she drops the subject rather like a hot coal.”

Judge Wainwright raised his hand. “Overruled. Let the coals tend to themselves. I am exceedingly curious as to where Miss Lee is endeavoring to take this line of questioning.” He dug his gaze deep into me. “Please. Do go on … and be brief. The moment I detect a lack of direction,” he held up his gavel, “I will bring an immediate halt to your line of questioning.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Placing my hands on my hips, I faced Mr. Runnels. “So, no book learning means you cannot read. Is that correct?”

He stared at his clenched hands. “S’pose so.”

“Then, is it also correct that you cannot know the circumstances of the trial?”

He glared. “I heared tell.”

“How?”

“I heared talk of it.”

“And where were you when last you heard people discussing the trial?”

“At the Horse.”

I snapped my head back. “The Horse? Baltimore’s most famous, or should I say, most infamous pub?” I spread my arms wide like a magician about to perform a magic trick. “Oh, indeed. The Horse’s Derrière bar in Fells Point.” The gallery burst into uproarious laughter, and the judge had to subdue them with his banging gavel. With the quieting courtroom, I continued, “The Horse … the leading establishment for gossip and slander.” I folded my arms and stepped away. “Scarcely a reliable source.” I lowered my arms and turned. “And how many drunken patrons prattled on about the trial?”

“I object, Your Honor,” Mr. Farmer said without standing. “Miss Lee—”

Judge Wainwright struck his gavel. “Overruled. Hurry this along, Miss Lee. Let us get to the point before dinner.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” I ambled away from the witness. “Mr. Runnels, Mrs. Strudelmeier testified yesterday that she assisted Mr. Baines in collecting rocks and observed him hurling them at the Massachusetts troops.” I pivoted towards the jury. “What say you to that?”

Mr. Runnels shook his head. “It’s a dad-blamed lie. I ain’t seen nothing like that.”

“Did you come from The Horse before happening upon the riot?”

“Course not.”

I took a measured step closer. “You were intoxicated before you showed up to watch Mr. Baines, were you not?”

He stiffened noticeably, his arms tight against his sides. “I weren’t drunk.”

I raised my hands and marched towards the jury. “You were drunk out of your mind and had not a notion of what was going on at the riot. Is that not so?”

His heavy-soled boot pounded the floor. “That ain’t true! Stop putting your own dad-blasted words in my mouth, consarn it!”

Swiveling sharply, I fixed my iron gaze on him. “You are not interested in justice lest it can be found in a bottle, are you?”

Increasing his fervor, he jabbed a finger at me. “That’s a lie! You’re a liar!”

I lunged towards him. “You came along as drunk as Dionysus, witnessed the commotion, and proceeded to investigate. Tell me, did you hurl a few stones of your own?”

He smacked a hand on the rail before him. Thud! “I ain’t never throwed no stones!”

Reaching the witness stand, I pierced his eyes with my glare. “You came here seeking information on how to disrupt such a scene.” I extended my arms to either side. “Your actions and the note from Mr. Quarrels clearly reveal that you had an ax to grind, didn’t you?”

“Well … yes …. Uh, no. I ain’t even got no ax.”

I lowered my arms and edged to the rail. “And is that not a strong indication of how much you loathe Yankees?”

His expression hardened. “I sure do hate them Yankees, but I ain’t lying about Mr. Baines!”

Leaning over the rail, I pressed on, “You hated Yankees so intensely that you were loath to see them on what you perceived as Southern soil!”

He sprang to his feet. “You’re lying!”

“Am I?” I pounded on the rail several times with a forceful rhythm. “There they were, visiting a state that ought to have seceded, and you could not resist availing yourself of the opportunity, could you?”

He slapped his hands on the rail to either side of my stilled ones. “Yes, they was in the South, and I wanted to get them Yankee scum out … but, as God is my witness, I ain’t throwed nothing!”

Ignoring his stench, I leaned forward, nearly nose to nose with him. “So, how much did Mr. Baines pay you to lie for him?”

“Ten dol …!” Withdrawing his hand, he whipped one to his mouth, shooting his brows upward as though a horse had stomped upon his foot.

A glance at Mr. Farmer found his head buried in his hands. I beamed at Mr. Runnels and devoured him with my smile. “Ten dollars. I see.” I strolled towards the judge. “I have no further questions for this witness, Your Honor.”

As I returned to the prosecution table, Mr. Styles offered me a conspiratorial wink. I returned it with one of equal intensity, the silent exchange speaking volumes as the courtroom’s tension dissolved into calm.

END OF SAMPLE

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Albacron Book 1:

The Threat From the Others

by Dakota Orlando

“We are in danger of destroying ourselves by our greed and stupidity. We cannot remain looking inwards at ourselves on a small and increasingly polluted and overcrowded planet.”

Stephen Hawking

“No matter how honestly humanity builds its society, the greed of humanity, if allowed to flourish, will find a way to destroy it.”

Zosma of Roswell, Executive Admiral > 2745 C.E.

PART 1: THE OTHERS

Ronald I. Pravus: “Truly great leaders snap at their people … and they take much joy in watching them fearfully comply. I want to be a great leader. I want my people not only to jump but to ask, ‘How far, Your Excellency.’ Yes … Your Excellency. I like that.”

"In our ancient times, even before the Pre-Magnus Bellum era, the Chinese built their ‘Great Wall’ so high and mighty that it stopped invading marauders from entering their land. Albacron’s wall comprised advanced technology that kept the rest of humanity in servitude and abject destitution."

The Compilation Historica of the Post Magnus Bellum by Mary Amity.

Chapter 1:

Incident on the Pecos River

Tuesday, June 12, 2745

Our little-explored, post-apocalyptic world changed the day my brother and his wife took their daughter, my sister, and my three young children for a picnic up the Pecos River. When they failed to return, I ordered a senior member of our military to fly a heliocruiser to locate them.

******

A round, open, flying platform flew just above the river’s surface. The pilot clutched a golden crossbar that rose on a gray vertical shaft from the heliocruiser deck. The cruiser swept upstream from where the old village of Roswell used to lie seven hundred years ago in the now defunct state of New Mexico.

As the red, white, and blue-uniformed pilot flew over the riverbank, his keen eyes glimpsed a sandbar littered with debris that told a troubling story. He hovered over the right embankment, scanning the beach, hoping it held the answers to the questions swirling in his mind. A half-submerged beach umbrella flapped weakly at the water’s edge, while seven fold-up chairs lay scattered across the sand, three of them overturned as if a storm had swept through and left chaos in its wake.

Five towels. There should be seven. A sinking feeling twisted his gut. Had the current swept the others downstream?

He hastily landed with a thud that reverberated through his bones. Removing his blue flight helmet, he double-tapped his personal communicator embedded behind his right ear. “Commander Hamal to Flight Commander Cassandra.”

“Commander Cassandra, over.”

“I found where Deneb, Alcyon, Doctor Meri Diana, and the children picnicked.” He gulped, but kept his voice even. “There’s no sign of them. The site looks disturbed, but I don’t see their heliocraft fighter anywhere.”

“Use your Qualitative Data Analyzer. They should have followed protocol and set their craft to invisible mode. I can’t imagine they left without cleaning up. Maybe they went aboard their helio to catch a motion picture from before-the-Magnus-Bellum. You know what a movie buff Deneb is.”

“Understood. Commander Hamal out.” He stepped off his cruiser, set his helmet on it, and removed his hand-sized, rectangular QDA from its belt pouch. With his gaze fixed on it, he tried to keep his heart from racing. He tapped a button on the right side, activating its aqua-colored screen. In scanning the area, an orange blip shone bright. His breathing stopped as he scrutinized the nearby hillock.

With a swift series of taps, the outline of Deneb’s saucer-shaped fighter craft materialized just beyond the slope’s peak—an ominous sight devoid of any movement. “No life signs,” he muttered. Hamal tottered toward the heliocraft. After tapping another button and dialing down a setting on the QDA, he halted. “No. Oh, no! There’s no organic matter aboard.”

He spun and scurried back toward his cruiser. Stopping by a cooler nestled askew in the sand, he kneeled and flipped it open. Stuffed with food. He surveyed the area. Something interrupted them. They would have eaten before exploring with Electra’s children or returned to their heliocraft to watch a movie.

Hamal’s heart thundered as he rose and raced the last few steps toward his cruiser. Climbing aboard, he scooped up his helmet, slipped it on, and turned toward the beach scene. Someone took them against their will. It would take several to subdue them all. Deneb and his wife, Alcyon, were distinguished fighter pilots during the Second Liberation. Who could have subdued them so easily?

He flew toward the Roswell Sierra Blanca Mountain base. Kidnapped? It feels surreal. Since defeating the Albacronians six years ago, we’ve had no enemies … but then, we never explored the rest of the North American Continent. Roswell is our only community this far west. Why has Electra been reluctant? Perhaps she feared what we might find. Now … it may have found us!

Racing along the Pecos, Hamal increased to maximum speed. Wait until Madame President Primus finds out that her family has been taken. Hasn’t Electra suffered enough since she re-established a free America fifteen years ago? I’m afraid she won’t take this well, and I will not like being the one to deliver the news.

Chapter 2:

Ignorance Aside, No News is Bliss

Electra

“Hey, Electra, look there,” the young, dark-complexioned woman’s voice cut through my thoughts like the hum of her heliochair’s motor as she glided beside me, easily matching my rapid gait. Her dark eyes sparkled with excitement as she pointed.

I followed her gaze and spied Commander Hamal’s heliocruiser speeding toward our Sierra Blanca Mountain hangar base. The sight of it stirred a hopeful flutter in my chest. We waved at him.

Celeste lowered her arm and wrinkled her brow. “He didn’t see us.”

“No surprise. Commander Hamal probably found my family frolicking too far upriver. That brother of mine ….” I shook my head. “Deneb’s too bold for his own good.”

As we left the Roswell Exterior village, I sauntered across the Plateau Plaza, where we had worked tirelessly to cultivate a green oasis amid the remnants of our past. The tree-lined walkways, parks, and ponds felt like a sanctuary, a living testament to our hard-won freedom.

My eyes drifted to the Lincoln Memorial, the statue—a symbol of resilience—looming proudly. I reverently admired it, as I always did, feeling the weight of what it represented. It was inside that monument where Alaster and I unearthed the ancient documents when it stood within the Washington, D.C. ruins … where scientists seven centuries ago had preserved the world’s knowledge in a tiny sphere, now a cornerstone of modern-day Nova America.

“Are we going to work on the alien database later?” Celeste’s voice broke my trance.

“Sure.” I smiled at her, but I sensed her impatience bubbling beneath the surface.

“We’re almost finished with it. I bet you can’t wait to be done with that fifteen-year project.”

Fifteen years! Has it been that long ago that the three-inch Prudentia Scientifica Sphere led us to Roswell … to the alien ship that crashed nearby in 1947? Without it, we wouldn’t have had the technological edge to defeat the Albacronians.

As we approached the hangar bay entrance at the base of the mountain, I could feel Celeste’s frustration.

“I want to use my legs again. When will you and Doctor Meri Diana find the fix for my spine in all that alien code?”

I pointed at her heliochair, gliding effortlessly through the gentle wind. “My sister and I are still working on it. But, hey … look at what an advantage you have in that flying wheelchair. You can’t do that with your legs.”

She laughed, a light sound that warmed me. “If I ever get my legs back to working, I’ll keep this thing.” With a flick of her fingers, she activated the control panel. “I think I’ll get an ice cream float. See you later, alligator.” She sped away, turning abruptly toward Roswell Exterior.

I stopped as she pulled away. “Hey, watch it with that thing. You’re going to get a ticket for reckless flying.” I smiled. A remarkable young woman … her spirit unbroken despite everything she’d endured. The only surviving witness to the sabotage by Albacronian agents, she had paid dearly for it. I chased back a tear. I love her like my own daughter.

I double-tapped behind my right ear. “President Primus Electra to Vega.”

“Hi, mother. Where are you?”

“Approaching Roswell Interior. Vega, I told you to use official communication protocol language.”

“Mother, you’re linking to me. No one else can hear us. You know what I think of this military mumbo-jumbo. I’m the chairperson for ASHGGI. Do you really want me to answer, ‘Vega here, chairperson of the American Society of Historic, Geographic, and Geologic Information?’ That’s so long-winded, not to mention silly. And it’s weird too.”

“All right.” I laughed. “I get it. You’re acting like a normal teen, so consider me properly chastised.”

“We’re on the verge of understanding exactly where the Roswell aliens came from, and since you’re the continental expert on their language … please come and help me.”

I passed through the hangar opening and entered Chasm Hall, built into Sierra Blanca Mountain. “Get out of here. You know almost as much as me.”

“Seriously, Mother, I need your help. It’s astounding what I’ve found in the original alien ship’s database this morning.”

“I’m supposed to show up in one of your aunt’s schools in an hour and talk to all the classes about the Liberation.”

“The First or Second Liberation?”

“Both.”

“What? That’ll take forever. Your sister can wait. This is important.”

“Your Aunt Chara’s not going to be happy.”

“Forget Aunt Chara. I’m not happy. Come here first and make me happy.” She whimpered like a puppy. “Please?”

“All right. Your groveling worked. I’ll be there, but I can’t stay long.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Where are you … on the Abraham or the Madison?”

“Madison. Vega, chairperson of the American Society of Historic, Geographic, and Geologic Information….” She exaggerated strained breathing. “Whew! Over and out.”

“Don’t be a wiseass.”

Strolling past the original alien ship, the A.S. Abraham, I found myself walking through a cloud of nostalgia. This place has become my sanctuary over the years—a refuge from our dark past under malicious Albacronian rule. As I sauntered toward the back of the hall near the passageway leading to the underground lake, I glanced up the eighteen stories of mostly perimeter breezeway condos on either side of Chasm Hall and above the passageway entrance to the interior of the mountain.

I love Roswell Interior. It’s been my home since our capriciously playful hologram from the sphere revealed it to us fifteen years ago. It’s been so long since my poverty days in a dilapidated shanty in Old Baltimore. Under Albacronian rule, we scraped for every scrap of food. Now, we’ve rebuilt that city into New Baltimore … and in its original location along the Chesapeake Bay. The old bombed-out village on the Calvert Cliffs is being restored as a national monument and museum, which they’ll want me to dedicate upon its completion.

I passed the first two alien ship replicas and stopped adjacent to the third, the A.R. Madison, my ship during the Second Liberation struggle. It sat in front of the statues honoring three of our finest deceased citizens. Beyond them lay the passage to the underground recreational lake.

Strolling under the hundred-foot saucer-shaped spacecraft, I stopped a little off-center and stared up at a discolored circle about five feet in diameter. It was charcoal colored and stood out from the steely-gray underside. Once I centered myself beneath it, an opaque white light flowed slowly down and engulfed me. A second later, I stood on the circular exit plate to the starboard side of the Captain’s Chair.

We never figured out how this machine could take a body and pass it through the ship’s hull. We’ve duplicated the process. But if we can work out the mechanism, think of the possibilities.

Sighing, I stared at my captain’s chair. I miss the days when I flew this baby. I drew a deep breath. Why am I so sentimental today? Nothing has gone wrong. As I stepped toward the command center, a reflex hijacked my attention. I squatted slightly while shooting a hand up to protect my head.

“What am I doing?” I straightened up and lowered my hand. “I’m not aboard the Abraham built for creatures much smaller than me. When a five-foot-three human has to duck … that’s weird.” I swished my hand along the hair atop my head. “It’s not fair. I’m supposed to fit under everything.”

I stared at the escape hatch recessed in the overhead above the exit plate. Here and the Commons Room are the only two places my short frame can stand erect aboard the Abraham. We built these replicas to fit humans.

Placing my hands on the back of the command chair, I scanned the view the ship’s captain would have as I delved deeper into my memories.

The duty stations spread before me in an outward arc. I eased close to the chair and stared down at it, laying one hand on the right armrest ladened with control buttons.

I came from the poor village of Bawl Mehr, a name the Albacronians bastardized from Baltimore. Me, a nobody seventeen-year-old, one of four siblings, keeping the family together after having lost both parents to Albacronian cruelty and greed.

I stroked the armrest while scanning a slightly different bridge from the Second Liberation. In my mind’s eye, it bustled with enthusiastic and hopeful officers on a mission to steal the freedom our Albacronian overlords refused to give us.

I swept my gaze around the port side until it met with the back bulkhead.

“Ensign Triton!” I barked.

A handsome young man, barely nineteen, swung around, exuding confidence. “Yes, Madam Mayor … I mean Captain.”

“We’re launching in five minutes. You’re our weapons officer replacement for Lieutenant Notus. Are you up for it?”

He grinned wider than a Cheshire smile. “Bring it on, ma’am. Let’s give the Superior Albacronian more hell than he can handle.” He turned back to his station console.

I swung my gaze clockwise and stopped at the next duty station. “Ensign Raya. Ready communications.”

The frail, petite late teen turned her head and grinned. “Ready as they’ll ever be.”

I proceeded to the next station on the clockwise progression—the new Tactical/Ops we did not have back in 2739.

Peering straight ahead at the helmsman, I barked, “Ready at the helm, Lieutenant Commander Aurora?” My most senior and experienced officer nodded without turning around.

Continuing, my gaze stopped at the Navigation Station. “Lieutenant Sargas lay in a course for Adelphy.”

“Aye, Aye, Captain,” he said.

Another new station, Environmental Control, followed by Engineering manned by Lieutenant Selene.

“Engineering, everything shipshape?”

Salene had just finished throwing a switch. “Yes, ma’am, Madame Mayor.”

I swiveled my chair to face the open entrance to the bridge leading to the interior of the ship and to the Commons Room where Vega sat working on the alien language translation. It was a room where the aliens trained their young during long flights to far-flung worlds … like ours. The first station to the port side of the hall will belong to Vega’s ASHGGI when we fly again. To the portside of it is the Pure Science Station we never utilized. It contains the verboten brain booster. To the starboard side of the hall entrance is the Security Station, also inactive six years ago.

Those were awesome days. Good people fighting to be free. I shook the past from my mind. “Time to return to the reality of today.”

I entered the aft passageway and turned right at the fork. Continuing along the semi-circular hall, I arrived at the open entrance to the Commons Room on my left. Vega sat at the island console and scrolled through the alien language, her back to me.

I stood and watched her work, my thoughts misting over with reminiscence. I love this adopted daughter of mine so much. I remember the first time I saw her in Roanoke … sixteen, alone in the world, about to be euthanized.

Daughter Alcyon and I had flown to Roanoke and sneaked inside its perimeter fence. We had dressed in rags to blend in as just a couple of Vercundi slaves.

The attendant standing behind her station chair among a roomful of desks had just slipped a helmet over the head of a mid-teen. Its two bulges covered her ears. My soon-to-be second adopted daughter sat in the attendant’s chair.

“What is this for?” the girl said.

“We’re going to listen to your brain …” the woman snickered, “… to see if you are smarter than a dog.”

“What? More intelligent than a dog?” I stomped around the desk, grabbed the helmet off the girl’s head, and threw it to the floor.

A glance at Al found her eyes wide.

“Yes, daughter. Mama’s pissed!” I reached around the girl, picked up the rectangular box, threw it on the floor, and stomped on both items.

The attendant backed up a step. “What in the world…?”

I ignored her and leaned over Vega. “They’re about to erase your memory, girl, like they did to me once. I’m not going to allow that to happen.” I extended a hand toward her, careful not to touch her. “Get up, child. I’d send you back to the food distribution building for plenty to eat, but I know where you can get a better meal. You’re coming with us, and you can file a complaint with the Supreme Mayor of Roanoke. How many days have you gone without eating?”

She rose. “Three, ma’am.”

“And they’ve sentenced you to three more. Twice a perimeter violator?” The girl nodded. I reached toward the opaque, reddish-brown, hexagonal crystal hanging around the girl’s neck, careful not to touch her. “What’s this … the Crystal of Shame?” I let it fall back into place and glared at the attendant. “They’re still doing that too?”

I backed up and leaned my head forward. “Hold the string straight out and let the crystal dangle.” The girl did, and I moved my head close to it. A white light shot from the jewel in my headband and engulfed the crystal. A thousand shattered pieces rained onto the floor. I glanced at the attendant.

Her eyes nearly bugged out of her head. “Who the hell are you?”

Vega lost tears and stared at Al, and then at me. She lunged forward to hug me.

I threw out my arms and jumped back. “No, sweetie, don’t touch!” The girl stopped with questioning eyes. “Sweetheart, you don’t want this to happen to you.” I reached out and eased a hand on the attendant’s shoulder.

The woman froze. Her eyes glassed over as she stared toward the ceiling and keeled over. The girl backed away, her mouth dropping open.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” I said.

The girl’s mouth quivered into a smile. “Vega.”

“After we kick the Supreme Mayor’s ass, we’re getting you the hell out of here.” I turned to Al. “Come on, Alcyon. I think I have another desk to destroy.”

******

“Mother? What are you doing with that shit-eating grin on your face? You’re not a country bumpkin.”

I shook myself from my stupor. “What?”

Vega tightened her lips and shook her head. “You’re standing there in the Commons Room entrance daydreaming.”

Laughing, I entered. “Just thinking about how you used to be an ignorant Vercundi girl barely surviving in Roanoke before I got you out of there.”

She smiled. “And now I’m an American girl who received an instant education through your Instaratio treatment.” She pointed toward the command center. “I want to take the alien brain booster like my sister Alcyon and you did.” She eased back in her swivel chair. “So, which special power do you think I’ll get: your telekinesis or Al’s telepathy?”

I walked toward her with narrowed eyes, pointing a finger at her face. “You’re more likely to get yourself killed. Alcyon and I took the brain booster because we were one, impatient, and two, stupid.” I bounced a finger off her head. “I will not risk another daughter.”

“Mother, come on. It could make me another Super Girl.”

I lightly smacked her cheek. “A lot of good ‘Super’ will do you in the grave. Besides, once you arrest your aging, you will be sort of super.”

“Funny, six years ago, you told the Superior Albacronian you wanted nothing to do with their age-freezing technology. You said something like, ‘Who wants to live forever?’ What changed your mind?”

“I got older.” Snickering, I spread my arms wide. “And now look at me. I’m thirty-three, but do I look a day over twenty-seven?”

She jerked her head back. “Really? I always thought you were treading water at thirty-nine.” She laughed.

I scurried toward her, secured her in a headlock, and rubbed my knuckles on her head. “Now, you take that back.”

She squirmed and giggled. “Ahhhhhh! Child abuse!” I let her go, and she rubbed her head as if it hurt. “Anyway, Mother, I don’t think twenty-two is the right time.”

“Excellent decision. Most people wait until full maturity around twenty-six, twenty-seven, the same time they choose to have kids.”

“Madam President Primus!”

I turned to discover Hamal standing in the entranceway. “What is it, Commander?”

He panted a little. “Excuse me. I had to deliver this personally. It’s bad news, I’m afraid.” He hurried toward me. “Your brother Deneb and adopted daughter Alcyon went on a picnic with your sister Meri Diana and your other three children to the Pecos River.”

“I know that. They went too far upriver, didn’t they?”

He jerked erect and threw out his hands. “They’re gone! Their heliocraft is there, but they’re nowhere to be found.”

“What?” My mouth remained open while I tried to digest the news. Gone? “Perhaps they went on a hike?”

“Not likely. Their picnic area was disturbed and their cooler containing their food was untouched.”

I sighed. “Did you search the area?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Then that’s it. Go back with several security officers and search for them. You know my sister Meri Diana likes to hike the countryside. I’m sure they couldn’t have gotten far.”

“Right away, Madam President Primus.” He took his leave, and I faced Vega. “Why didn’t he have the sense to search the area himself?”

“He would have needed assistance, anyway. It’s too large an area for just one heliocruiser to search.”

I nodded. “Yeah. Deneb will turn up. He always does.”

END OF SAMPLE

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© 2023

by Dakota Orlando

Herbert George Wells picked up his tuxedo cat with one arm and patted the side of his third-generation time machine with the other hand. “How about this, Jules? While you’ll be twenty thousand leagues under the sea and journeying to the center of the Earth, I shall be thousands of miles away a hundred years ahead in time.” He scratched Jules’s head. “I will wager you never thought of that, hey, lad?”

He set Jules Verne down and watched him sit and lick his paw. Wells bent over and smiled. “I’m sorry to bore your lackadaisical personage with the greatest discovery of mankind.” Straightening, he stood erect with hands on hips. “With this newest model, I can travel not only to any date in time but also to any location on Earth … and I don’t have to take the machine with me.”

Jules looked up. “Meow.”

Wells laughed. “Yes, I’m sure you’d prefer a bowl of milk to time traveling. After all, you cannot eat or drink time travel.” Jules meowed again and sauntered off toward the basement stairs. “Where’s your sense of curiosity, laddie?”

He laughed again and climbed into the ten-foot-in-diameter transparent globe supported by dual rail runners. Turning the departure dial to the current day, October 31, 1899, he set the arrival dial for October 31, 1999. He spun the return dial forward to November 7, 1999, when he would automatically leave the future and return to the moment he first departed. He had preset the geographical destination to Philadelphia, U.S.A.

He eased the floor lever back toward him. A low hum began as his basement blurred and faded to black. When next he could see, he stood in a master bedroom laden with decorated, dark-brown furniture. He didn’t recognize the design but guessed it to be American Civil War era.

A youthful-looking, middle-aged woman stood before an ornamented dresser mirror, fastening a petticoat over some already in place. The petticoats puffed out, hinting at a large hoop skirt at the core. A crinoline ball gown of white tarlatan lay strewn on the bed. It also included an amber taffeta overskirt and bodice.

Wells adjusted his ascot as he bit his thickly mustached upper lip. A yelp drew his attention to the mirror. The woman had spied him and twirled around. He swept the silk top hat from his head. “I’m H. G. Wells, and I’ve traveled here from eighteen ninety-nine in my time machine.” He did not know he would suddenly blurt out the truth.

The woman straightened up and inhaled. “Oh, dear me.” She threw a hand over her bosom and, several seconds later, regained her composure and lowered her hand. She opened her mouth and spoke with an American Southern accent. “I’m Scarlet O’Hara. Welcome to Tara.” She leaned back and laughed.

“Sorry to break in on your privacy, Miss O’Hara, but I have a matter of immense urgency. I do believe I may have missed my mark by a hundred and sixty years.”

“Have you seen Rhett about anywhere?”

“Rhett?”

The woman tilted her head and smiled. “Why, Rhett Butler, of course. My stars. Don’t you know I meant my husband? Why, everyone this side of Atlanta knows good old, scandalous Rhett.”

“Atlanta?” He ran his fingers over his chin. “I seemed to have missed the city as well.” He whipped his hand down by his side. “No, madam, I have not seen Mr. Butler. I barely just arrived.”

“Oh, fiddle-de-dee!” The woman walked to the bed and stared at the crinoline ball gown. “Oh, well. Perhaps tomorrow.” She turned to him and grinned. “‘After all, tomorrow is another day.’”

Wells stepped forward and lifted his hat to his waist, holding it with both hands. “But the question is, madam, what year is it?”

“It had to be right at the close of the war. Eighteen sixty-four … eighteen sixty-five.”

“I mean, what year is it now?”

The door opened, and a teenage girl walked in dressed in a Victorian gown of the early 1880s, complete with the oversized bustle in the back. She entered, staring at the floor, stopped, and looked up. Her eyebrows shot up, and she spoke without a Southern accent. “Mom, you’re in your underwear, and there’s a strange man in your bedroom.”

“My,” the woman said. Her accent had disappeared. She ambled toward her daughter. “What powers of observation you have.”

“I thought you weren’t going to date right now?” The daughter pointed to the bed. “Boy, when you start, you just jump right in, don’t you?”

The woman turned her daughter around and pushed her toward the door. “Okay, Ann Veronica, that’s enough. I’ll introduce you to Mr. Wells downstairs.”

Ann turned at the door. “I came to ask where my stupid gloves and handbag are. Do I really have to wear gloves all evening?”

The woman nodded and started to close the door. “It’s part of a Victorian lady’s formal attire. It’s just for one night. Look in your top bureau drawer.”

Ann forced the door open as it was about to close and poked her head in. “Is this what they call a Victorian quickie?”

“In this get-up? Believe me, there’d be nothing quick about it. Now, go on.” She pushed Ann’s head beyond the doorframe, closed the door, turned around, and leaned against it. “I teach history at the university, sir.” She walked toward him. “Are you Professor Harmon’s guest? The archaeologist from London?”

“I’ve told you, Miss O’Hara, I’m H. G. Wells … the writer?”

She stopped, smiled, and eased her hands before her petticoats. “You know … you actually look like him. You are nicely done up, but you don’t always have to go around acting the part. I’m not really Scarlet O’Hara.”

He popped his hat back on. “But I really am Herbert George Wells.”

“Are you ready to join the party?” She strutted to the bed and started slipping into her crinoline gown. Her Southern dialect returned. “Now, Mr. Wells, you don’t want to be like The Invisible Man.” She pointed to the elaborately hand-carved wooden clock on the dresser with the Roman numerals. “You see that Time Machine? We’d better join the party lickety-split, or there will be The War of the Worlds.”

Wells bolted toward her. “Miss … whoever you are, you have just named three of my first four novels.”

“I know.” She held her arm out. “Where do you think I’ve been all my life … on The Island of Doctor Moreau? Now, why don’t you be a gentleman and escort a lady to her own party?”

Wells screwed up his face and left the woman’s arm hanging. “That was the fourth book.” He glanced at his feet. “What, may I ask, is your real name?”

“Victoria Stanley.” Vicky opened the bedroom door.

Wells eased the door out of Vicky’s hand and closed it. He spied a calendar on the wall and confirmed the date as October 1999. “This is more than a housewarming party.”

“It is also Halloween.”

“All Hallow’s Eve? My word. No wonder I was deceived.” He stared at her, attempting to compose his next words as if they would stand as the most important of his life. “I must convince you of my real identity, Herbert George Wells, and that I traveled here in a time machine of my own construction. My stay shall be but one week. I desire a confidante in whom I can harbor my trust.”

“I’m quite trustworthy, but to expect to believe that there is such a thing as time travel …?” She shook her head and reached for the door.

Wells withdrew a shiny metal box with two buttons inset on top of it from under his waistcoat. “Perhaps this shall convince you.”

Vicky stopped and gawked at him. Wells held out the box, pressed a button, and faded away. Vicky backed up several steps, her eyes opening wider than goose eggs. She screamed, and the bedroom door flew open.

“What is it?” yelled Ann, standing in the doorway holding her gloves. “Why are you screaming?” She entered the room, closed the door, and darted to her mother. “Jeez, you scared the crap out of me.”

Vicky rested her hand on her abdomen. “There’s been a lot of that lately.”

“Where’s your one-night stand?”

“He’s gone on to the party … I think.” She approached her daughter. “And he’s not a one-night stand.”

“Fine. Will you hurry it up, Mom? You’re late for your own party. I want to finish this because this stupid Victorian dress is killing me.” She grabbed her midsection. “This corset is nothing more than a medieval torture contraption.”

Vicky slapped one hand to her forehead. “Mr. Wells … he’s from a different ….” She threw a hand to her forehead. “I think I’m going to be ill.”

Ann threw out her arms. “Still playing Scarlet O’Hara? That’s nice, Mom. You know, I think I’d rather be in school.” She slapped her hands on her thighs. “You buy this incredibly expensive, outdated house, fill it with useless antique furniture we can’t even touch,” she paused for breath, “throw a big costume party set in the dark ages, and now you’re too sick to apologize to your guests for dragging them here dressed in ridiculous outfits. Your entire generation is screwed up, do you know that?”

Vicky threw up one hand. “Not now, sweetheart. We can discuss the gap another time.”

“The only Gap I want to discuss is in the mall … which is where I’d rather be right now … dressed in a nice pair of tight blue jeans.”

Vicky didn’t notice a form taking shape behind her daughter. “Ann Veronica, you’ll drive me to an early grave.”

“W-W-Well,” Ann stammered, “I’m going downstairs and tell them you will be there in five minutes.” She spun around and slammed into Wells.

Wells stepped back. “Pardon me.”

Ann jumped and squealed. “Where’d you come from?”

Vicky pointed. “This is Mr. Wells. He’s … related to the famous writer Herbert George Wells.” She sat on the bed, her hoop skirt rising, revealing her full-length bloomers. She let out a squawk and jumped back to her feet. Wells laughed.

Ann turned to her mother. “You see how ridiculous this clothing is? How females ever put up with such useless, ridiculous, idiotic clothing is beyond me.” She looked back at Wells. “It’s all men’s doings. They wanted to dress up their live dolls, never once thinking of being practical.” She looked again at Vicky. “Look what it’s done for you, Mom. You’ve just upended yourself and flashed your underwear at a complete stranger.”

Vicky grinned sickly. “Well, it is a one-nighter.”

Wells laughed harder. Ann turned back to him. “What’s so funny, Mr. Wells? It was men who invented this torture gear.” She spun around. “Mom, I’ve had it up to here.” As her hand reached the top of her demonstration point, it knocked her frilly, veiled bonnet ajar. Wells laughed louder as Ann straightened her hat, and she pranced around him to the exit. She yanked it open, walked out, and slammed the door behind her.

Wells and Vicky looked at one another and burst into laughter.

“Typical display for a daughter these days, I take it?” Wells asked.

“I’m afraid the children of today are heard and not seen, Mr. Wells.”

Vicky took Wells by the hand and led him to the door. “You can stay in the guestroom. It’s decorated in your decade. I’ll introduce you as my late husband’s cousin.”

“That will be smashing.”

“You were into science, I understand. I’ll present you as a scientist. You can make up the rest. Now, come with me.”

They strolled arm in arm from the master bedroom.

******

After arriving downstairs, Vicky turned to Mr. Wells. “I forgot to bring my parasol. Wait here while I go back upstairs and fetch it, then I’ll introduce you properly.” She disappeared into a crowd of people.

Wells spied two men and a woman conversing a few feet away. The woman wore a modest day dress comprising a satin damask of blue and gold, a Bolero jacket, and leg-of-mutton sleeves. She held a parasol, not in the manner of a lady in the 1890s, but more like a military man holding a rifle. As he approached the woman from behind, he noticed something strange in the back of her dress. A slit ran vertically from her high collar down her back.

Being a creature far more curious than his Jules Verne tuxedo cat, he could not resist easing up behind her and examining it. The slit seemed covered with a flap of cloth over its entire length. The temptation being too overwhelming, he reached out, caught the flap, and almost had it moved to one side when the young woman twirled around.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Wells grinned. “I-I-I beg your pardon. There was something on your back, and I tried to—”

The woman thrust her back toward him. “Well, if it’s a bug, please get it off. I hate them.”

Wells took advantage of the lady’s misinterpretation to turn the flap aside on the collar. A small metal tag dangling from another piece of metal sprang into view. Below both pieces of metal, ran a long metallic seam down to her waist. He traced it with his finger.

“What are you doing back there?” the woman snapped.

“I’m sorry,” Wells said. “I’ve never seen a metal seam embedded in clothing. What is its purpose?”

“Metal seam?” the woman said. “What the hell are you talking about?”

One of the gentlemen edged closer to Wells. He wore a black tailcoat with silk lapels, black trousers with braid side seams, a black satin waistcoat, white shirt, collar, tie, and black top hat. His white gloves were nowhere to be seen. His attire exploded straight out of the 1860s, except for his unidentifiable footwear, which seemed to fit no period that Wells could recognize.

“I think he means the zipper,” the gentleman said.

“Yes, the zipper,” Wells agreed. “In what manner does it operate?”

Wells couldn’t resist his curiosity. He reached for the zipper and pulled the metal tag down, holding the top of her collar with his other hand. The seam came apart as the metal tag moved lower.

The woman pulled away and stared at Wells. “What are you … a pervert or something?” She reached behind her neck and hastened away, leaving the two smiling gentlemen staring at Wells.

He noticed the second gentleman’s tie. “That is quite a unique tie.” The small bow tie seemed fastened to the collar in some unknown manner instead of being wrapped around the neck with a cloth strap. The rest of his clothing screamed 1850s, including a black tailcoat and trousers, white waistcoat, shirt cravat, collar, and gloves.

“I know,” the second gentleman replied. “I had to use a modern bow tie because I couldn’t get anything that looked Victorian.”

“It’s silly, don’t you think?” the first gentleman asked. “Vicky making us all get dolled up this way … just because this holiday and her housewarming happen to fall on the same day.”

“Well,” the first gentleman continued, “what can I say? I did the best I could. I would just as soon have come dressed as a clown.”

The second gentleman raised both his arms. “Not our elegant ‘Victorian,’ Victoria Stanley. No. Everything has to be a century out of date to match her antiquated house.”

The first gentleman giggled. “I bet at the college, she makes all her English Literature students dress this way during dress-up day.”

“What year is it?” Wells inquired.

“The house?” answered the second gentleman. “I don’t know. The twenties or thirties. Whenever the silly Victorian period was.”

Wells popped his eyebrows up. “The nineteen thirties? The Victorian period lasted that long?”

“We wouldn’t know,” the first gentleman said. “We’re not historians. We both teach math at the university.”

“What year is it now?” Wells asked.

“Yeah, right,” the first gentleman said. They walked off.

Vicky returned carrying her parasol. “Are you ready?”

“When will they invent zippers?”

“Nineteen thirteen.”

“Then I should live to see it. What a marvelous invention!” He slipped his hat back on. “And what of Queen Victoria?”

She pointed at him. “You’re living in eighteen ninety-nine?” He nodded. “She’s got two more years.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Don’t feel badly. Even in 1999, she still stands as England’s longest-reigning monarch.” She raised her hands and clapped them together several times. Everyone stopped their conversations and turned to face her.

“Thank you all for coming,” Vicky said. “I’d like to introduce a cousin of my late husband, who came all the way from Kensington in London, England, Mr. George Wells. He is a living descendant of H. G. Wells and would be glad to answer any of your questions about the life of that famous writer. I have a small ballroom, so follow me, and we’ll start the evening’s entertainment with some dancing.”

After gathering in the ballroom, Vicky waved her hand. “Maestro, play something I’m sure Mr. Wells would know firsthand. Leo Delibes. The waltz from the ballet Sylvia.”

A few seconds later, the music started. She clasped Mr. Wells’s arm and twirled around the dance floor with him. Soon, many others joined in.

“Excuse me, madam,” Wells said. “Where, might I ask, are you hiding the musicians?”

She held up one hand and stretched her thumb and forefinger apart about three-and-a-half inches. “On a small device, we call an iPod.”

“Not on a cylinder?”

“We’re way past Edison.” Vicky threw her head back and enjoyed the next twirl along with the accompanying strains of the waltz. After several minutes, Vicky stopped before her daughter and offered her to Mr. Wells for the rest of the dance. Before Ann could protest, Wells whisked her away onto the crowded floor.

“Hey!” said Ann. “I don’t dance.”

“Too late,” Wells replied. “You already are. And, dare I say, you’re quite exquisite at it. You know, I find you a most fascinating woman.”

“Woman?” Ann smiled. “Hey, I think I like this. Keep flapping your yapper.”

“I would like to know all about you, Ann Veronica. What are people your age doing these days?”

“In America?” Ann smiled.

“Yes. What is important to you?”

“Well, no one has really asked me that before. Not even Mom … or Dad when he was alive.”

“What happened to your father?”

“Don’t you know? You were his cousin.”

“Well … I’ve been away … in the jungles of the Queen’s domain of India … for a lengthy period of time.”

“But India’s been independent since I can remember.”

Wells gulped. “You mentioned you’d rather be in school. Yet, you appear to be beyond the schooling years.”

“You mean I look older than seventeen? It’s nice of you to say so. Either it’s the clothing, or you’re just being nice.”

“Perhaps when I see you in the morning, dressed as a woman of the twentieth century….”

“Are you staying here?”

“For a week. I am your second cousin, Cousin Ann Veronica.”

“That’s right. We’re related.” Ann giggled. “I think I’m going to like you.”

“Tell me more about yourself. I want to know everything.” The music stopped. Wells held out his arm, and Ann hesitated, smiled, then took it. They strolled to the refreshment table.

“Let me tell you about my boyfriend, Blaine, Cousin George. We just broke up.”

“I’m frightfully sorry. I suppose that means you are no longer seeing him.” Wells dunked the dipper into the punch, poured its contents into a crystal cup, and handed it to Ann. “Was it serious?”

“We were talking about getting married someday. When he referred to me as the future Mrs. Blair Mumford … well, I freaked.”

“Freaked?”

“Lost my temper. He knew how I felt. I’m not giving up my name for any man. What’s wrong with going through life as Ann Veronica Stanley? Why should I give up what I’ve been comfortable with for seventeen years?”

Wells poured another glass of punch. “What’s wrong with taking the man’s name?”

“It shows possession. Women are not objects to be owned. To men … men are most important, and that’s because we women are the mothers. We bring life into the world. All the male does is have a good time. The woman does the suffering, the nurturing … and all the rest of it. The very thing that makes us important is what men used to put us down. We are people, and quite frankly, if I had lived in H. G. Wells’s time, I would have raised hell … if you’d excuse the language.”

“I suppose you would. It all seems so radical.”

She sipped her punch, eased the glass down, and glared into his eyes. “I know the history very well, Mr. Wells. While we women cared for the kids, the men reached out and snatched all our rights away. It’s like the fluke conquering the necessary.”

“‘The fluke conquering the necessary?’ So, men are flukes, are they?” He grinned.

Ann shrugged. “Everyone knows the default gender is female. Every fetus starts out female. If nature takes no action on the embryo, it produces a female. She needs a fluke to produce a male. My mother always uses the old expression, ‘Necessity is the mother of invention.’ Well, I say, ‘mother is a necessary invention.’”

Wells nodded. “And men are just … flukes. Very intriguing. Women’s suffrage existed as far back as my great-great-grandfather’s day.”

Ann sipped her punch again. “What did they suffer from?”

“Much like you, they felt slighted and taken advantage of. Equality. They wanted to vote and be equal to men.”

Ann jerked her head back. “They couldn’t even vote? Did they want to keep their names when they got married?”

“There was one woman … Woodhull … an American. She moved to London in the seventies but ran for the presidency in America.”

“In the 1970s? Never heard of her.” Ann sipped more punch.

Wells shrugged his shoulders. “The 1870s. She turned out to be very unpopular … even among other women. It seems she approved of women having frequent affairs. Even after they were married.”

“Affairs? What kind of affairs?”

“You know what I mean.” Wells gazed across the room.

“No, I don’t.” Ann paused. “You mean screw around?”

“Screw ’round?” Wells bobbed his eyebrows.

“Yeah. Like having sex with just anyone.”

Wells shoved his drink to his mouth and glanced around. “Oh, my.”

“Sounds like the late sixties. The hippies were the only ones with any sense. Free love. Why not?”

Wells leaned closer. “I’m curious. How would you assign a surname to the children if you didn’t take your husband’s name?”

Ann eased her cup down and stared at him. “I’ve got an idea about that. If the baby is a boy, the surname would be the father’s. If a girl … the mother’s. What’s wrong with that?”

“That is a most fascinating notion.”

Ann scrutinized his face. “You think it’s stupid?”

“Nothing’s stupid. If it’s possible, I always say it’s worth contemplating.”

“Shit … I like you, Cousin George.” She giggled. “Don’t tell my mother I said that. She hates it when I curse.”

Wells slipped a finger to his lips. “Not a word, I promise.”

He continued interviewing Ann. She told him about several more notions that would help establish total equality between the sexes. She even spoke of delicate things, like methods for preventing pregnancy, a concept not altogether unheard of by Wells. He found her quite a remarkable character, ripe for a future book, and candid enough to have shocked the women seeking suffrage in his own day.

The party ended at ten because Ann had school the next day, and it was a workday for everyone else. Vicky escorted Wells to the guestroom and had him wear her deceased husband’s nightclothes. He climbed into a familiar Victorian, canopied bed and fell asleep thinking of the interesting week ahead.

******

The next morning, Wells woke before dawn. A Victorian bathroom lay just off the guestroom, so he knew how to operate everything. The toilet was the type with the tank mounted beneath the ceiling with the pull chain hanging beside it for flushing. The tub also seemed authentic, being made of porcelain and mounted on four feet shaped like lion feet with exposed claws.

However, after changing into some twentieth-century leisurewear, he found the most interesting items downstairs. Against the wall stood a large wooden box at least four feet wide with a piece of opaque glass in front. It wasn’t a window because upon further scrutiny, he discovered no way to open it. He pondered the purpose of the furniture when he heard a noise behind him. He turned to find Ann dressed in blue, faded pants and a small band of cloth for a top wrapped around her bosom, barely covering the vitals. She stood beside a low French Victorian coffee table and sofa.

“Trying to turn it on?” she asked, reaching toward the coffee table. “They don’t have remote control devices in England?”

Ann picked up a small rectangular black box off the coffee table endowed with a multitude of buttons, pointed it in his direction, and pressed one.

Wells threw his hands before his face. “I don’t want to go back just yet!”

She lowered the remote. “What?”

After closing his eyes, he heard a voice behind him. “All right, Wild Bill. Stick them hands in the air, or I’ll fill you full of lead.”

He spun to see a face in the box’s window. The man wore a dirty, disheveled Stetson hat from the wild American West. “Heavens!” he said. “You brought someone here from the past.” He reached out and touched the glass.

“What are you talking about?” Ann said.

“Oh, I see. He’s behind the glass. It’s a picture … only it moves and talks.”

“And it looks better from back here,” Ann said. “Want the local news?” She pushed another button, and the image changed to a woman sitting behind a long, shiny-topped table looking out into the living room of the Stanley house.

“Can she hear us?”

“Only if you go outside and shout loud enough to be heard in downtown Philly. That’s a good fifteen miles away.” She lowered the remote onto the table. “Want some breakfast?”

They entered the kitchen, where Vicky had just finished placing eggs, bacon, and toast on three plates. Vicky stopped after they came in and threw her hands on her hips. “Ann Veronica. You know tank tops are not part of the dress code for your school.”

“They never say anything, Mom. It’s never enforced.”

“It doesn’t mean you can break the rule. Good citizens obey all rules. Consider it a valuable job skill.”

Ann folded her arms. “Oh, Mom!”

“Don’t ‘Oh, Mom’ me. After breakfast …” She pointed to the exit. “… upstairs and change.”

“Okay.” Ann sat down and played with her toast. “Cousin George treats me like an adult.”

Vicky glared at her. “That’s fine if you display the maturity of an adult. Adults don’t wear tank tops to work.”

Ann smiled. “What about strippers and pole dancers?”

Vicky turned back to the stove. “Don’t get smart-mouthed with me.”

“Just kidding. Can’t you take one?”

Wells scratched his head. “One what?”

“A joke.” Ann bit off a piece of bacon she had picked up with her fingers, paused, and jumped up excitedly. “Say, Cousin George, why don’t you come to school with me today? We just studied H. G. Wells, but my English teacher says his writing style is too … too … something. Verbose, I think she called it.”

Wells popped up his eyebrows and frowned. “Really? I’m too wordy? I mean my great-great-grandfather.”

“As Mrs. Wilson says, ‘Overly descriptive to the point of dumping trainloads of words on a modicum of ideas.’”

Wells grimaced. “Interesting metaphors.”

******

They ate with minimal discussion and sauntered to Mrs. Wilson’s first-period English class. Ann spied Mrs. Wilson writing on her dry-erase board before the morning bell and stepped up to her.

“Mrs. Wilson?”

She turned around. “Yes, Ann Veronica?”

Ann eased a hand onto Wells’s shoulder. “This is Mr. Wells … my second cousin. His great-great-grandfather was H. G. Wells. I know we just finished with the works of H. G. Wells, but I thought the other kids might like to ask him some questions about his great-great-grandfather.”

Mrs. Wilson threw a hand onto her chest. “That’s wonderful.” She held out her hand, and they shook. “I suppose Ann Veronica has told you that I’m not a particular fan of the works of your great-great-grandfather, but I do recognize his extreme importance in literature. After all, every English class studies him at one time or another.”

“Thank you so much for the opportunity, Mrs. Wilson. Yes … Ann Veronica told me you thought H. G.’s writings verbose.”

“Just a personal opinion. I prefer a style more to the point.” The bell rang. “Everyone,” Mrs. Wilson said, “we will forgo our study of the Orson Welles’ radio broadcast of War of the Worlds, which panicked so many people in this country back in the nineteen thirties. We have an extraordinary guest with us today.” She pointed to Ann standing beside her. “Ann Veronica has brought her cousin, the great-great-grandson of H. G. Wells. He will answer any questions you have. Mr. Wells, I think you will find my class quite well-informed.” Mild applause broke out.

Wells bent over and whispered in Ann’s ear. “There was a broadcast of the War of the Worlds in the nineteen thirties?”

“Yes,” Ann answered. “They broadcast a live reading, and everyone thought the Martians had invaded the Earth for real.”

“Is Orson Welles related to me?”

“I don’t think so, unless you spell your last name to end in es.”

He turned to the class. “Yes, everyone, do ask a multitude of questions.”

“Mr. Wells,” a girl said from the back of the room. “I saw the movie they made in the thirties about your great-great-grandfather’s book, The Shape of Things to Come. I thought it was goofy. Some of the predictions he made were really way off.”

A long pause developed as Wells tried to think of a response to the book he had yet to write.

Mrs. Wilson stepped forward. “H. G. Wells wrote that in nineteen thirty-three, and once Hollywood gets an author’s work … well, what can I say? It ends up embellished. That is one of your vocabulary words for this week. Rudy? What does embellish mean?”

While Rudy defined embellish, Wells noticed his insides started quivering, making him nauseous. He struggled through the rest of the period, referring to the expertise of Mrs. Wilson when questions surfaced on works he hadn’t yet written.

Mrs. Wilson strolled toward him after the period ended. “Mr. Wells. I think you need to bone up on your great-great-grandfather, especially the period after eighteen ninety-nine.”

Wells thrust a hand toward Mrs. Wilson. “Indeed, madam. I shall endeavor to do so as my homework assignment.” He winked.

******

During lunch, Wells tapped his spoon on Ann’s lunch tray three times. “Have you ever looked up the complete works of H.G. Wells?”

“No.”

“Well, I think it would be a real eye-popper … for both of us.”

“That’s a wonderful idea since you don’t seem to know them all.”

“Apparently, I cannot. Do you have a library?”

Ann led him into the library and settled behind a machine with a screen full of words. She tapped on the keyboard several times, and the text changed. She pointed to one area of the screen. “Here they are. These are the works of your great-great-grandfather.”

Wells took the seat Ann vacated and stared at the screen. Love and Mr. Lewisham (1900), his current work, topped the list. Then came Kipps: The Story of a Simple Soul (1905) and The History of Mr. Polly (1909)—all billed as his comic novels.

“Holy crap!” Ann said.

Wells spun around to see her standing behind him, looking over his shoulder. He shot a glance at the librarian, who offered Ann a glare. Everyone in the library turned their attention toward them.

Ann pointed to the screen. “There’s my name!”

Wells raced down the list and stopped at the title she indicated. The pit of Wells’s stomach dropped away as cold chills radiated throughout his body. It read Ann Veronica (1909), a novel described as women’s emancipation.

The girl standing behind him would wield significant influence over his ideas—so much that he would write a novel about her. Did this mean he was destined to go forward in time all along? Did this little girl have something important to say—something so important that all the Victorian Era had to be her sounding board? Perhaps something in what the women’s suffrage advocates of his day were saying … and maybe it wasn’t just all female temperament as he had suspected.

“Ann Veronica Stanley,” Wells said as he gawked at her. “I think we need to go somewhere and talk.”

She stared at him and nodded for a long time. “I think so, Mr. Herbert George Wells. I’ll want to make sure you get everything right.”

They left the school early, hurried to Ann Veronica’s favorite cafe, and had a lengthy and meaningful talk.

THE END

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CHAPTER 1

CODE RED

I eased my hands onto my abdomen, breathed deeply, and looked at my ninth-grade science teacher. As nervous as a mouse that hears a cat through the wall, I knew the time had come. Part one of Mom’s plan began when I raised my hand.

“Yes, Chartreusa?” Mr. Frost said.

“I’m supposed to call my mother to pick me up early. I have an appointment.”

“Oh, all right.” He hesitated as if considering that I might be lying, but he had nothing to fear. Since moving from California to Gainesville, Florida last month, I had gotten all my teachers to trust me; so, Mr. Frost would never suspect that I stretched the truth.

“I’ll write you a pass to the office so you may call her.”

After grabbing my briefcase, I stopped by the restroom on the way. On entering the office, my emotions wanted to bust out all over the place as I handed the pass to the younger secretary behind the left side of the long counter.

“Well, you look chipper.” She watched me set my briefcase on the counter. “You’re standing there grinning like a Cheshire cat.”

“Was I grinning?” I straightened the curve out of my lips with my fingers. She giggled. I glanced behind me through the front window. “Wow, it’s a great day, isn’t it?”

The secretary stared at the drizzling rain. “Yeah, if you’re a frog, maybe.”

I smacked the counter with my hand. “Well, I’m as happy as a toad in a damp, dark cellar.”

“Cellar? Boy, can you tell one of us is not from Florida?” She pointed to the little table by the wall to my left. “Students use the President’s phone.”

I raised my eyebrows. “The President … in Washington?”

“Under the picture of Mr. Carter there. You won’t have to dial nine. The phone’s only for calling outside the school.”

I looked at the table below President Carter’s picture. “Oh, I get it. Thanks.” I walked to it, lifted the receiver, and dialed.

Mom had gotten a job at a new car dealership after she and her new husband, Cody, moved us to Gainesville last month before school started. Cody Talon had gotten his first position as a professor at the University of Florida.

A woman answered the phone.

“I’d like to be put through to the cashier, please.”

Silence. “Hello? Cashier,” Mom answered.

“Mom, this is your daughter with the weird color name, you know … Chartreusa Dickinson?”

“Char! What’s up? You sick, honey?”

“Code red.”

“What? What? Code red? I’ll be right there.”

She hung up.

The secretary leaned on the counter. “Code red? That’s it? That’s the message to your mother?”

“Code red.” I hung up and sauntered back to the counter.

“You some kind of spy,” the secretary said, “sending secret codes over the phone?”

I bobbed my eyebrows and grinned again. “Could be.”

The secretary pressed her lips together. “I see. A nineteen-eighty version of Mata Hari.”

“Mata Hari?” I tilted my head and pursed my lips.

She flipped a hand at me. “Forget it … before your time.”

I held up my free hand with an index finger pointing at the ceiling. “I get it. She was a spy, right?”

“World War Two.”

“I’m not spying, but my secret is ….” I leaned over the counter, and she did, too. I whispered in her ear so the other secretary wouldn’t hear.

My secretary popped her head back and out-grinned the Cheshire cat. “Congratulations!”

******

Mom burst through the door twenty minutes later and offered her best owl eyes. I slipped a hand over my abdomen and nodded. She exploded in squeals that made me quickly glance around. Two boys stood at the right end of the counter talking to the other secretary, and a male teacher listened to a dean beyond them by the far wall.

Unable to block my growing smile, I whipped a finger to my lips. “Shhhhhh.”

Mom strutted over, grabbed me by the shoulders, and danced us around in a circle. Breaking free, she announced, “My daughter’s started her first period!”

Usually, I’m not very good at remembering faces—but that day, the first day of my womanhood, four faces I had never seen before burned themselves into my memory forever.

My secretary grinned again. “Code red?”

Mom nodded. “Code red.”

The older secretary wrinkled her nose and flattened her lips while the male teacher turned and raised his eyebrows. The boys jerked their heads around so fast they nearly twisted off. Their wide-eyed faces glowed red before splitting into devilish grins. They stared at my pelvic area as if they could see through my skirt. I wondered if they saw me naked or with a Kotex® on.

“Did you take care of it right away?” Mom asked, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Mom?” I looked at the floor, hoping that everyone would disappear—and they did—until I looked up again. “Not so loud,” I whispered. “I stopped by the bathroom on the way here.”

She leaned back and beamed at me. Her smile widened so much I thought it would leave a permanent mark on her face. “You want me to take you into the bathroom to check it?”

“Mom!” I lowered my voice. “It’s all right.”

“You sure it’s secure?”

“Arrrrrrgggggg! Mom!” I grabbed her arm and pulled her to the door.

My secretary walked to the counter and pushed a ledger book toward us. “Your mother must sign you out.”

“Oh, yes.” Mom dashed back to the counter. “What a day.” She sighed. “What an incredible day this will be.”

“Mom?” I stood by the exit, wishing the urgency in my voice would hurry her. The two boys stared at me until I felt my clothing peel away. I stared into their faces—and saw lust to the six-hundred-and-sixty-sixth power. I slid my briefcase in front of my pelvis, but then I realized that if they could see through fabric, they could probably see through leather and cardboard as well. “Come on, Mom. Let’s go!”

Dropping the pen on the ledger, she pointed at the secretary. “At fourteen, she’s my youngest daughter of two. Caroline is ten months older, but Char here … she started first. Can you believe that?”

“Well ….” The smiling secretary nodded. “What do you know?” The male teacher looked at Mom, then at the secretary grinning back at him. He looked once more at Mom and escaped into the vice principal’s office behind the older secretary’s desk.

I threw out my free hand. “May we go now, Mom?”

The younger secretary stared at Mom. “Obviously, you’re not taking her to a gynecologist.”

“Of course not,” Mom replied. “We’re going out to paint the town red!” She threw her arms in the air and danced around.

“That’s it, Mom! I’m out of here.” I opened the door and stepped into the covered breezeway that cut the administration building in half.

Mom strutted out and faced me with her childish grin. I set my briefcase down and crossed my arms. My sneer felt worse than Miss Gulch’s in The Wizard of Oz when she came to take away Dorothy’s Toto. “How dare you make a spectacle of yourself like that.”

We stared at each other as long as we could stand it before bursting into laughter.

Picking up my briefcase, I thought of how much I loved it when she let me reverse roles with her. She’s the greatest Mom ever.

She threw one arm around my shoulder and walked toward the front of the building. The rain had stopped, and the sun shone brightly. “So, my little girl is a woman now. Did you see the looks on the faces of those two boys?”

“I was only aware of them straining to see through my skirt. What about the male teacher? You sent him into full retreat.”

Arriving at the car, Mom opened the front passenger door for me. “Men just aren’t comfortable with a woman’s body. That’s one thing you’re going to find out for yourself.”

I climbed in, and she shut the door. Leaning through the open window, she shoved her face close to mine.

“Female is everything, Char. It may be a man’s world, but it’s a woman’s universe.”

She walked to her side of the car, and I couldn’t help admiring her. What a clever, intelligent, open-minded, confident woman. How lucky can a girl be?

“Okay, Char-baby.” She climbed in, shut the door, and smiled like a carnival barker who had just suckered his one-millionth customer. “Char the woman, I should say. Where are we going to celebrate?”

“The Silver Saddle Corral. You were going to buy me a big, medium-rare steak, remember?”

She pointed at me and winked. “Good choice. You’ll need the iron.”

We drove to my favorite steakhouse, ordered enormous meals, talked ‘woman-to-woman,’ and two hours later, we headed home.

“How am I going to handle Caroline?” I asked.

She pulled herself back until her arms stretched rigid to the top of the steering wheel. “I’ve been thinking about it. It wouldn’t be right to hide it from her. It wasn’t your fault you started first.”

I leaned against my door. “She’s got to start soon, Mom.”

“She will. She will.”

“Aren’t you worried about it? She’ll be fifteen in December.”

She dropped one arm in her lap. “I’m not worried. Mine started at fourteen and six months. Your fourteenth birthday’s next month. How about that, Char? You beat me by seven months.” She turned left onto a two-lane road.

I hung my left arm over the back of my seat. “So, what about Caroline?”

“Do what you would do if you were an only child.”

“Well ….” I held out my left arm and opened my hand, but nothing came to mind. “I wouldn’t have anyone to tell except you. I’d let you tell Cody and kind of ignore it with him myself. And then … and then I would just take care of it.”

Mom nodded. “Sounds good. You take care of it and don’t say anything to Caroline. After she discovers it, treat it like nothing special.”

I slapped my right hand onto the dash. “You know she’ll start trouble. She’s the jealous one.”

“Yes, she is.” Mom stopped at a red light, drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, and looked at me. “Caroline’s probably been worried about you getting yours first. I don’t know what reaction she’s planned. She pitched a fit over Cody and me getting married last July, then over moving to Florida in August. She’ll probably pitch one over this too.”

Mom thrust her left hand over her abdomen. “Ouch! Damn that hurt.”

I tore my hand off the dash and leaned toward her. “What is it?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been having these sudden pains. Owwwwww!” She glanced at me. “There it is again.”

“It can’t be cramping. Your period was two weeks ago.”

She looked at me with widening eyes. “You’ve been following my menstrual cycle?”

I nodded. “Mine was coming soon, so I watched you closely last month.”

The light turned green, and Mom accelerated. I watched as she returned her hand to her lap. The pain seemed to have gone away. She started whistling her favorite tune, I’ll Never Love This Way Again by Dionne Warwick. After making another left turn, she grabbed her stomach with both hands and threw her head back. “Oh, shit!”

“What is it, Mom?”

The car veered to the right.

I slid toward her with both arms poised in front of me. “Mom, the car!” I waited for her to recover, but she continued holding her abdomen, leaned back, and turned her head toward me. Her eyes closed, and I grabbed for the wheel. She fell against me, preventing me from getting a solid grip.

After taking out a street sign, we plunged through a shallow ditch and narrowly missed a pine tree. The jolting car forced her foot to jam the accelerator. I fought against her pitching body and tried to shove my foot on the brake.

Concentrating on our feet, I didn’t see the wooden fence charge at us. Looking up, I could only squeeze the wheel and scream. Lucky for us, it was frail, and we blasted it to bits without slowing down.

I leaned forward and allowed Mom to fall behind me. Her foot lifted off the gas, and I jammed on the brake. We stopped just shy of a covered picnic table. The family sitting there hadn’t seen us coming, and the parents and three elementary-age children sat ashen-faced with sandwich debris hanging from their mouths.

“Help!” I screamed, keeping my foot on the brake. “My mother’s sick!”

One parent ran to each side of the car. The father opened the driver’s door and quickly threw the automatic gearshift into park. Then he eased Mom out as his wife opened my side.

I didn’t wait for her to pull me out. Instead, I pushed past her and ran around the other side of the car.

“Mom! Mom! What is it? What’s happening?”

END SAMPLE CHAPTER

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Prologue

Camelot’s Red Panties Fable states that she who covets them shall become what they represent. Arthur pulled the sword from the stone to become king, so too, she who slips on the red panties will become queen—the queen of the perfect female form—or so I believed.

Chapter 1

 The Real Day That Will Live in Infamy

Do you want to know why I bought them? Do you? Do you really want to know? Because I’m sick and tired of being looked at as a scrawny, nerdy—whatever—and having it make me feel like one.

Tonight, I decided to write down everything that happens to me. Why? Because it’s either write or bust! And I’ll write everything!! The truths, the fantasies, the frustrations!!! I’ll hold nothing back!!!!

To start with—who has the right to say that a nerd can’t buy and wear red panties? There are two women inside every female. The sexy Marilyn Monroe type, desiring nothing more than to draw out the lust in every male. And the gentle, Jackie Kennedy type, the sophisticated female soaking up every ounce of respect and dignity she knows she deserves.

Do you want to know what pushed me over the edge? Do you? Do you really want to know?

Both the women inside me, Katina Klingenpeel, were brutally assaulted today, Friday, September 20, 1963—the real day that will live in infamy!

******

I sat on the steps of the school entrance just after the last bell and paused at a page in my Life magazine when I felt them behind me. I turned and looked up. One hand dug under each armpit and yanked me to my feet. Life flopped down a step and sprawled open to a large picture of my idol of female sophistication.

The big senior, whom my best friend Heidi and I called “Miss Boobs,” snatched the magazine up and stared at it. I wondered if all perfectly formed females like her were nothing more than hourglasses filled with the sand of human insensitivity. Maybe it just came with the package.

“So, Ka-teenie weenie, this is who you admire?” Her two senior companions holding me on either side laughed. “You really think your nerdy, freaky qualities will put you in the same class as Jackie Kennedy?”

She ripped the magazine in half.

“Hey,” I said. “That’s mine.”

Then, she tore each half in half and tossed the fragments over her shoulder. The wind scattered them over the steps. The other kids sitting and standing around glanced, saw it was me, then went back to what they were doing. That was how little respect I got around Aberdeen High School.

Miss Boobs pointed at me. “Hold this nerd tight. I will show her how to bring out her only feminine quality.”

Her senior companions squeezed tighter, sending ripples of pain bouncing through my body. Miss Boobs opened her shoulder bag and removed her lipstick. Pulling the top off, she moved it toward my face.

I shook my head. “What are you doing? I don’t wear lipstick.”

“You juniors need to stay out of our way,” Miss Boobs said. “Hold still, or I’ll color your whole face red.”

The girls beside me clamped their hands on my head, holding it still. Miss Boobs grabbed a handful of my hair and pulled back my head. And then—I really got mad!

I thrust my elbows backward and crushed two sets of ribs. The girls doubled over and released me. Grabbing the lipstick from Miss Boobs, I smeared it on her face and shoved her good and hard. She stumbled down the steps and fell onto the grass.

I strode toward the sidewalk paralleling Monroe Street—that was, until Bill Morgan stepped in my way. He was the second-in-command in Ricky Mason’s gang—a gang devoted to tearing apart nerds like Heidi and me.

“Whoa,” Bill said. “Wait, wait, wait.” I stared at his muscular frame as he shoved a finger in my face. “Ain’t you the nerdiest nerd there is?”

“No way.” I moved to stride around him. He stepped in my way again.

“Well, well, Miss ‘Skinny Minnie’ Katina Klingenpeel.” He threw up one finger. “You can’t just walk around me like that.”

I feigned walking to the right. Bill stepped in that direction, and I darted around the other side and scurried to the street. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Bill strutting after me.

Continuing up Monroe, I hurried toward Front Street. Another glance back found Bill talking to two other Ricky Mason gang members. They took off after me while Bill twirled around and headed for State Street in the opposite direction.

I reached the intersection, trotted across Monroe, and disappeared behind the row houses up Front Street. As soon as I couldn’t be seen, I broke into a run. I reached Jackson Street, and Bill Morgan jumped out from around the corner, grabbing my shoulders. The other two boys pulled behind me, and Bill pushed me back into them.

“Where you going in such a hurry?” Bill said.

The taller boy with the hunting cap grabbed my right arm. “Yeah. Where’s the fire?” He broke into a long, machine-gun rattle of giggles.

“Fire?” the short kid with curly blonde hair said. “Hey, you can tell people you was burned in one. That’ll explain why you’re so ugly and that it’s not really your fault.”

And then I got outraged again! I thrust forward and gave Bill a shove that sent him reeling back into the row house brick wall. “Now, just one cotton-picking, barn-burning, corn-poning minute here.”

I spun around, jumped up, and let both feet fly toward the other two boys. Each foot connected with a different stomach, and the two dropped to their knees, their mouths frozen open.

In my dreams!

I thought about last year in tenth-grade American literature when we studied James Thurber. His character of Walter Mitty always appealed to me, probably because I felt a kinship with him. He sat and daydreamed about being the ultimate hero—and he really was the ultimate zero.

And so was I. Here’s what  really happened that morning:

Miss Boobs drew a hairless vulva on my cheek and ordered me not to erase it until I got home. Bill Morgan and his two henchmen bumped into me, and I ran, but they caught me and made fun of the drawing on my face.

Bill grabbed my hair and pushed me against the row house. They all made fun of my other body parts too. Bill said my putrid-brown hair looked like a wad of cooked spaghetti. Giggle Boy said I was as skinny as a stick of macaroni, and Curley said my boobs were the size of two gumdrops. All sadly true.

Then they pushed me to the brick sidewalk, causing my glasses to fly off and my books to scatter everywhere. My skirt flew up, exposing my backside, and Bill pointed out my scrawny rump. Then Giggle Boy said I looked like a Mad Magazine cartoon artist had drawn me after he and his buddies threw an all-night drinking binge.

They left laughing louder than a pack of wild hyenas, and I couldn’t help thinking it was too bad for them that the Germans lost World War II. The Ricky Mason gang would have made great Nazi guards in a concentration camp.

A weird thing happened as soon as they left. My tears dried up, and I felt too humiliated to cry. I stood still, stuffed with mixed emotions, my lousy life flashing through my mind. I hated Ricky Mason and his gang. I hated boys! And I hated shapely girls with big boobs!!

But much more than that—I hated being Katina Klingenpeel!!!

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Victorian Newspaper Princess

Book 1

Irish Potato Famine

CHAPTER 1: MEET THE PRINCESS

When the front door opened, I marched through and swung my small bag before my skirts, holding it with both hands. “Please inform your mistress that I have arrived.”

The tall man holding the lantern stood dressed in a night robe. The curls on his head twisted in every direction, indicating that he had rather recently risen from bed. I reached inside my coat’s inner pocket, pulled out a watch, and noticed the hands in the one o’clock position Dublin time.

“It’s after midnight, ma’am,” he said in a thick, Irish brogue, “and I fancy you’ve come to the wrong house.”

I slipped the watch back inside the pocket and withdrew a note. “This is the Kilkenny residence, is it not?”

“Yes, it is, lest—”

I stretched out my bag with one hand, and he took it. “The driver left my trunk at the base of the stoop.” I pointed through the open door. “Would you be so kind as to fetch it … after you have summoned Mrs. Kilkenny, that is?”

The man leaned back, and the sound of a wounded animal issued from his throat. “There is no Mrs. Kilkenny.”

I jerked my head bolt upright. “Of course there is. You are her servant, are you not?”

“I’m Mr. Kilkenny. I alone reside here. Now, do you mind explaining who the devil you are?”

I surveyed the foyer and down the hall past the front parlor for as far as the light would penetrate. Signs of his living alone loomed evidently; dust on the table by the foyer wall, pictures in the hall slightly askew, the wood floor populated rather ubiquitously with scuff marks—it was as plain as a hat on a rack that a bachelor resided here. I curtsied, fighting the red I felt invading my face. “My most humble apologies. I am Miss Annie Adams, correspondent on assignment for The Sun of Baltimore in the great American state of Maryland.” I curtsied again. “At your service, sir.”

“Where is Mr. Adams?”

“There is no Mr. Adams.”

He dropped my bag on the floor. I stared at it, gawked at him, and raised my eyebrows.

“Of course there is,” he said. “There must be a Mr. Adams, Miss Adams. I am scheduled to be at the Dublin docks tomorrow and fetch a Mr. Adams. Now, where is he?”

I shook my head. “I know not. Mrs. Kilkenny et al. from the Conciliation Hall government were supposed to have met me at the Dublin docks today. Now, it is the early morning of the day after ….” I brushed my hands together several times. “I had a simply wretched time getting here at such an ungodly hour, as you can very well imagine.”

Mr. Kilkenny groaned. “A female correspondent? How could any tabloid send a female … and a little girl at that?”

I snickered at his slight against my smaller-than-average stature. My actual desire coaxed me to grab his neck and squeeze, but I had gone through the very same thing when The Sun first hired me. Men hate it when a woman holds what men deem to be a man’s employment. I have learned to manage that by turning off the charm quicker than a lightning strike. “Indeed, I know I am not so very tall … even for a woman, but I will have you know my twenty-second birthday shall be two months hence … April the eighteenth, eighteen hundred and forty-six.” I folded my arms, leaned back, and popped my eyes open wider. “Have you any familiarity with anything I have published?”

“No, I haven’t.” He snorted.

“Then do not appraise a book ….” I hesitated.

“… by its subject matter?”

“I was, indeed, about to say, ‘by the sex of its author.’” I did not dare crack a smile, but I could not help an internal snicker.

He narrowed his eyes. “And I suppose you’ll cite Jane Austen as your prime example.”

“No,” I replied, shaking my head. “I, doubtless, would not cite her at all. Her works are simply … there.”

He pointed at my bonnet. “I see your hair matches your temperament.”

I undid my bonnet and removed it. “Mr. Kilkenny, red hair affecting red tempers is an old wives’ tale. I do not anger, sir. I drive with determination. Please do not mistake one for the other in the matter.” I slapped my hands together, dropped them before my skirts, and allowed the bonnet to dangle from its strap. “So, you are the local government official who is to show me around Conciliation Hall.”

He nodded, and we fell into a rather uncomfortable quietude whilst staring at one another. However, I was the more comfortable by far because I felt at peace with myself most of the time. When found in situations such as the one confronting us, most people are ill at ease because they are, first and foremost, ill at ease with themselves.

I offered a smile as a truce. “Mr. Kilkenny, it is altogether far too late to accompany me to a hotel, so I suggest you offer me a room for the night.”

He drew back and opened his eyes wider. “Miss Adams, that is simply not possible.”

I extended a hand to my left. “You do not mind, do you?”

He thumped a finger on his chest in time with his words. “Whether or not I do is moot.” He pointed towards the front entrance. “I have neighbors … and a reputation to uphold.”

I swept my hand towards the door. “Then you prefer me to sleep on the stoop? It is February in Ireland, sir. I would suppose a young, unmarried, American woman freezing to death outside your home would, doubtless, be far worse than one sleeping rather comfortably inside it. Would you not agree?”

Mr. Kilkenny drooped his shoulders. “As soon as I bring in your trunk, I’ll show you to a room.”

I offered my friendliest smile. “I am gladdened that you have decided to give me leave to stay.”

“On the contrary, Miss Adams, as soon as I’ve secured your trunk, it’s me intention to walk three blocks and wake up a good friend to beg him to keep me for the night.”

I splayed a hand across my chest, batted my eyelashes, and smiled. “You would leave a lady alone in a strange house?”

“I wouldn’t leave a lady.” He walked outside, returned with my trunk, and set it down. “But I could leave you, for it shall be safer for you than for any intruder foolhardy enough to trespass.” He closed the door and bolted it.

I laughed. “You have the poet about you, sir, but, doubtless, so may most of your Irish brethren.”

He turned and sneered. “I’d say there’s some truth in that.”

“Well, since that is settled, please inform me of the situation in Ireland.”

He groaned. “It can wait till morning.”

“I was, indeed, anxious to hear a particle of the situation on the ride from the docks, only you never graced me with your presence.”

He walked closer and scrutinized me from head to toe, his face immobile. “It’s ‘An Gorta Mor,’ Miss Adams. That is what’s happening.”

“An Gorta Mor?”

“An Gorta Mor. Hard times. Do you know the core of it?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. I simply knew not the Gaelic term for it. It started in the fall of forty-five, I do believe. The potato crop failed last summer, and many tenant farmers, doubtless, could not earn enough to pay their loans for planting their potatoes or to feed their families.”

I looked at the door. “Even at this late hour, I noticed several people rather poorly attired against the cold. They walked along the docks and streets as my carriage transported me in relative comfort.” I nodded. “And what is the story concerning the band of vagrants waiting for my ship to dock on the quay? Is that normal, since the autumn of eighteen forty-five, I mean?”

His fiery glare could have melted the heart of the staunchest adversary, but never a hardened correspondent.

“An Gorta Mor,” he said. “Do you know the literal translation?”

“No, sir.”

“It means ‘the great hunger.’” He turned away again. “Moreover, the Irish people don’t like the English, Miss Adams, and that extends to those of English descent. So, you see, it’s not because you’re a female correspondent. It’s because you’re sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong. Requests to England have been made for assistance, but they offer up only a deaf ear.”

I felt my brows draw closer as I nodded. “I understand that it is a wretched and untenable situation. However, it is my intention to extract the truth and deliver it to the sympathetic ears of my Baltimore readers.”

“I, like most true Irishmen, feel the English have no right to rule the Irish at all, hunger or no.”

He had witnessed my empathetic offering, regarded it as feminine weakness, and decided to attack. By the bye, he would find his hurricane energies wasted against my Gibraltar-like stand. “If ample help did arrive, I would, doubtless, not be abashed if your own political agenda blinded you to it.”

He bounded towards me, shoulders hunched and leaning forward to better display his more prominent physical presence. “Just hard times.”

I leaned forward and met him nose to nose—my granite versus his papier-mâché. “Simply give me the facts, Mr. Kilkenny, and I will pen a fair account of them.”

Mr. Kilkenny sucked in his lips and lowered his eyebrows. He hurried into the front parlor and worked on starting a fire in the hearth. I suspected part of the reason for his hasty retreat lay in gaining time to lighten his reddened complexion.

I stepped under the archway. “I have come to report the situation, not to travel about boohooing and allowing my feelings to become bruised by a lack of sentiment towards the English or the descendants thereof. Whatever do you take me for, a woman?”

He ceased working at the hearth and turned his head. “Hardly that, Miss Adams.”

“Indeed, I am of recent English origin, and I could scarcely take equal offense. However, I choose not to be in a bad way over it.”

“Have you no feminine feelings?”

“I have, but I know when it is appropriate to display them. I will obtain that which I seek, and you shall not wrench a single feminine feeling from me until you have the wherewithal to open yourself to them.” He piled clumps of peat in anticipation of a flame that might soon fire them up. I stepped forward, clasped my hands together, and let them bounce off my skirts. “Mr. Kilkenny, the fire shall not be necessary. The hour is late, so if you would show me to my room, I will retire for the evening.”

He turned around. “You’ll not be wanting to partake in a little sustenance then before bed?”

“I am amply …” I swung an arm before me. “… sustenanced.”

He shook his head. “Strange grammar for a tabloid writer.” He abandoned his endeavors at fire-making. “I’ll build a fire in your room then.”

“There is absolutely no need. I am quite capable of igniting a fire.”

He glared at me. “Oh, I’m willing to wager you are.”

I shook my head. “Building one in a hearth … is my true meaning.”

He stood up holding his lantern, and I watched his frigid breath expel from between his thin lips and float towards the ceiling until it drifted out of the lantern’s range. His late-twenties handsomeness became him, piquing my curiosity over why he had never married. Of course, if his manners towards me were the same towards all women, it was not altogether difficult to ascertain the cause of any woman’s reluctance.

“I’m sure you are capable, Miss Adams … of building a coal fire. However, we use peat in Ireland, and there is a bit of a trick to it. I had better demonstrate.”

“We use wood where I come from. Have you water available?”

“There is a bowl upstairs. Is that sufficient?”

“And a pitcher?”

“You are a lot of trouble.” He marched towards me whilst holding the lantern.

“My editor does not believe so and has therefore dubbed me his Newspaper Princess.”

He smirked. “Well, there’s no accounting for taste.” He extended his free arm. I took it, and he led me up the stairs to the second floor. Upon entering a cold and cramped bedchamber, he lit a candle on the nightstand beside the bed, started a worthy fire in the hearth, left, and returned with a pitcher.

“This was me sister’s room. She married a few months back and moved to Prince Edward Island.”

“I see.”

“In Canada.”

“I know where the island is.” I scanned the claustrophobic but well-kept room. It appeared his sister had more expensive tastes in accommodations. The canopied bed sat rather majestically amongst the other mahogany furniture, and someone had dressed the windows elaborately with a generosity of lace. “You were fond of your sister, were you not?”

“How would you know?”

I harrumphed and surveyed the room, comparing the relative opulence with the shabbiness I had seen on the first floor. “Trust me, I know.”

He harrumphed back and then shook his head. “Ah, you’re a woman after all.”

I shrugged. “Indeed. That I cannot deny.”

“I hope you don’t rue the day you arrived in Ireland.” He marched to the door, spun around, and glared at me. “I’ll return with your trunk.” He pivoted around but turned back again. “And a charmingly beautiful female throwing away her assets to pursue the felonious profession of news correspondent … well, it’s … it’s ….”

“Appalling?” I offered, seeing a particle of humor in his ranting.

“I was going to say, ‘unforgivable.’” He squinted, buckled his lips, and spun away from me.

The sting hit my heart, and I had a notion of throwing something at him. “You think so little of me, then?”

He grabbed the door handle. “As little as possible.”

I dug a particle deeper for more of the infamous mischief my American benefactor, Miss Harlacher, so well credited me for. “And that has naught to do with my being female?”

A puff of steam burst through his lips. “On the contrary, it has everything to do with it.”

I eased towards him and stared into his eyes. “If you would, doubtless, treat me as simply another human being instead of a female, an obvious solution to my housing may have swiftly presented itself.”

Mr. Kilkenny hunched his shoulders. “Let us understand one thing, Miss Adams. You’re here to report on the condition of the bad times befalling me people. You may keep your womanly opinions in your head as long as you keep them out of your tabloid.”

Realizing our situation had spiraled out of control, I clasped my hands before my skirts. “To answer your concern of a moment since, I will not rue the day I came. I only hope you will not rue it.”

He stood still, apparently drinking in my inflection, endeavoring to decipher its interpretation. I wanted him to be certain of the sincerity in what I said—and what I hoped—and that these final departing words would avail us in setting straight our awkward beginning.

“I truly mean that, Mr. Kilkenny,” I said as forthright as I knew how.

He grimaced, turned, and left the room.

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