“The number three has always had significance to the ancients,” Doug had told me a few days earlier as he fiddled with the computer keyboard before the great monitor. “Jesus rose on the third day, and so on. But there’s one immutable rule. Exactly seventy-two hours from the moment you arrive, the pattern in the ley lines will repeat. I’ll power up the device at that exact moment, and the wormhole will open to bring you back. If you miss that window, there’s no telling if or when the pattern will come again. You must be back within a few feet from where you started. And you must, must be wearing the lodestone.”
I trudged after Collum, but a chill raced up my back, thinking about what had happened to Julia Alvarez’s brother. According to the journals, the man had lost his stone while carelessly hopping a stream. Though his father had wrapped him in his arms, without a stone on his person Luis Alvarez had been ripped in half trying to get home. If for some reason we didn’t make it back to the glade by sunrise on the third day? Poof. Left behind. Just like Michael MacPherson. Just like my mom. I groped for the lodestone snug beneath my bodice and clutched it tight.
At a stall selling braided whips, I felt a tiny twinge of satisfaction when I saw our fearless leader had stopped to ask for directions.
He waved us over. “I have it. Let’s get moving.”
“Coll,” Phoebe wheedled. “Can’t we at least grab a bite first? I’m starving.”
Collum rubbed the back of his neck. “All right. But make it quick and don’t go far.” He dug into the leather bag at his belt and handed each of us a few copper coins that resembled squashed, miniature pennies.
Phoebe grinned and gestured for me to follow. “Let’s go before he changes his mind. I’m getting some of that meat. Oh, it smells amazing. I just hope it’s not goat. I hate goat. Tough as a boot.”
At a cooking stand, a man in a filthy apron carved hunks of bloody flesh from a swinging carcass. He threaded strips onto metal skewers, barely letting the flames lick, before sliding them off into the gloved hands of waiting customers.
“No way,” I said. “I am not touching that. I’m going to see what else they have.”
I edged away, grateful for some space in which to process all this. A heavenly whiff of cinnamon drifted across my path. I followed it to a booth manned by a stout kerchiefed woman who slid a wooden paddle into a round clay oven, then dumped a load of lumpy pastries on the counter.
“Apple tarts here! Get them while they’re hot.”
In moments, I had one of the steaming pastries in hand. It was sticky with honey, and as I took a huge bite, the dough flaked on my lips. Bitter, scalding juice ran down my chin. I gasped and glanced around for the napkin dispenser.
That’s when it really hit me.
No napkins.
No napkins, ’cause there’s no paper. There’s parchment, scrubbed and scraped animal hide. But even that’s for scribes, priests, and the very rich. No newspapers. No Post-it notes. No magazines or notebooks.
Oh God. No toilet paper.
I had a sudden, horrifying realization of what it meant to be “on the rag.” Bits of pastry flew from my lips as a hysterical bark of laughter popped out. My gaze lit on a tiny girl who crouched nearby, staring at me through a tangle of filthy blond curls. Raw sores pocked her thin mouth. She shivered in tattered, stained clothes.
Her crusty eyes were fixed on the food in my hand.
“Here.” I forced down the bite in my mouth and held the rest out to her. “You can have it.”
She hesitated, her wild eyes roving all around before she snatched the pastry and bolted. Without a word, she crammed half of the steaming thing in her mouth. Shivers danced across my skin as I saw a gang of rough little boys skim through the crowd after her as she raced away. Suddenly, I didn’t want to be alone anymore.
“Phoebe?” My voice sounded screechy.
I turned and scanned the crowd for my friends. People with dirty hair, pitted faces, and brown teeth blurred around me as I tracked back the way I thought I’d come. The jumbled market looked the same in all directions. I began to shove through the crush of reeking strangers, stumbling over my long skirts.
“Collum.” Terror rose in me, hot and fast. “Phoebe!”
I froze, immobile. My friends were gone.
Chapter 19
LOST. ALONE. AND WALLED IN BY A MASS OF PEOPLE WHO were long dead, I nearly lost it. What I wanted to do was shut down, curl into a tiny ball, and start rocking back and forth in the mud.
Get ahold of yourself, Walton. You’re okay. They probably went to the house. That’s it, just keep walking. You’ll be fine.