A Tale of Two Centuries

my distress, because she offers a small smile.

Without another word, I slide my feet into my slippers. When I stand, Reyna is suddenly right beside me. She hands me a folded piece of soft paper. “Give this note to the man waiting outside. He will take you where you need to go.” My hand closes tightly over the missive.

Reyna pulls back the flap, and blinding sunlight shoots through the opening. “Be brave, Alessandra. Reach out and take the adventure that you crave. On your journey, three signs will mark your time: an angel will speak, a soft-rose songstress will captivate, and life will imitate art. I will return at sundown when the third sign is revealed. Use your time wisely.” She looks deeply into my eyes as she says this, and I nod, knowing that I can live a lifetime of adventure in whatever time fate grants me. She watches me a moment more, then with a slight twinkle in her amber eyes, she whispers, “Latcho Drom, Less.”

Before I can react to her use of my nickname, or ask what the foreign phrase means, Reyna gives my shoulder a gentle shove.

…

Glaring sunlight permeates the thin veil of my eyelids. Even though it is noonday, the light is exceptionally bright, at least in comparison to the shelter of the tent. I shield my brow with a curved hand and force my protesting eyes open. At the sight before me, I promptly shut them again.

There is no need to fear, I tell myself. It is all but a fantastical illusion.

Regrettably, my escalating pulse begs to differ.

Sounds become crisper in the darkness. Rumbles, shrieks, wails, and hums. Unfamiliar chirps and impossible beeps. Piecing together my wilting courage, I take another peek and find nothing is as it should be.

Where my palazzo usually sits is an enormous structure with golden doors and red columns, a metallic roof, and a massive mounted dragon. A pair of terrifying sculpted beasts guards the entrance. The ground is no longer one of cracked stone or even the damp earth of my garden, but assorted gray blocks etched with handprints, slipper prints, and a series of strange markings.

I stare at the mysterious shapes on the stone before me and gasp as they all at once become clear: Harry Potter, 7-9-07. Rupert Grint. Daniel Radcliffe. Emma Watson.

While a few of the letters are different than I am used to, it is as if my mind is faster than I, readily making sense of it all. Stooping to see the words closer, I set down Reyna’s missive, place my hands in the indentations below the word Emma, and marvel at the fit.

“Reyna,” I call out, raising my voice over the myriad of noises. “What brand of crazy magic is this?”

The voice that leaves my mouth is in a foreign tongue. My words echo back through my memory, and something pops in my ears like air escaping. New sounds trickle through my unclogged ears, people talking and singing like the music Cat played in her tiny box, but this time, I actually understand them.

I twist my neck around, hands still pressed into the cool hollows, wanting to share the astonishing news with Reyna. But she and the tent are gone. In their place, an overwhelming crowd in varying degrees of scandalous dress swarms the square, each costume more shocking than the last.

Exposed ankles, exposed legs, exposed stomachs…

I avert my eyes heavenward, twin flames of heat burning up my throat and into my hairline. Clutching the note, I press my hands against my knees and prepare to stand. The rough texture beneath my palms causes me to freeze.

A horrible unimaginable truth tries to be acknowledged, and I reluctantly run my hands along my thighs, hoping, praying my fingers will brush against the soft, cool silk of my surcoat. But when they follow the curve of my lap and meet in the middle, mortification demands a glance down.

Gentlemen’s trousers!

Gracelessly and clumsily, I push to my feet, searching for a place to hide. If Mama’s friends were to see my legs encased in trousers, I could be ruined. Shame would come to our family name, and Father would be disgraced.

Scanning the boisterous square, wildly jerking my head from left to right, I stumble over my own feet, lose my balance, and crash into a solid wall of rock behind me.

“Hey!” the wall growls before shoving me forward. “Better watch yourself, little girl.”

I swallow to push my heart back where it belongs and turn to the owner of the disagreeable voice which I can unfortunately comprehend. A scowling brute of a man lifts a scarred lip, exposing a golden tooth. The sun glints off a ring puncturing the middle of his nostrils, and I cringe, hearing Mama’s voice again, this time warning me never to leave home without a chaperone.

The world is full of danger, Alessandra. Especially for unescorted females.

It never occurred to me to ask what forms of danger the world holds. Now I wish I were more prepared. The man takes a step, and I shrink into myself, bracing for the harm to come. “My-my apologies, sir. Please do not hurt me.”

In reply, he grunts. I wait with firmly sealed eyes, but when the pain fails to come, I crack them open and see him shouldering his way through the crowd. I wrap my arms around my stomach, as if I can somehow hold the squirming mass together, and exhale.

If this is the start of my gypsy adventure, I believe I am quite ready for it to end.

A person dressed from head to toe in red and blue with a giant spider emblazoned on his chest walks past, followed by a man wearing all black and a flowing cape. I gawk at a huge man painted green. Is this the future or a strange, altered world?

On the fringe of the square, closer to the bustling road, a flash of crimson catches my eye. I waggle my head around the ever-moving crowd and spot a woman in a long, flowing surcoat.

Finally, someone like me.

A man holding a bright yellow sign leads a long line of people between us, and anxiety pulses through me. I cannot lose her. Pushing through the crowd, my weak apologies swallowed in the commotion, I fly past maidens sprawled on the dirty ground posing with various handprints. Clicks from boxes like the one Cat called a camera go off on either side of me. The chunks of gray ground give way to a smooth strip of road oddly marked with stars, and I stretch out my hand to reach the woman, the tips of my fingers just snagging her right sleeve. “Pardon me.”

She turns and eyes me strangely, glancing at my tight grip on her gown, and I hastily let go, rubbing my fingers together at the unusual feel of the fabric. “I am sorry,” I say before clearing my throat. How do I ask this without appearing completely mad? “It was my hope that you could perchance tell me where I am?”

The woman, dressed as I should be, bestows upon me a sweet smile. I am surprised to see her teeth lined with shiny metal. In a noticeably unnatural accent, she replies, “Ah, dearie, behold the world-famous TCL Chinese Theatre.”

Despite hearing the word theater, my hopes of rescue plummet. This woman is not like me, after all. She is an impostor.

Heaving a sigh, I turn around to behold the madness from whence I came.

It is not as splendid as the woman believes.

Towering buildings across the street capture my attention. A white sign sitting atop one proclaims it as the Roosevelt Hotel, and opposite me, past where all sorts of strange carriages seem to fly over a paved road, a colossal structure houses a variety of merchants. I smile at the happy orange Hooters, finding it an odd but intriguing location for an owl shop, and then pause at American Apparel.

The woman remains beside me, watching me curiously. I ask her, “And the city in which this famous theater resides?”

My question elicits a slight waver in the woman’s pretend smile. “Why, Hollywood, of course.”

It takes a moment for the foreign word to sink in. But when it does, the weight of fear and anxiety that has nearly crushed me from the moment I discovered Reyna gone lifts, and relief streams in like a glorious sunrise.