My Own True Love (2 page)

"Heroes."

"Of the Revolution," Sara added automatically. "But I wonder what they really did to become heroes?

All we really know is that they existed. The stories say the lady I was named after saved the Borava tribe and freed the nation from the mad duke."

Mala looked up briefly. "That's not all she did."

"No," Sara agreed. "She also wrote economics treatises and invented rock and roll. If the stories are to be believed."

"Don't you believe them?"

"I've lived with them all my life, but I'd like some documentation."

"Then why don't you research it yourself?" Mala questioned. "Your father would like that. Hmm.

Interesting."

Sara considered Mala's suggestion. Her father was probably digging through dusty Bororavian archives even as they spoke, but Dad wasn't likely
to
bring any objectivity to the search. He wasn't going to like anything that contradicted his long-held beliefs. Now, if she took a crack at documenting the Heroes of the Revolution she might bring some unbiased insight to the records. Or at least turn up enough scandalous material for a steamy television movie. She chuckled. Dad wouldn't like that at all, but turning up a bit of scandal might be a fair exchange for his practical joke.

"You know," she said to Mala, "I wish I could. I wish I had six months free to do the research about what really happened back in 1811. I'd start in London and go all the way to Bororavia. Follow their trail and find out what really happened. What's interesting?" she added, finally reacting to the palm reader's last comment.

Mala whistled meaningfully, then cleared her throat. "Interesting," she repeated.

"Mala, why are you looking like that?"

Mala perused the lines of Sara's palm some more. Her hand felt like a talon around Sara's wrist.

Finally she said, "You're about to go on a long journey." She looked up quickly to intercept Sara's skeptical look. "No, really," she insisted. "Adventure, romance, long life, many children. I've never seen anything like it."

Sara took her hand back and looked critically at her palm. The lines seemed blurred to her. "Maybe it just needs ironing."

Mala chuckled, the sound faintly nervous. "Or an expensive hand cream. Nice ring," she added.

Sara held it up so the fortune-telling math teacher could get a better view. "Look familiar?" A tickling sensation ran up her arm from her ring finger. It felt as if the ring were purring. She gritted her teeth.

"Looks like
the
ring. I've seen pictures of the Bartholomew Ring from the museum."

"The letter that came with it claims it
is
the Bartholomew Ring. I think my dad—"

"That's it?" Mala's voice was full of believing reverence.

"I don't think—"

"It's magical, you know."

"I know, but—"

"A wish ring. You must make a wish," Mala announced.

"Must I?"

"Yes." It was a definitive statement.

Sara felt as if she were back in algebra class where Mrs. Rajko was not one to be argued with. "What do I wish for?"

"Whatever you most want," was her emphatic answer.

What did she want? Sara wondered. What did people wish for? She used to want a little sister, but Mom wouldn't go for that at this point in her life. Other than lack of siblings she had almost everything she desired. A home, a wonderful family, a nice butt. She was employed and doing just fine. She supposed she could wish to be the greatest guitarist in the world, but somehow that seemed like cheating. Did she really believe this stuff? No. But there was no harm in wishing.

"Start with something traditional," Mala suggested.

"Wish for what?" Sara questioned. "To find my own true love?"

As the words were spoken the voice she'd heard earlier insinuated itself into her mind, sounding bored and sarcastic. "I knew that would be next."

"What?"

"What?" Mala echoed.

The word rang in Sara's head as the pain from the bump suddenly became sharply intense. She heard a voice, whispering just on the edge of hearing, yet insistent enough to drown out the sounds outside the little tent. She saw faces looming up out of nowhere; a black cat, a blue-eyed fox, a stunningly attractive man. The images blended until the human one filled her mind. She could clearly make out a triangle of sharp chin and high cheekbones below a wing of night-black hair held out of his eyes by a wide red headband. Eyes. Brilliant, intelligent blue eyes, sooty added, uptilted, framed by heavy black lashes. He sought—soft-footed as a cat, wily as a fox—something, someone. Her. Huh? What?

Why on earth was the tent spinning at about warp ten? Who was calling her? Why did it sound so far away?

Someone nearby said, "Stay here. I'll get the medics."

Stay here. She couldn't move. She'd hit her head. She'd just hit her head. Dizzy. It felt as if someone were sucking on her toes. She liked it. Felt as if gravity were getting very fresh with her. Pulling her ...

Where was she going?

The citrine twinkled. She could
feel
it twinkle. "How about," it suggested stonily, "1811?"

The world smelled bad;
worse than bad. The world smelled horrible. The noise outside the tent was louder, more rude and raucous somehow. Sara didn't feel right. She didn't feel ill, but she definitely felt different.

When she opened her eyes she found the world was a darker place than she remembered. Maybe the blow on her forehead had affected her eyes. And her nose? Phew! What was that smell? Sort of like dead fish and sulfur and horse dung and—her stomach gave a dangerous warning lurch—and Sara decided to give up cataloguing scents.

"Just breathe through your mouth and try not to think about it," the familiar, unnatural voice advised.

"You'll get used to it in time."

I'm still hallucinating,
Sara thought, reaching up to rub her temples.

Unlike Mala's colorful, lightweight tent, this one was made of heavy canvas. The shape and size were different as well. Was this the first-aid tent? Who had moved her? How long had she been out?

She was covered by an old quilt. She threw it off and got shakily to her feet.

"Where'd these clothes come from?"

The words hadn't come from the disembodied, hallucinatory voice this time, but from her. She'd spoken, but the voice was not hers. This voice was lighter, younger, with a distinct accent.

Sara put a hand on her throat. "What is the matter with me?"

"You're about six inches shorter, for one thing."

Sara dropped with shock, landing on the bunched-up quilt. She looked around. This was not a first-aid tent, it looked like someone's untidy, crowded home. The quilt was part of a bedroll. There were clothes hung on a central tent pole. A battered wooden chest took up much of the tent's small space.

It's a dream,
she assured herself.
You're having a dream
—

“You're not."

Calm down. Ignore the voice. It's part of the dream. The worst part. Like being haunted. I don't
believe in ghosts. Has a ghost started to believe in me?

She pressed fingers to her aching temples and felt thjck tendrils of hair falling on either side of her face.

With a sharp shriek she sprang back to her feet, frightened that her short dark hair had turned into a medusa's nest of snakes.

"I don't want to know," she said, her stranger's voice no more than a dry whisper.

"There's a mirror in the chest. You might as well get on with it."

She pinched herself, hoping she'd wake up. But all the action did was draw her attention to her slender arm and the sleeve of a faded blue blouse. She recognized neither the sleeve nor the arm wearing it.

Rather than think about having a new body, a new voice, and being in a strange place, Sara gingerly fingered the material of the blouse. It didn't hold her attention for long. Curiosity inexorably drew her to look at her hand instead. It was the sort of hand she'd always wanted. The palm was narrow, the fingers exceptionally long. She found herself holding her hands up in front of her face. She flexed them cautiously, then rubbed her thumbs across her palms and fingertips.

"Beautiful," she said with awed wonder- "A guitarist's hands."

"Pickpocket's hands," the intruding voice chimed in.

Sara jumped. She would have dropped the hands if they hadn't been attached to her. All her confusion shifted into anger.

"Who are you?" she demanded. "Where are you?"

"Not a who, a what. I was right in front of your face a moment ago. Got any more wishes?" the voice added sarcastically.

In front of her face? She held her hands back up. She saw the citrine-and-silver ring. The ring. Sara's ring. The Bartholomew Ring. It was the real thing after all. She glared at the narrow silver band, her anger so heated she hoped to melt the delicate knot-work design.

"What did I wish for? To go crazy?"

And why was she yelling at a piece of jewelry? she wondered. Because a part of her was still trying to deny this odd situation. She'd gotten a bump on her head, maybe heatstroke. If she was lucky this was just a hallucination.

"If you hurry, you'll be able to catch your own true love's next performance."

"What?"

"You did wish to meet your own true love."

Sara gestured wildly around the unfamiliar surroundings. "But 1 didn't mean it!"

"Is that my fault?" the ring questioned.

Sara sputtered indignantly, then subsided into silence, unable to believe she was carrying on a conversation with a magic ring. She felt so, so ridiculous. No. She felt. . . brand new. Not out of her mind, out of herself. Which made no—

"You should hurry."

Sara ignored the voice. She scurried across the tent to the wooden chest. The lid lifted with a brassy creak. A smell of dried herbs and wool assailed her nostrils. Her newly long fingers fumbled through layers of old clothes until she came across a dingy square of silvered glass. She lifted the mirror gingerly, not trusting her own grasp. She was afraid of what she'd see, but she had to know. She took a deep breath, and held the glass up before her face.

The eyes she looked at herself with were blacker than night. So was the curling mass of hair framing the exotically featured oval face. The small but full-lipped mouth was open in surprise. The eyes were the wrong shape and color, much larger than her own eyes, but Sara saw herself looking out of them. She also knew the lovely stranger's face. She wasn't a stranger; she was a legend. This girl looked just like the official portrait of Sara Morgan in the Bororavian National Museum.

"Sara? The real, uh, first Sara?"

"Just so."

"But... how... I don't understand. I... She..."

"Stole me. I let her. Right off my wearer's hand. Not everyone can see me, you know. Not unless I want them to. The girl had such a light touch and my wearer didn't appreciate what he'd inherited from his ancestors. He came from a long line of wizards, but he's no more than a jumped-up city merchant in love with wealth. The bloodline's gone downhill from Merlin, I can tell you. Imagine, he was thinking of using me as a watch fob. Is it any wonder I let the gypsy girl steal me? Such pretty fingers. I've got a weakness for attractive hands. Cleverest fingers I've ever seen. I look handsome on them, don't you think? Pity about her heart."

Great. Not only did she get a magic ring, she got a talkative one. The ring rambled on, without Sara paying much attention. She tried pulling it off, but it was stuck on her finger. She wondered if there was any soap in the chest she could use to lubricate—

"No, there isn't. I'm staying right where I am. And no one can see me but you unless I want them to.

So don't try getting any help pulling me off. Bedlam still exists, you know. I wouldn't want you to end up in a madhouse."

A mind-reading magical ring.

Okay, she decided abruptly. She was crazy. Even the ring thought so. She'd just pretend this was really happening until she woke up somewhere nice and safe and padded, she decided. Meanwhile, she'd just cope, go along with the delusion.

She nodded decisively and spoke to the ring. “What am I doing here? What happened to Sara? The other Sara?" Her new voice still sounded strange to her ears.

The ring remained silent. She'd never experienced a hallucination before, and wasn't sure how to deal with a reluctant one.

"Where is she?" she insisted.

"Right here."

"What do you mean, 'right here'? I'm right here. Where is she?"

"It's complicated. I don't know if you'll grasp the metaphysical—"

"Try me."

"Reincarnation. A sort of retrograde variety. She died, you see. She was quite ill when she stole me.

As her spirit left her body she wished for it to come back. I granted her wish. It just took me a long time to find her spirit."

"Me?"

"You. Sara's soul reborn in the twentieth century. Then I had to wait for you to make the proper wish for yourself so I could then make hers come true as well. It would have been much easier if she'd wished to live instead of—"

"She died of heart trouble?" Sara wasn't sure what to make of the ring's tale of granting a dying girl's last wish. She was suddenly worried she might be dying any moment herself if this body had a bad heart.

"If she died from a weak heart, isn't the heart still weak?"

"No. I fixed it. We're leaving now."

"You what? Wait a minute—"

Her body gave a violent lurch as she was pulled forward, hand first, toward the tent flap. She fought the pressure, but the force was inexorable. She was propelled outside, and there was no way for her to stop. Before she could protest she was standing out in the open, too shocked by her new surroundings to make a sound.

The difference between this place and the Renaissance Faire was obvious, complete, and altogether unnerving. Sensory overload hit her like a slap in the face. Inside the tent it had all been muffled; outside it was another world. The noise was alien to her ears. Her nostrils and lungs reacted badly to the stinking air. Her eyes noted the subtle difference in the daylight from a bright August afternoon in Minnesota. Her mind had begun to believe she was in 1811; now the rest of her senses accepted the truth as well.