“What’s that supposed to mean?”
But he doesn’t answer me. He takes a step forward, through the threshold, and disappears. Back to Brightonshire, in the year of our Lord, 1783.
I glance down at my hand. There’s a scrape on my wrist from my less-than-graceful tackle. I’ll have to hide it from Mom. It’s hard enough for her to accept what I do without seeing evidence of the occasional scuffle. I rub my thumb over the coin and leave a message for Uncle Joe. Trouble at the Brightonshire threshold. Sent home a traveler who seems desperate to come back. It’ll need to be watched until we can find a more permanent solution.
I don’t have to actually say the words—the coin records my thoughts. It’s a safety precaution, so that guardians can communicate with members of the council without giving away their position to any unsuspecting travelers who might hear their voice and run. I get its importance, I do, but sometimes I wonder if that’s all the coin is—a magical walkie-talkie with another couple of neat tricks attached. Or if it’s more than that. If someone could use it to read the thoughts I don’t want them to read.
I swear, the more time I spend in here, the more I start to sound as paranoid as Dad.
An hour later, I’ve returned two more travelers to their homes—one in Los Angeles, 1986, another in Shanghai, 1450—and Uncle Joe has replied to my message.
You are the permanent solution, his voice echoes in my head.
I was afraid of that.
VII
For my second lesson, me, Dad, and Uncle Joe sit down at the kitchen table, and they tell me about the Old Ones, the Compact, and who Uncle Joe really is.
Dad starts by reassuring me, telling me this is a lot for a ten-year-old to take in, and if they go too fast, if I need to ask questions or need more time to wrap my head around all of this, I just need to say the word. And maybe he’s right. Maybe this is a lot for a ten-year-old to take in, but I’m not a normal kid. I’ve lived my entire life next to a wood full of magic and mystery, and I am so ready to learn its secrets that I’m certain if I have to wait a second longer, my insides will burst out of my skin.
Mom sets two cups of coffee in front of Dad and Uncle Joe and a mug of hot chocolate in front of me. I pretend mine’s coffee, too, to feel more grown-up. Mom kisses Dad’s cheek, then returns to the sink, where she scrubs dirty pots and pans to the melody of her favorite oldies radio station emitting from the little red box on the windowsill.
I know she doesn’t like me learning about the wood. I heard her talking to Dad one night from the top of the staircase when they thought I’d gone to bed. She wishes she could protect me from it, like it’s something bad, but I don’t see how it could be. Dad said she knew what she was getting into when she married him, which made her exhale a long, deep sigh.
“I know,” she replied. “I just didn’t expect it to come this soon. She’s still so young.”
“I’ll protect her,” Dad promised. “I won’t let anything happen to our baby girl.”
Yeah, I wanted to say. Dad will protect me. I didn’t know what from, but his words must have made Mom feel better, because now she seems totally fine with Dad and Uncle Joe giving me my second lesson.
Although, she is scrubbing that pan a little hard.
I stare at Dad, expecting him to speak, but Uncle Joe is the one who clears his throat.
“You know I am not a normal uncle, right?”
I nod.
Mom turns the volume up on the radio.
“Your father and I are not brothers by blood, but sometimes family is more than blood. Neither am I a normal human. In fact, I’m not really human at all. My people are called many things by many people—Immortals, Tuatha Dé Danann, Fae—but the guardians have always called us the Old Ones.”
I screw up my face. Joe doesn’t look that old to me. He must read my mind, because Joe laughs and says, “It’s part of the magic, Winnie girl. We age far more slowly than our human counterparts.”
Uncle Joe, whose Old One name, I learn, is Josiah, tells me between sips of coffee about how his people have lived in the wood for thousands of years. How they used to stay clear of the time-traveling thresholds so as not to invite trouble into their world.
“But the thing with doors is,” Uncle Joe says, “they open both ways.”
Although humans were frightened of the wood at first, and the way its magic disoriented them to the point of madness, some started to see it as a valuable resource.
“These portals were a precious tool in a time when land was king and power was measured by how many people a person had killed or enslaved,” Joe says. “How much easier would it be if one could gain land by changing a few things in the past? By stopping an enemy force from invading, or by learning from a past mistake? Perhaps a battle that occurred in an open field, resulting in failure and countless deaths, could be moved to a narrow passage, somewhere the enemy would never expect you to strike. You see how appealing such possibilities could become? To never have to settle for what is, when you can always go back in time and change it into what you want it to be?”
Joe pauses. He has a faraway look in his eyes, like he’s remembering all of this, and then I realize he probably is. He would have been there, being immortal and all. How awesome is that?
Dad gives him a funny look. Uncle Joe shakes his head, and they share the same kind of silent conversation between them that Mer and I always have. I know better than to ask what it’s about, though, so I just sit back and wait for one of them to speak.
Finally, Joe clears his throat and continues. “This is when the council was formed and the human guardians were created. We chose people pure of heart, people who could be trusted. Their lineage would mark the passage of time inside the wood in a way our people, being immortal, never could, and through the powers we had given them, they could protect the wood from being used for nefarious purposes.”
Ten humans signed the Compact, binding their bloodlines to the wood. Each guardian became responsible for a different section of the wood, sections that the descendants of those guardians still patrol today. There is no intermingling of the guardians outside of the council meetings, at least not in the wood. We keep to our own territories.
“It does not happen often,” Joe says, “but you must understand that it is possible you will one day come across a traveler who knows more about the wood than he should, who may even try to cross into another time on purpose. These types of travelers are more dangerous than the others, because they want what you’re protecting, and they won’t let you stand in their way. This is why your father and I will teach you how to fight.”
I know I need to sound and act just as serious as Dad and Uncle Joe, but I can’t stop the grin from splitting my face. “Cool!”
Uncle Joe chuckles.
“Winter,” Dad warns.