Bran could only shake his head in wonder.
“He must have gotten away, because he didn’t die until 1608. I wonder if he came looking for us.” My chest ached a little at the thought. “You know,” I said, “when I was eight, I found his portrait in a book, and I just started crying. I didn’t know why, but when my mother took the book away she kept staring at the picture and then back at me.” I kicked at the snow. “I think she knew, or at least suspected.”
We were quiet for a long moment before I reached up to touch the leather strand peeping from his collar. “This was your mother’s?” I said. “Your real mother’s?”
Bran tugged the medallion loose and touched it to his lips. “It was a St. Christopher, at one time. Though I remember her telling me that our family had long rubbed off the etching.” His eyes clouded. “I think she would’ve wanted me to have it.”
“I think so too,” I said.
“Moth—Celia—claims that when they found us, we were nearly dead,” Bran said, tucking the disc in place, but not before I saw him swipe at his eyes. “That we wouldn’t have lasted much longer. Not even long enough for whoever stayed behind to get us to another village. She lied, you know. Told me Sarah was the one who stabbed Michael. That she stole his lodestone. She always claimed your mother took you and would’ve left me behind. That she saved me. Can’t believe I was stupid enough to buy that.”
“I used to dream about them, you know. I thought they were angels.”
Bran chuckled. “Hardly. My mother certainly has never exhibited any angelish behavior.”
I cocked an eyebrow at him. “Angelish?”
He grinned. “New word. I’m thinking of adding it to the current lexicon. Then, by the time the others reach home, it’ll be in all the dictionaries, with our names beside the asterisk.”
I blew out a long breath, letting it puff my cheeks. “So . . . then . . . we’re, like, four hundred years old? Or . . . minus four hundred, depending on how you look at it.”
He turned, giving me an exaggerated once-over. “I suppose. Though you look pretty good for an old gal, I must say.”
Halfway to the road, we stopped so I could sluice the blood from my hands in an icy brook. After swallowing all the bright, crisp water we could hold, we sat back on a mossy log to formulate a plan.
“We could make our living as fortunetellers.” I tried for a joke, but the words caught in my throat when I remembered the day I’d met Phoebe, and how she claimed I looked like a gypsy girl.
Bran smiled, and plucked a stray twig from my hair. “Though I would be the hottest thing on two legs in balloon knee breeches and a gold earring, I happen to be overly fond of iced macchiatos, hot showers, and films with frequent explosions.”
“Plus”—he turned to stare down at the frozen bank—“my brother Tony’s not even twelve,” he said. “He’s a sweet lad. Innocent, you know? I can’t . . . I won’t let my mother use him like she did me. He’d never survive all this.”
When his fists clenched in his lap, I scooted closer, until our sides pressed together. Bran’s heat bled through the layers, stopping my shivers.
“We’ll just have to find another way back, then,” I said. “Your mom and Flint, they ran off. Obviously you didn’t come through at the glade?”
“No. We used another portal at a site clear across London. I would’ve had to cross through that one to get home.” He squinted up at the sun. “It came and went a while ago, I would guess. On horseback, Mother and Flint would’ve made it in time.”
“Then why?” I cried, shifting so I could see his profile. “Why come with us at all when we left Westminster? You could have just gone back to London. You could’ve gone home.”
His jaw muscles worked, but he didn’t look at me. “You needed me,” Bran said simply.
Silence fell as I realized the sacrifice he’d made. “Bran—” I started, but he interrupted.
“Doesn’t matter. What we have to do now is figure out another way home. However, in case you haven’t noticed, neither of us is currently in possession of a lodestone. Clearly you know what can happen if you travel without them.”
At my nod, he yanked one of the curved swords from his belt and began digging distractedly in the frozen turf. I watched as the tip of his blade gouged a design in the mud. A figure eight. Three wavy lines bisecting the figure horizontally where it crossed over itself. The sign of the Dim.
I stiffened. Then, taking the sword from him, I drew a straight line vertically down through the center.
He frowned. “Why did you do that?”
“What does it mean?”
He frowned. “It’s the sign of a Source. Obviously.”
I started to nip at my cuticles, but stopped when I saw my mother’s blood still crusted there. “Since I’m kind of new at this whole time-travel thing, why don’t you just enlighten me? What the hell is a Source?”