Whisper Falls (37 page)

He doubled over, hands braced on his knees, then surged forward, head-butting my chest.

I went down, smacking my head, lying spread-eagled and dazed.

A shadow blotted the sky. I blinked, trying to bring the world back into focus. There was a laugh, like some kind of villain's cackle from a bad cartoon show. Mr. Pratt loomed over me, his jacket flapping like the wings of a vulture.

“No!” Susanna screamed.

He hesitated long enough to glance over his shoulder, staring through the curtain of water, his face scrunched in confusion. “Susanna?”

He couldn't see her.

She'd made it to the other side. She was safe.

The knowledge gave me a second wind. I pushed up on my arms. As if my movement caught his attention, he swung around and reared back, his boot aiming a vicious kick at my crotch. When I twisted away, his foot went sailing into empty air. He wobbled and fell.

I rolled into the creek.

The water was colder and deeper than I expected. I hit bottom and jack-knifed around, disoriented by the gray-green, bubbling foam, not sure which way was up. Another quarter turn and there it was, a glimpse of a Carolina-blue sky.

I shot to the surface, gasping for breath.

“This way,” Susanna shouted. “Mark, come this way.”

I turned in the direction of her voice.

“Yes, that's good, Mark. The falls are straight ahead.”

I sloshed forward, desperately mopping hair and water from my eyes.

From behind me, Mr. Pratt moaned and spat.

“Send the dogs,” he shouted. “They're escaping.”

I'd forgotten about the damn dogs.

Someone gave a piercing whistle. The entire pack bounded into the creek.

With tired legs pumping, I sloshed harder toward the waterfall. Why was it so far away?

The dogs charged me, snarling and snapping.

I leapt for Whisper Falls.

Mark smashed through the torrent, the water scattering about him in glittering shards. He plunged into the creek in front of me, submerged, and then raised himself again.

Thank you
, I said to the waterfall. Mark had been right; the falls had been on our side. He was safe and I was free.

I braced myself against a boulder, my legs no longer capable of support. “Mark, please tell me how you are.”

He sputtered. “Okay.” And sputtered some more. “Where are we?” he asked between gasps.

“We are in your world.” I didn't say more, fascinated by the scene unfolding on the other side.

Whisper Falls poured in a wide arch, its water translucent, revealing the men of Worthville as dark, motionless, human-sized smudges high on the bluff. The hounds whimpered and cowered at the base of the falls, then turned tail and raced for the trail to the cliff, a long, gray shadow moving as one.

Mr. Pratt fumbled to his feet, a hulking menace, and faced the falls squarely.

“Come on, you idiots,” he shouted, “we have them within our grasp.” He crouched and sprang.

The falls encased my master in a crystal skin and suspended him in mid-air, a huge, hapless trout flapping on a watery fishing line. He flailed and shrieked until the falls released him, dumping him unceremoniously into the creek below.

Whenever he floundered to his feet, the water slapped him under.

“Papa.” Jedidiah clambered down the cliff, falling the last few feet. Wincing, he lurched across the rocks to the creek's edge. “Let me help you.”

“Get away from me, you fool.” Mr. Pratt knocked away his son's hand.

My heart broke at the humiliation replacing adoration on Jedidiah's face. How could Mr. Pratt treat him this way
before witnesses?

The townsfolk shifted restlessly, muttering among themselves. When someone whistled, the dogs swarmed over the top of the cliff, panting and milling about. As a group, the men turned and stalked down the trail toward Worthville. A flushed Jedidiah limped along the bank and disappeared behind the bluff.

“Come back here,” Mr. Pratt shouted as he crawled onto a boulder. “It's not too late.”

Silence greeted his calls. The tall grasses waved in the breeze.

“Come back here!”

Jethro Pratt stood alone, a pompous, cruel, despicable man.

“Hey,” Mark said from behind me, his hands light on my shoulders, “what just happened?”

“Justice.” Satisfaction coursed through my veins. Mr. Pratt was about to reap what he had sown.

“Good. Let's go home.” Mark lifted me onto the bank, then joined me. “How do you feel?”

“Weary. Fine.” I touched my lips lightly to his. “You saved me.”

He cupped my cheek with a gentle hand. “I told you I'd come back for you.”

“You did.” I smiled and left unsaid what we both knew. It could've ended badly. He'd been both foolish and wonderful.

We kissed again, sweetly, briefly, but full of promise.

“Time to get you home and into some dry clothes.” He glanced at my ankles, but made no comment. I dared not follow his gaze. They hurt so fiercely that it couldn't be a pleasant sight.

“What about your sack?”

“Oh, right.” He hauled it from the boulder and then secured it behind a fallen log. “It'll be hidden there until I come back to get it later.”

Indeed, it was best to concentrate fully on the journey to his home. I leaned on him and focused on the path before me. We climbed onto the trail and tramped up the hill. When we reached the top, I watched people passing on the greenway. They stared, open-mouthed, no doubt shocked at the sight of the two of us, wet and bedraggled. I dropped my gaze to the ground, unwilling to see if their shock turned to censure.

“Can you walk the rest of the way?”

I shook my head, as my body refused to move another inch. Shakes took over. Teeth clicked. Muscles cramped. And my ankles. Merciful heavens, they screamed for attention, robbing me of breath from the pain. Because I dared not look at them, I looked at him, instead. Blood seeped from a cut on his jaw.

“You're hurt.”

“It's nothing.”

“It's everything.” I swayed and clutched at his shirt to keep from falling.

“Are you sure you're okay?”

I shook my head, too worn out to speak, and slid slowly, carefully down to the ground.

“Here.” He sat beside me and pulled me into his embrace. “Are you cold?”

“No.”

“Then why are you shivering?”

I felt the sting of tears. “Relief.”

I slumped into him, closing my eyelids against the sunlight, the passersby, and the fate I had barely escaped. All I wanted was the feel of his strength and the little reassuring sounds he murmured.

Minutes passed, long enough for a lone beam of sunlight to slide by us and reappear overhead. Perhaps I even dozed, but, at last, I stirred.

He shifted. “How are you now?”

“Ready to go.”

“It's not far.”

The path curved up a slight incline. At its bend, I glanced over my shoulder at the rutted trail. My throat tightened as I lost sight of the falls.

I faced forward again, the past behind me. We reached his property without delay. He opened his gate and urged me ahead of him, one hand securely clasping mine, the other a solid presence at my waist.

My footsteps faltered, but from surprise rather than pain. The immensity of his house still intimidated me. Larger than the Etons's, this house had no dependencies besides a tiny barn, and it had only one chimney. How did they stay warm in the winter? How many people lived here? How many servants did they require?

Would his servants treat me like a guest or like one of them?

Should I act like a guest or a servant?

“Are your parents at home?”

“Not right now.”

I cleared my throat. “Do most people in your century have houses like this?”

“No.”

Three stories made of brick. And windows everywhere.

“It seems quite extravagant.”

“I wouldn't say that, but it's not small.”

I looked up at him in wonder. He stared straight ahead, avoiding my gaze.

“Is your family rich?”

“They do pretty well.” He crossed to a dark red door and tapped some black buttons on a little white square. “It feels weird to be discussing this.”

“All right. We won't.”

He stepped back so I could precede him inside.

The first thing I noticed was how pleasantly cool it was. And for a building so full of windows, the first room we entered was rather dim.

We turned a corner and emerged into a huge space—nearly as big as the entire ground floor of the Pratts's home. It echoed with an odd hum and had air blowing from holes at our feet.

He helped me to a chair and then crouched beside me. “Wait here a second. I'm going to get you some medicine for pain, and then something to drink.” He disappeared through a doorway.

I crossed my arms on the table and gave in to the desire to close my eyes.

“Susanna?” Mark's voice had softened with concern. “Can you sit up?”

My head and arms seemed reluctant to cooperate, but I did straighten. He dropped two pills in my hand and offered a glass.

The liquid inside was cool and sweet. “What is this?” I asked after drinking it all.

“Orange juice. It's good for you.” There was a smile in his voice. He slid a warm wrap around my shoulders and perched on the seat next to me. “How do you feel?”

“Better.” I felt as if I had awakened prematurely from an oddly happy nap.

“Do you think you can walk?”

“Soon.”

“Okay. Sit as long as it takes. Will you be okay alone for a few minutes? I want to go back to the creek and get the backpack and your books.”

I gave a nod and laid my head on my arms. A soft chirp, like a bird, sounded as the door closed behind him.

Sleep claimed me instantly. I didn't stir until I felt a touch on my shoulder.

“Susanna, are you awake?”

I yawned and struggled to sit straight. “Perhaps.”

“Stay seated another couple of minutes and then we'll give walking a shot.”

“My books?”

“As good as when you handed them to me.” He clasped my hand snugly. “By the way, we're in the kitchen.”

“Your kitchen is inside the house?”

“Yeah.”

A kitchen attached to the house? Strange, but useful. “You don't worry about fires?”

“Not really.”

I opened my eyes wide to survey the room, looking for the familiar. There was no fireplace or baking oven. Perhaps the silver boxes scattered about the walls had that purpose. Opposite us waited two sinks. A worktable rested in the center, covered with a large, exceptionally smooth rock. Square stones, of a golden hue, covered the floor. There were ten or more windows.

Where were their pots and pans? I saw no spoons, ladles, or knives. Indeed, the only item I recognized was a tea kettle.

The odors were missing, too. No roasted meat, wood smoke, or baking bread. There was, however, the faintest scent of sweet spices lingering in the air.

This room made my head buzz with awe. “Where is your cook?”

“We don't have a cook. Everyone in my family can fix food, but mostly my mom makes our meals.” He watched me carefully. “We don't have
any
servants, Susanna.”

I blinked. “None?”

He shook his head.

I didn't know what to make of that. Without servants, the family would have no choice but to do their own chores. I couldn't imagine how that could be true.

“How do you prepare food without a hearth?”

“All those silver boxes. We call them appliances.” His lips curved slightly. “The thing with the window is the oven, which is where we bake. The tall one is the refrigerator. It keeps things cold.”

The explanation was too much. My aches had taken over again, consuming my thoughts. There was no room for anything else. Learning about my new reality could wait. My head lolled on my neck.

“Hey, I am boring you?”

“Never.” I yawned.

“All right.” He stood and then drew me up with him, his arm securely around my waist. “It's time to get cleaned up.”

I stiffened. “Must we?”

“Yeah, I'm sorry. Your ankles are oozing blood.”

He was right, of course. We had to.

A sob swirled in my gut, fighting to break free. A sob of anticipation. I feared the pain. I feared how I would react to the pain, and how he would react to me.

“I'll find you some clean clothes and run you a bath.”

“A bath?” I asked in shock. Unbidden, the image of previous baths in the Pratts's kitchen came to me. A metal tub full of cold, dirty water. “Did not Rocky Creek wash me sufficiently?”

“Not at all. I don't trust what's in the creek.” He wrapped me in a hug. “I need to put medicine and bandages on your ankles, and I can't do that until you're clean. You might as well get used to it. We bathe every day in this century. Only with this bath, your legs will feel horrible.”

I didn't want to get used to it, and I didn't want to sit in cold water. But most of all, I didn't want Mark to help me with a bath in a tub in this house.

He assisted me up the stairs. It was a chore to lift my legs up each step. My feet left grubby tracks on the thick, silvery rug that stretched from wall to wall.

“Mark, the floor.”

“I don't care about the carpet.” He pressed a kiss to my temple. “You're important.
It
is not.”

His arms kept their light yet vigilant hold on me as we completed the laborious climb.

Everything in this part of the house was bigger and more colorful than in the Pratts's house. In Mark's home, the stairs were wide and curved. The walls were painted a pleasing blue. Gilt frames hung at regular intervals, with paintings so lifelike they looked real. Could they be more of those things he called photographs? I paused before one that showed Mark smiling beside a young lady.