Page 28 of Across Time

A single crutch is leaning against a wall. It's too tall for me but I grab it and hobble out of the room. Henri sits at the kitchen table. His eyes go wide before he averts them. "You need a robe," he says, rising. "You can borrow Marie's."

I look down. The nightgown covers twice as much skin as any school uniform I've ever owned. "You refused to give me clothes the day I arrived here and now you're acting like the sight of my neck and arms is too much for you."

"The day you arrived I was too worried to notice much," he says, walking away.

Which means he is noticing now? I hate the way something in my stomach goes soft and gooey at the idea of it.

He returns a moment later and hands me the robe, which I dutifully wrap around myself. "Where's Marie?"

"Teaching. Or perhaps just hiding in town to avoid my wrath." He glances at the crutch I've leaned against the wall. "I'll have better ones for you by the end of the day. And we’ll switch rooms since you won’t be able to manage the stairs for a while. I’ll clear my things out once the crutches are made.”

I shake my head. "You don't need to do that."

He laughs, but there's more misery than joy in the sound. "Of course I do. You're stuck here now for weeks because of my sister. And also because of me. I goaded you into what happened last night.”

I give him a half-smile. "You realize you're stuck with me for weeks now, right? That seems like punishment enough."

"Yes, I suppose it’s a punishment for us both,” he replies. He’s smiling but just behind that smile I see something else: he’s worried. And I wish I knew why.

* * *

That afternoon, Marie comes home both wary and unapologetic. She’s brought me chocolate.

“You don’t think you can buy me off with a candy bar, do you?” I demand. “I live near the world’s largest chocolate manufacturer, but instead I’m here and I can't even move.”

She shrugs and pushes the chocolate off to the side. "Henri is making you crutches. They're nearly done."

"Henri should not have to make me crutches!” I climb to my feet, as if I plan to march off somewhere, except I can’t even stand without clinging to the table. “Jesus, Marie. Why are you doing this?"

"I'm sorry," she says airily. "Some things don't make sense until after they’re done."

I slap a hand to my forehead. All this time, Marie has been so mature, so logical. It’s as if she developed multiple personality disorder last night, and the personality that emerged is a freaking sociopath. All, undoubtedly, because she thinks if I remain here she’ll convince me to go with her to 1918. "This is never going to make sense. I need to get home. I told my mother I wasn’t going to jump again. If you keep me here, she’ll know when she sees me at the end of the summer. Please, please don’t do this.”

She looks at me with sympathy. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Someday she’ll need you to use your gift, and when that day arrives, she’ll see her mistake.”

I sigh heavily. She clearly doesn’t understand my mother, a woman who hasn’t viewed time travel as a gift for any of my twenty-one years and is therefore unlikely to so in the future.

“If I'm not there soon, Mark is going to worry."

"You can fix that."

I huff out a breath in anger. "I don't want to have to fix things. Don't you see how complicated you're making all this?"

She smiles. "Yes, and I apologize for that. Now what shall we make for dinner?"

"We won't be making anything," I reply. "Not until you fix my ankle."

She gives a one-shouldered shrug. "It's no matter. You weren't likely to be much help. I picked up some books in English for you at the library, by the way. They're in my bag."

I can barely even reach her bag. I have to hobble toward it, clutching furniture to get there. I’m not even trying to make her feel guilty; between the one ankle in a cast and the other sprained, every movement is awkward at best and agonizing at worst.

In the bag is Mansfield Park, my least favorite Jane Austen, and Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald.

"Tender is the Night is quite new,” says Marie, flouring the butcher block like she’s Betty Crocker. “I couldn't believe they had the English translation in our library."

It's not new, I think, annoyed. Nor is it a translation. And if I didn't get the hype about The Great Gatsby, I seriously doubt I'll love Fitzgerald's least popular novel.

I push myself out toward the stone porch, collapsing into the same chair I sat in a week ago, having tea. If I was a better person I’d appreciate the fact that I’m here in France with good weather and a gorgeous vineyard for a view. Instead I let my eyes shut, wishing I was anywhere else, wishing my ankles didn't hurt and the weather was mild. I find myself thinking of the night I laid on a blanket with Henri in the orchard—a pleasant breeze, moonlight flickering through the branches overhead, him with that ever-present smirk on his face. His response when I said I wasn’t sleeping with him out there: Well, that definitely removes some of the fun from the evening.