Crescendo

my own.

“I’m stuck with her for eight weeks.”

“Tell you what, if you survive all eight weeks without killing her, we can talk about getting you a car.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Mom.”

She kissed my forehead. “I’ll expect a full report on the first couple of days when I get back from my trip. No wild parties while I’m gone.”

“I make no promises.”

Five minutes later, my mom steered her Taurus down the driveway. I let the curtain drop back in place, curled into the sofa, and stared at my cell phone.

But no calls came in.

I reached for Patch’s necklace, still fastened around my neck, and squeezed it harder than I expected. I was struck by the horrible thought that it might be all I had left of him.

CHAPTER 4

THE DREAM CAME IN THREE COLORS: BLACK, WHITE, and a wan gray.

It was a cold night. I stood barefoot on the dirt road, sludge and rain quickly filling the potholes pockmarking it. Rocks and skeletal weeds sprang up intermittently. Darkness consumed the countryside, except for one bright spot: A few hundred yards off the road sat a stone-and-wood tavern. Candles guttered in the windows, and I was just about to head toward the tavern for shelter when I heard the distant jangle of bells.

As the sound of the bells grew louder, I moved a safe distance off the road. I watched as a horse-drawn coach rattled out of the darkness and came to a halt where I’d been standing moments before. As soon as the wheels stopped rolling, the driver flung himself off the coach, splattering mud halfway up his boots. He tugged on the door and stepped back.

A dark form emerged. A man. A cape hung from his shoulders, flapping open in the wind, but the hood was drawn to cover his face.

“Wait here,” he told the driver.

“My lord, it’s raining heavily—”

The man in the cape gave a nod in the direction of the tavern. “I have business. I shan’t be long. Keep the horses ready.”

The driver’s eyes shifted to the tavern. “But m’lord … it’s thieves and vagabonds that keep company there. And there’s bad air tonight. I feel it in my bones.” He rubbed his arms briskly, as if to fight off a chill. “M’lord might be better to hurry back home to the lady and little ’uns.”

“Speak nothing of this to my wife.” The man in the cape flexed and opened his gloved hands while fixing his gaze on the tavern. “She has enough to worry about,” he murmured.

I turned my attention to the tavern, and the ominous candlelight flickering in its small, slanted windows. The roof was crooked too, tilting slightly to the right, as if the tools used to construct it had been far from exact. Weeds choked the exterior, and every now and then a rowdy yell or the sound of shattered glass traveled out from its walls.

The driver dragged the sleeve of his coat under his nose. “My own son died of the plague not two years past. A terrible thing, what you and the lady are sufferin’ through.”

In the stiff silence that followed, the horses stamped impatiently, their coats steaming. Little puffs of frost rose from their nostrils. The picture was so authentic, it suddenly scared me. Never before had any of my dreams felt this real.

The man in the cape had started across the cobblestone walkway leading to the tavern. The edges of the dream vanished behind him, and after a moment’s hesitation I started after him, afraid I’d disappear too, if I didn’t stay close. I slipped through the tavern door behind him.

Halfway down the back wall was a giant oven with a brick chimney. Various wooden bowls, tin cups, and utensils flanked the walls to either side of the oven, hanging in place on large nails. Three barrels had been rolled into the corner. A mangy dog was curled up in a sleeping ball in front of them. Overturned stools and a haphazard arrangement of dirty dishes and mugs cluttered the floor, which was hardly a floor at all. It was dirt, tamped smooth and sprinkled with what looked like sawdust, and the moment I stepped on it, the mud already caked on my heels sponged up the dusty earth. I was just wishing for a hot shower, when the appearance of the ten or so customers sitting at various tables around the tavern penetrated my awareness.

Most of the men had shoulder-length hair with odd, pointed beards. Their pants were baggy and tucked into tall boots, and their sleeves billowed. They wore broad-brimmed hats that reminded me of pilgrims.

I was definitely dreaming of a time far back in history, and since the detail of the dream was so vivid, I should have had at least some idea of what time period I’d dreamed myself into. But I was at a loss. Most likely England, but anywhere from the fifteenth to the eighteenth century. I’d gotten an A in world history this year, but period clothing hadn’t been on any of our tests. Nothing in the scene before me had.

“I’m looking for a man,” the man in the cape said to the bartender, who was positioned behind a waist-high table that I assumed served as the bar. “I was told to meet him here tonight, but I’m afraid I don’t know his name.”

The bartender, a short man, bald except for a few wiry hairs standing on end at the top of his head, eyed the man in the cape. “Something to drink?” he asked, spreading his lips to show jagged black stumps for teeth.

I swallowed the nausea that rolled through my stomach at the sight of his teeth and stepped back.

The man in the cape didn’t show my same revulsion. He merely shook his head. “I need to find this man as quickly as possible. I was told you’d be able to help.”

The bartender’s rotted smile faded back behind his lips. “Aye, I can help you find him, m’lord. But trust an old man and have a drink or two first. Something to warm your blood on a cold night.” He pushed a small glass at the man.

Behind the hood, the man shook his head again. “I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a hurry. Tell me where I can find him.” He pushed a few warped tokens across the table.

The bartender pocketed the tokens. Jerking his head at the back door, he said, “He keeps to the forest yonder. But m’lord? Be careful. Some say the forest is haunted. Some say the man who goes into the forest is the man who never comes back out.”

The man in the cape leaned on the table dividing the two and lowered his voice. “I wish to ask a personal question. Does the Jewish month of Cheshvan mean anything to you?”

“I am not a Jew,” the bartender said flatly, but something in his eyes told me this wasn’t the first time he’d been asked the question.

“The man I’ve come to see tonight told me to meet him here on the first night of Cheshvan. He said he needed me to provide a service for him, for the duration of an entire fortnight.”

The bartender stroked his chin. “A fortnight is a long time.”

“Too long. I wouldn’t have come, but I was afraid of what the man might do if I didn’t. He mentioned my family by name. He knew them. I have a beautiful wife and four sons. I don’t want them harmed.”

The bartender dropped his voice, as if to share a piece of scandalous gossip. “The man you’ve come to see is …” He trailed off, casting a suspicious look around the tavern.

“He’s unusually powerful,” the man in the cape said. “I’ve seen his strength before, and he is a mighty man. I’ve come to reason with him. Surely he can’t expect me to abandon my duties and family for such a length of time. The man will be reasonable.”

“I know nothing of this man’s reason,” the bartender said.

“My youngest son has contracted the plague,” the man in the cape explained, his voice taking on a quiver of desperation. “The doctors do not think he’ll live long. My family needs me. My son needs me.”

“Have a drink,” the bartender said quietly. He nudged the glass forward a second time.

The man in the cape turned abruptly from the table and strode toward the back door. I followed.