Chapter 12 Magellan
Magellan
The diary Rhys had shown her in the library was the same one Magellan had seen at the Morgan Museum—and her visit to the labyrinth today had given her another shocking discovery.
She snuck a glance down at her ring again.
The symbols on it were exactly the same as the ones on the standing stone in the labyrinth.
Ever since she’d seen the markings this afternoon her thoughts had been in a whirl.
If the stone’s symbols and the ones on her ring were identical, it could only mean they were tied to her traveling hundreds of years into the past, although that still didn’t explain how the diary had found her again.
Now she was in a dining room looking straight out of Buckingham Palace, with men in uniform standing at attention along the wall to serve the food and pour the wine.
She looked around and for the countless time wondered what the hell she was doing here.
The diary and her ring seemed to be her only clues.
She’d always thought the symbols on the ring Garesh had given her were simply a design.
Was it an ancient language? Or a spell? She couldn’t believe she was even contemplating the idea.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the first course, a cream of asparagus soup.
After that came a parade of unidentifiable dishes.
Custard, strange balls, an unidentifiable meat—rabbit or lamb—then fish, vegetables, and pickled vegetables.
Course after course was paired with different sets of silverware and wine.
She kept sneaking peeks at the young woman with the pink feathers sitting across from her and copied her every gesture like a bad mime.
Every time the woman took a bite, she took a bite.
Then she would look over at Rhys sitting at the head of the table brooding at her, as if he knew she was a fraud.
Magellan was sitting between Rhys’s sister Vivianne and their brother Cecil. Vivianne was vivacious, somewhere around seventeen or eighteen, and the friendliest of the bunch. Magellan quickly switched utensils to match hers. Vivianne caught her and gave a conspiratorial grin.
Magellan admitted to her, “I’m not used to formal dinners.” That was putting it mildly. She was used to Pollo Loco bowls and sushi from the grocery store. “And I must thank you for lending me your dresses.”
“I dare say you wear them better than me. You look quite fetching. My eldest brother seems to think so.” She grinned. “He hasn’t been able to take his eyes off of you all night.”
Magellan couldn’t tell her he was probably worried she would steal the silverware.
Rhys was still staring. He raised his voice and said, “Lord Erickson, you’re the history expert at the table. Did Merlin the Magician truly have a twin sister?”
Magellan startled at the question, and he cocked a half smile at her, noting her reaction.
The older man sitting to his left had a distinguished air about him.
He took his time putting his fork down and patting his mouth with his napkin before saying, “Yes, it is often overlooked but Merlin had a sister, and he also had a wife. Though not much is known about either woman. The sister rose to political prominence in her day as queen of Strathclyde. She was married to King Rhydderich ‘the Generous.’ An interesting fellow who, legend has it, possessed a magical sword, one of the Thirteen Treasures of Britain. Perhaps a gift from Merlin, his brother-in-law, who collected them.”
One of the ladies asked what the Thirteen Treasures were.
Everyone at the table listened raptly as the man explained they were objects from antiquity imbued with magical power.
“A chariot which can take someone anywhere in the world, a chessboard made of gold and silver that plays itself, a cloak of invisibility, and so on and so forth. Merlin supposedly went on a quest to find them all.” Lord Erickson asked Rhys, “What is your interest with the sister?”
“I’ve been reading a diary supposedly written by her. If it’s authentic.” His gaze returned to Magellan.
She couldn’t help but frown back at him. What was he doing?
“How marvelous,” Lord Erickson drawled with a haughty air. “I would love to see such a treasure.”
“If Miss Brighton agrees. The book is hers.”
Magellan froze as all eyes at the table suddenly turned to her, and she couldn’t help but notice Rhys’s smirk. He was intentionally baiting her. Lord Erickson looked down the long table. He raised his monocle to his eye and gave her a squint.
“Isn’t that correct, Miss Brighton?” Rhys added, then had the audacity to wink at her.
Magellan felt her pulse race to a gallop.
Everyone was now waiting for her to speak.
The number one phobia in the world—which she had—was fear of public speaking, and she was being forced to do it at a dinner table in 1829.
She could hear the nervous quiver in her voice as she grappled to come up with an excuse.
“It’s from my father’s collection. He thought the earl would find it fascinating.
” She risked a glance back to Rhys. He had barely swallowed the amnesia story before.
Now he might assume the father story was true.
Whatever he believed, he knew she was lying.
Could she tell him the truth that she had been catapulted to another time by playing Bach on a church organ?
He’d think she was crazy. Perhaps she was.
The jury was still out. And as much as she hated lying to everyone, telling the truth wasn’t an option.
She shot a glance to Lady Liron, who gave her a reassuring smile.
The woman was the epitome of kindness and seemed to know Magellan was struggling.
Magellan wondered how much the countess knew about her situation.
Rhys’s mother had been the one to deliver Godwin’s mysterious letter and also insist Magellan be a houseguest. The countess even had given her a cover with the amnesia story.
Now all Magellan could do was pretend it was true.
It didn’t help when Cecil began peppering her with all kinds of questions during the rest of dinner.
He wanted to know how her travel across the Atlantic was and had she ever met an Indian.
What did she think of Andrew Jackson becoming president?
How could such a man have been elected, and did he still pay to have his runaway slaves whipped?
Magellan choked on her wine and brought her napkin to her mouth.
“Brother!” Vivianne scolded him. “Don’t ask Miss Brighton such horrid questions. It’s not as if she could have voted for him. She’s a woman.”
“My apologies, Miss Brighton. My sister is quite right. I should not have tarnished your delicate ears with such ugly matters.”
Magellan puffed out a breath and downed the rest of her wine.
Dinner soon mercifully ended. After dessert, the group turned festive, exclaiming it was time to retire to one of the salons for port and sherry and pianoforte playing and who knew what else.
Magellan stood up and followed everyone to another stately room filled with rows of chairs facing a pianoforte. Before she could catch herself, she gasped with pleasure when she saw the harp.
The countess heard and turned to her with a smile. “Do you play zee harp, my dear?”
Magellan bit her lip.
Rhys came to stand beside her. “When we first met, she told me she was the harpist.” He smiled glibly back at her. “At least you remember that much. You must play for us tonight.”
“Oh no, I couldn’t.” She didn’t want to be the focus of any more attention.
“I insist,” Rhys challenged. “Surely you can grace us with one song.”
“You play the harp?” Vivianne joined their group. “Miss Brighton, you must! You simply must!” She clapped her hands in delight, bouncing up and down.
Magellan turned to Rhys’s sister. “Perhaps one song, only after yours, and only if there is time.”
The countess patted her hand. “My dear girl, we have all zee time in zee world.”
Magellan smiled faintly, tamping down the panic those words brought, and took a seat next to Vivianne.
Tonight was the equivalent of a Miss 1800s Beauty Pageant—the talent show segment—and Magellan couldn’t help but feel Rhys was the star judge.
It seemed all the women were performing for him, particularly the one in pink, who looked like a Victorian burlesque queen with all her feathers and could not sing for the life of her.
To Magellan it was too surreal. She was sitting in an 1829 parlor being subjected to a deluge of off-key notes.
The performance finally came to an end with a smattering of polite applause.
Vivianne went next, playing a sweet song called “I’d Be a Butterfly” that Magellan assumed must be popular for the time.
Then the countess was announcing, “Miss Brighton will now play zee harp for us!”
No one had played the harp yet, and a murmur of excitement circled the room.
Magellan stood up, trying to calm her nerves and remind herself she’d played before plenty of crowds, countless weddings, and concerts.
She would treat this the same. Plus, she’d wanted to play the harp since she stepped into the room.
The harp was easily one of her favorite instruments with its crystalline sound.
There were ten different kinds, and she could play them all: lever harps, pedal harps, Paraguayan, Celtic folk harps, cross-strung harps, and bell harps.
She had never questioned how she could play any instrument. She just could.
She sat down at the stool and slipped off her gloves, draping them artfully on the table nearby like the others had done while she thought about what to play.
Everyone was staring at her expectantly, and the perfect song settled in her mind about a girl stuck in a strange land and needing to get home. Just like her.
She wondered if she dared to play it. She’d already played Chopin in the conservatory, and the space-time continuum hadn’t collapsed.
Chopin was only nineteen right now and yet to finish his studies at the Warsaw Conservatory or move to Paris, where he would compose some of his most famous works.
No one would know, and she’d drunk way too much wine at dinner to worry about it.
Though The Wizard of Oz wouldn’t make its debut for another hundred years, she lavished the crowd with a beautiful rendition of “Over the Rainbow.” She played with her eyes closed as her fingers flew across the strings, and she wondered if, like Dorothy, she could wish herself out of here.
Too soon the song was over, and she was opening her eyes back to 1829, to a sea of mesmerized faces. A hush held the audience until they erupted into applause. People asked for an encore, which she demurely declined. She could feel the weight of Rhys’s gaze on her, and she avoided looking at him.
Now that all the performances were over, card tables were being set up for the next round of entertainment.
Rhys came to stand beside her, his hand on her elbow as he gently guided her toward the door.
They were escaping to the library as planned.
He murmured close to her ear. “You play exquisitely.”
“Thank you.” She sounded breathless, which annoyed her. The last thing she needed was to develop a crush on anyone in 1829.
“Did you make up the story about your father giving you the diary?”
Of course he would circle back to that. She stuck as close to the truth as possible. “I didn’t know what else to say. You caught me by surprise.”
“I suppose I did. My apologies.” His eyes trailed over her face. “I’m just trying to understand who you are and why my father was safekeeping the diary for your arrival.”
“I’m sorry I can’t remember . . .”
It seemed the safest answer. Rhys pursed his lips, dissatisfied, and opened the door to the library. “Shall we?”
Polly was already waiting for them. She bobbed a quick curtsy and retired with a book to the far corner while Rhys guided Magellan to his alcove.
He set everything out on the table in a precise array and offered her the chair beside him.
She took the translation from him, eager to get started.
Rhys’s penmanship was neat, compact, and the pages were dense with text. This must have taken him some time.
Before she began reading, he surprised her with the question, “Did you know the stone circle in the labyrinth was supposedly built by Merlin?”
“It was?” She gaped in astonishment, and her heart began to beat in a staccato rhythm. Did that mean Merlin had written the symbols on the stones? And her ring as well?
“You truly didn’t know?” Rhys gave her a prolonged stare and she shook her head.
Then he flashed her a rueful smile. “At least that is the legend the first Earl of Liron started. Imagine growing up with such a legacy in your backyard.” He put on a pair of little round glasses with a bashful smile she found strangely endearing.
The alcove suddenly felt incredibly intimate.
Readying his pen to get to work, he glanced at her over the rim of his glasses with a crystal-blue gaze and nodded to the pages in her hand. “Take your time, Miss Brighton.”