He stays close as we head for the back porch, his eyes catching on the road, the telephone lines, the satellite dish sticking out of old Mr. Whitman’s roof across the street. He sucks in a breath, his steps faltering as a man on a Schwinn speeds down the road. “What in God’s name was that beast?”
“That was a bicycle,” I say. “Don’t worry, it won’t hurt you.”
“I find that highly unlikely.”
I take my key out of my back pocket and twist it in the lock.
“Does everyone dress in such a fashion in your time?”
I glance over my shoulder at him. “What do you mean?”
“Do women wear pantaloons often? Or shirts that expose their arms so?”
I turn the knob and open the door. “Believe me, buddy. You look just as weird to me as I do to you. Boots off,” I tell him, chucking mine off by the heels. “I don’t want to explain a mud trail to Mom if she gets home before I can clean it.”
Brightonshire takes off his boots and holds one in each hand. “You do not wish to announce my presence?”
I snort. “God, no. My mom doesn’t do so well with anything related to my job, and she definitely doesn’t do so well with random boys in the house.” Not that I’ve ever tested the theory, but I can guess what her reaction would be, and it would involve her favorite meat cleaver.
“So I am to remain hidden for the duration of my stay?”
“Hidden and silent.” My keys clatter on the kitchen countertop as we cross to the back staircase off the pantry. “Think you can manage that?”
“I am not an imbecile,” he grumbles.
I lead him upstairs to my room, through the first door on the right. I swing my backpack into the far corner, next to my desk, and spin around. Brightonshire stands in the doorway, staring at the ceiling fan. His hand reaches out, fingers curling in on themselves before getting too close to the lightbulb.
“What sort of candle is this, that it may burn so brightly without flame?”
“Um, it’s called electricity,” I say, even though I know I shouldn’t tell him anything. Unspoken rule number two: If a traveler somehow makes it through a threshold into the future or, God forbid, is invited through one, he should not be informed about anything that may alter the course of history. This includes, but is not limited to, advances in technology and medicine, information on current world politics, or historical events that have occurred after the traveler’s time.
He reaches for it again. “Amazing.”
I move forward and snatch his hand in mine. There’s a jolt, an awareness that shoots up my veins and makes my stomach churn as my skin touches his. Static—from my socks sliding across the rug next to my bed. That’s all it is.
I clear my throat and let go of his hand. “That’s not important right now. You need to tell me everything you know about what happened to your parents, and why exactly you need to be here, in my time, to save them.”
“It is a long story,” he says. “I am not certain of where I should begin.”
“I have time.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “How much do you know about the council?”
I sit in my desk chair, fold my knees into my chest, and start counting off everything my dad ever told me on my fingers. “I know it was created a thousand years ago to protect the wood from humans who wanted to use its power to conquer lands and vanquish their enemies and all that villainous, medieval he-man stuff. I know the council members are immortal, and that they chose ten mortals they could trust to physically guard the wood from outside threats. One of those mortals happened to be my ancestor, and the guardianship has passed down through our bloodline ever since. Which is why I’m a little confused that your parents would make an elixir that would give travelers such an advantage in the wood.”
“The elixir was never meant to be used by anyone else. It was only for me.”
“Still, they must have realized it could fall into the wrong hands.”
Brightonshire’s eyes narrow. “Why so interested in the elixir?”
I give him the same look. “Why so dodgy about the elixir? How do you know it isn’t related to what happened to your parents? I mean, they did go behind the council’s back to make it. Maybe they’ve been doing other secret things, too.”
“That’s absurd,” Brightonshire says through clenched teeth.
“Why?”
“My parents didn’t disappear because they were doing something wrong,” he says. “They disappeared because they knew too much.”
My brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
He takes a deep breath. “What would you say if I told you my parents had reason to believe there was a conspiracy within the council?”
“What sort of conspiracy?”
“It all started with your father’s disappearance. Naught like it had ever happened to a guardian before, not in broad daylight. My parents were far from pleased with the scope of the council investigation that followed. They spoke at the dinner table every night about how nothing was being done—”
“Wait, back up. What year did you say you’re from?”
He blinks. “The year of our Lord, 1783.”
“So how does someone who lives in the year 1783 even know what happened to my dad in the twenty-first century?”
“Forgive me,” he says, his tone taking on a professorial quality. If he wore glasses, he would be cleaning them or pushing them up his nose right about now. “I did not realize you were unaware. Members of the council are permitted to live in whichever time period they prefer. This, of course, does not apply to the intermediaries who watch over the guardian families, as their duty requires them to remain within the current guardian’s own time period, but immortals can choose which time period they will live in because, for them, time is circular. The only element that counts the true, linear passage of time in the wood is the life and death of each guardian, and so, as long as they do nothing to affect the course of history, the council members may live wherever and whenever they wish, and still possess the ability to participate in what is happening in the wood’s present timeline.”
This is starting to make my head spin. “So, wait. If you live in the year 1783, but your parents just disappeared a week ago, how do you even know about it? I mean … wouldn’t they still be around in your time?”
“My parents choose to live in the year 1783 just as your mother chooses to live in your house. When my parents attend the council meetings in your present timeline, it is no different than when your mother leaves your house. You expect her to come home when her day is done. My parents disappeared in your timeline, and so they never came home in mine.”
“Okay,” I say, only somewhat understanding. “Continue.”
He frowns. “With which part?”
“The part about my dad,” I say, my mouth suddenly dry. “Uncle Joe—our family intermediary—he told us there was an investigation, and that the council decided Dad somehow found a way to walk off a path.”
He leans forward, his fingers creating a pyramid in front of him. “My parents did not believe the investigation was conducted properly,” he explains. “No guardian has ever been able to walk off the paths before, so why would such an anomaly occur now? My parents decided to perform their own investigation, and what they found—”