Tears of a Dragon (15 page)

“A lot less than I have, that’s for sure.”

She let out a quiet chuckle.

“What’s so funny?” Billy asked.

She squirmed on the bench, scratching her back on the seat. “I can’t do this at home. My wings would get in the way.”

Billy sat down again and laid an arm over the back of the bench. “Well, enjoy yourself, and I’ll tell you the whole story.”

While Billy told Bonnie what he read in
Fama Regis
, her eyes kept blinking. It was obviously pure torture for her to stay awake. With darkness deepening over the village, he came to the part about Merlin seeing his wife with the scrolls.

Bonnie interrupted with a yawn. “So you’re supposed to find her and your dad and get them out?”

“I think so.” He returned a yawn and slid down on the bench. “I thought she would be easy to find, someone handling scrolls for the town big shot, but now that the town’s so different, I’m not sure what to look for.”

“What about everyone else?” Bonnie asked. “Can you get them out of here?”

“I think I’m supposed to try. After the two prayers,
Fama Regis
just said, ‘Though you lead, not all will follow, for many are called, and few are chosen.’ I’m trying to figure it all out as we go, but I do know one thing to do. I heard a voice when we got here, the same voice I heard in the candlestone when Merlin carried me. He said I have to go into a theatre.”

Bonnie yawned again, her voice dying away as she spoke. “I remember a theatre. . . . It’s where . . . I found Palin . . .” Her breathing settled into a heavy, buzzing rhythm.

“Okay, then,” he said, unlacing one of Bonnie’s shoes. “We’ll find it first thing in the morning.” He pulled off each of her shoes, exposing her damp, muddy socks. The evening air was parched and warm, perfect weather for drying out a bit. He kicked off his own shoes and settled back on the bench, closing his eyes. The streets were quiet. The pleasant aroma of wood smoke hung in the air. A soft breeze began to blow, carrying a faint violin song, sad and lonely.

He let his head droop onto his chest, sleep drawing his mind into its comforting arms. A distant bell gonged eight times, each one snapping Billy’s head back up for a second, but when the last gong faded, his mind drifted into a dream. He stood at a wedding altar, Bonnie at his side. As the pastor quoted the vows, Billy kept glancing at Bonnie out of the corner of his eye. Although he could see her face, for some reason he wanted to check her back to see if she had wings. In his mind, he kept trying to stretch his vision. He had to know if they were there. What could be wrong with that? He was marrying her, wasn’t he? Shouldn’t he have the right to know if she had wings or not? But he couldn’t quite see her back.

The pastor continued. “In sickness and in health, for richer, for poorer, for better, for worse . . .” Billy’s thoughts drifted. His mind interrupted. “With or without wings?”

The pastor, who suddenly looked exactly like Professor Hamilton, said, “William!”

Billy shook away the distraction. It was time to say, “I do.” He tried to stretch his vision one more time, but Bonnie’s back was still barely out of sight. He cleared his throat and opened his mouth.

The clock sounded again, jolting Billy from his dream. Still half asleep, he counted the gongs as they plodded their way to twelve. When the last toll died in the breeze, the wind shifted. The bells sounded again, but this time as if played backwards, the echo building up to the initial gong. Then, after only a few seconds, they chimed eleven times. A few more seconds, and ten backwards gongs sounded, then nine. As the clock passed the eight o’clock signal, darkness faded away, and the whole town brightened a hundred times faster than a dawning day.

Billy couldn’t tell if he was asleep or awake. This was too real to be a dream, but too weird to be real. After a minute or so, the light dimmed again, rapidly giving way to darkness. The clock continued to signal the time—four o’clock . . . three . . . two . . . one, then, after a longer pause, the breeze changed directions again and an echo of a single gong drifted by, pulling all consciousness from his mind.

Female voices drifted into Billy’s ears.

“Homeless waifs?”

“Yes, probably a brother and sister. Looks like they’ve been on the road a long time.”

“Poor things. No home. No bed. I wonder why they’re here.”

“Well, I don’t trust strangers. They’re probably up to no good, right Constable?”

“They might be running from the law.”

That was a male voice. Billy tried to wake up.

“I’d better get them off the street,” the man continued, “or folks’ll think this town is a haunt for hoboes.”

Billy held up his hand and forced his eyes open. “No. Please wait, Constable.” He yawned, trying to focus his bleary vision. Three women stood before him, each wearing vintage, nineteenth century dresses—long sleeves, floor-length hems, and simple patterns in muted colors. All three had their hair tied back, tightening the skin on their faces. One of them stood only shoulder tall to the other two. Her dress accentuated her figure, slender and curvaceous. Her youthful face seemed familiar, and her smile kindled a warm sensation.

A man walked around the women and stared at Billy. Brass buttons fastened his blue, long-sleeved shirt all the way up to the collar, a shoestring tie wrapped around his neck, and a gray, snap-brim hat adorned his head.

“We’re travelers,” Billy said. “We just had to rest somewhere.” He nudged Bonnie’s leg. “Don’t worry. We won’t be here long.”

Bonnie sat up, her eyes blinking rapidly. Pushing her hands through her hair, she smiled. “Good morning.”

“Well,” the constable said, “you two had better get washed up and into some proper clothes, or I’ll run you out of town myself.”

“Sorry. We just got here.” Billy stood and brushed some of the mud off his jeans. “We’ll get cleaned up.” He grabbed his shoes and began putting them on.

The man and two of the women walked away, but the shorter woman lingered. “My name is Constance,” she said. “Please come to my hostel for a hot meal. I also have clean beds for tonight.” Her long black hair shone in the morning sunlight. “My beds are not the finest, but they are much better than a hard bench. And I have heard that strange things happen on the streets during the night. It is not safe to be out.” She backed away, smiling with each step. “Camelot Inn. Middle of the town square. You can’t miss it.” She turned and hurried along the walk.

Billy’s gaze followed Constance for a moment. There was definitely something familiar about her, something enchanting. She was certainly a friendly one. He leaned down and finished tying his laces. “Know where there’s a clothing shop?” He straightened and pulled out his wallet.

“Maybe,” Bonnie said, rubbing her eyes. “I remember seeing a sign for a seamstress when I was here, so it could still be around somewhere.”

He rifled through the bills in his wallet. “I hope they take modern American money.”

Swinging her feet to the planks, Bonnie stood and stretched her arms. “I guess we’ll find out.” She pulled the hem of her sweatshirt down and wiggled her socked toes. “What happened to my shoes?”

Billy slid them toward her with his foot. “My mom never let me sleep with my shoes on.”

Bonnie bent over and slipped her feet into her shoes, tying them quickly. After collecting Billy’s jacket, she gestured with her head toward the street to their right. “Come on.”

They marched quickly, weaving through a line of morning pedestrians. Bonnie made a right turn around a corner, then immediately ducked under the awning of a store. Billy shadowed her, keeping a lookout for the people who had awakened them. He wanted to avoid the constable if he could help it.

Bonnie pushed open the door, jingling a bell, and Billy followed her inside. The seamstress shop boasted a bright array of mannequins draped with colorful dresses—silky evening gowns, gingham riding frocks, and long, flowing prairie dresses.

Bonnie picked up a hem of a sky blue prairie dress and rubbed it between her thumb and finger. “Isn’t this nice? Simple and pretty, and I love the color.”

A lady at the counter peered over her spectacles, her gray hair pinned in a bun. A bewildered smile spread slowly across her face. “May I . . . help you?”

Billy marched to the counter. “Yes. My name is Bi—uh, William, and this is Bonnie.”

The lady stepped around the counter and extended her hand. “My name is Dorcas.”

Bonnie covered her mouth, a slight gasp sneaking through her fingers. Billy glanced at her, then shook the lady’s hand. “We’re travelers, and people are looking at us kind of funny, so we thought we should do something about it.”

“I should say so,” Dorcas replied, her smile now more friendly. “Your garments are quite odd.” Her gaze shifted lower on their bodies. “But I thought you were locals, seeing that you’re wearing rings.”

Billy raised his hand up to eye level, rolling his fingers into a fist. The gem in his ring had turned white. “Our rings?”

“Yes, of course.” Dorcas pushed her hand into a pouch in her smock. “Everyone in town wears one. But I see now that yours are different.”

He held out his fist for the lady to see. “Because they’re white?”

“Yes. The others are red and blink like a fiery eye, but no one knows the reason.”

Billy wanted to ask more questions, but he felt the need to hurry. “Well, I guess once we get some new clothes, we’ll fit right in.”

Dorcas tapped Billy’s hand. “Just twist the ring so the gem faces your palm, and no one will notice its color.” She picked up a slate and a piece of chalk from a cutting table, bent low, and felt the crease in Bonnie’s jeans. “Blue jean material with rivets? I read about this in a fashion catalog.” She looked up at her, a motherly scold crossing her face. “Why are you wearing trousers, young lady?”

Bonnie bit her bottom lip. “It’s, uh, our style back home.”

Dorcas straightened up and laid a hand on Bonnie’s head, then floated her hand back toward herself, touching the bridge of her nose. She chalked a note on her slate. “Do women dress like men where you come from?”

Bonnie half closed one eye. “I guess you could say that some of them do, but usually not so much that you can’t tell the difference.”

Dorcas tucked the slate under her arm, cupped her hands around Bonnie’s waist, and nodded. “The dress you admired will likely fit you well.” She turned to Billy and laid her practiced hands on his shoulders. “Hmmm. Square and strong. I like that.” Copying her method of checking Bonnie’s height, she measured Billy’s, the edge of her hand striking her brow. She made another note on her slate. “You and Remus are the same height. The suit I made for him will do fine.”

Billy leaned forward, trying to read the notes on the slate. “What about Remus? Won’t he be coming in for his suit?”

“No.” Dorcas fished for something in her pouch. “His wife came by and paid me for it, saying to give the suit to the poor. She said ever since he started going to the theatre, he changed from a miser to a philanthropist.” She withdrew a thimble and slipped it on. “He’s given away nearly everything he had.”

“To the theatre?” Billy asked. “What movie is playing there?”

Dorcas squinted. “Movie?”

“Uh . . . the show? You know, the play that’s showing at the theatre?”

“Oh,” Dorcas said, waving her hand, “it’s not that kind of theatre. I hear it used to be a playhouse at one time, but now it’s been converted to the waiting room.”

“The waiting room?” Billy repeated. “What do people wait for?”

Dorcas flushed. She glanced at the window, then back at Billy. “Well, supposedly,” she said, lowering her voice, “back when it was a real theatre, an old man appeared out of nowhere at the end of the play, like a ghost floating in a sea of red mist. He told the audience that a king would come to the theatre someday and take them to a better life.” She picked up a spool of black thread from her sales counter and reeled off a couple of feet, her gaze still flashing back toward the window every few seconds. “But, the only people who could go to that life would have to come to the theatre. So, I guess folks who aren’t satisfied with their lives decided to believe the old man and wait for this king to arrive.”

Billy peeked at the window out of the corner of his eye. Nothing there. “How many come, and how long do they stay?”

“I’d say about twenty on a regular basis, sometimes more, and they come for the posted showtime and stay about three hours.” She picked up a needle and expertly threaded the eye. “They wait in the dark theatre, usually without saying a word, then come back and try to make up for lost time in whatever jobs they normally do, though they feel quite weary when they come out.”

“So, do you go to the theatre?” Billy asked.

“Oh, no.” Dorcas laughed, a hint of nervousness blending in. “I’m only telling you what I’ve heard. I tried a few times, but it seems that when I get to the door, I just can’t go another step, as if there’s an invisible wall in my way. The others in line try to help me, but no matter what we do, the wall remains.” She flapped her arms against her sides. “I seem to have been singled out, like a black sheep, I suppose.”

“That’s weird,” Billy said, glancing at Bonnie. She shook her head sadly.

Billy nodded toward the door. “Can you tell me where the theatre is?”

Dorcas pointed toward the street and began drawing directions in the air. “Turn left out of my shop, two blocks, left again, then look for the first side street on the right. You’ll see it.”

“Thank you.” Billy pulled out his wallet and tried to separate the damp bills. “Um. What kind of money do you take?”

“Your suit is free. Like I told you, Remus wanted it given to the poor.” Her head tilted up and down as she examined his clothes again. “And I think you qualify.”

“Okay,” Billy said, laughing. “I won’t argue with that.” He spread out a twenty, two tens, and two ones, each one bent and wrinkled. “How much for Bonnie’s dress?”

“We usually barter,” Dorcas said, eyeing the money curiously. “Some people use precious metal coins, but I’m not familiar with this kind of currency.”

Billy laid his palms on the counter. “I don’t have anything to barter with.” He noticed her eyes focusing on his ring, his father’s ring. He covered it with his other hand. “I can’t trade this. It belongs to my father.”