The Ten Years: Double or Nothing - Sequel to "The Two Magicians"

By Zelda Leah Gatuskin

Both History and Fate are catching up to Esmarelda and George Drumm, who have taken liberties with Time in order to stay together. Now, fleeing the Goathorn Mountains after their escapades with the Two Magicians, they find that their lives have been turned upside-down. Across the Spiral in Caliente, New Mexico, Robyn's universe is also shaken. Her metaphysical shop, The Lost Unicorn, is still serving as a way station between worlds, and the mammoth cottonwood tree in back has become an actual portal. Mr. Brooks, the Emissary, and others she thought she would never see again after last year's Harmony Convention debacle, resurface. At The Top Of The World, Weaver Oshi contemplates the tangled threads of Fate that have brought together more than one pair of Time-crossed lovers. When all of the Witches', Gypsies' and New Agers' magic has played out, where -- and when -- will everyone end up? Here is the passionate, mind-blowing, music-and-dance-filled resolution to the Time Dancer's conundrum.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amador Publishers, LLC
• Release date: Apr 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9780938513667

Zelda Leah Gatuskin

Zelda was born and grew up in Wilmington, Delaware, and attended Emerson College in Boston, where she received a B.S. degree in Visual Communications. With her husband she owns and operates Studio Z, multi-media arts, in Albuquerque, New Mexico. In addition to her work as an author, editor, visual artist and website designer, she has worked as a volunteer for a variety of community organizations and progressive causes.

Book preview

The Ten Years: Double or Nothing

sequel to The Two Magicians

Zelda Leah Gatuskin

Copyright 2019 Zelda Leah Gatuskin

published by

AMADOR PUBLISHERS, LLC

SMASHWORDS EDITION

ISBN: 978-0-938513-66-7

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover art: Seascape by Sadie T. Gordon, oil on canvas, detail

Time Dancer-Time Spiral illustration by the Author

Spiral Map of Time Trilogy Book 3

All titles available in print from Amador Publishers.

The Ten Years

Contents

The 22 Keys of The Tarot and Huliyana's Cheat Sheet

Reviews of The Two Magicians

Author's Note

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Afterword

About The Spiral Map of Time Trilogy

Books by Zelda Leah Gatuskin

The 22 Keys of The Tarot / Huliyana's Cheat Sheet

0. The Fool / Innocence

I. The Magician / Occult Wisdom

II. The High Priestess / Enthusiasm

III. The Empress / Tempered Power

IV. The Emperor / Pride

V. The Hierophant / Stubborn Strength

VI. The Lovers / Intuition

VII. The Chariot / Adversity

VIII. Strength / Adjustment

IX. The Hermit / Discretion

X. The Wheel of Fortune / Destiny

XI. Justice / Hidden Forces

XII. The Hanged Man / Redemption

XIII. Death / Involuntary Change

XIV. Temperance / Elaborate Maneuvers

XV. The Devil / Obsession

XVI. The Blasted Tower / Danger

XVII. The Star / Unexpected Help

XVIII. The Moon / Bewilderment

XIX. The Sun / Rebirth

XX. Judgment / A Definite Step

XXI. The World / The End of The Matter

Reviews of Book 2, The Two Magicians

"The Two Magicians is an enthralling cat's cradle of a tale that ties up quite satisfactorily, yet leaves a few crucial questions dangling. Some readers may feel daunted by the girth of the volume at the start, but I guarantee you will be hungry for more by the finish. While you await the next installment, read or re-read that 'purple-bound wonder' The Time Dancer, if you can get your hands on it." --Red River Quarterly

~~~

"One feels the book is written with a wink, but to whom -- the new breed of magic-deniers, or our esteemed community of occult artisans? We recommend The Two Magicians as a pleasant diversion, not to be taken too seriously." --The Ochersfeldt Gazette

Author's Note

A trick has been played on me which I do not appreciate. We shall see who has the last laugh. Be assured that I will not submit readers to the same shenanigans as occurred in Book Two, written under my name but not by me. When the page is turned and our story resumes I shall speak again with the omniscient, unobtrusive voice of Book One, for the sake of this series that I never intended. Putting personal preference aside, I pick up pen again to tell how things panned out for the Gypsy Esmarelda and George Drumm, because once there is a Two there must be a Three. Obviously. As for he who thought to flush me out with The Two Magicians, he knows me well by now.

Say what you will about soothsayers, but the cards played out pretty much exactly as Huliyana foresaw. At least by her telling. You can never be sure with Time Dancers. Have they peeked in on the Future already, or predicted it, or caused it? All of the above, some would say. And though I feel a sense of urgency to tell a thing that must be made true, Old Woman Time assures me that all is one and all is done. The Spiral is not really unravel-able, in other words.

We all know this in our hearts, don't we? But, ah, our hearts. Fragile bystanders to the great whirling machine, beware!

Chapter 1

Shadows were already falling quickly within the bowl of the Goathorns when Esmarelda and George Drumm reached the ridge, but the Wide Wilde beyond was still aglow in the slanting sun. Somewhere along the way, Nee and Dark had slipped back into the woods.

Listen! Esma quieted her breath. George followed suit.

Yes, I hear it.

Wafting across the Wide Wilde, the faint jingling of bells dancing merrily as Gypsy wagons bumped along the side trails in search of a place to camp.

Esma and George sighed with relief and hugged each other. Sylvestor leapt from George's shoulder and led them forward to a split in the ridge where the road divided. One branch rose steeply to Red Mountain, the other took a hairpin turn and descended into the plains. The Gypsy couple with cat hastened down the latter in the last rays of the setting sun, leaving the realm of the Witches behind.

~~~

Skittering down the trail, which turned sharply, then turned again, and again, Esmarelda could not shake the feeling that something sinister was following them out of the mountains. And, as the jangle and rattle of a Traveler caravan wafted up from the valley, a subtle reluctance grew into a definite dread. She did not want to lead the dark force, whatever it might be, to the Gypsies.

Wait--

What is it? George held up mid-stride and turned back. Esma's expression was unreadable in the twilight, and the cat had disappeared into the shadows. Have we lost Sylvestor?

Oh no! Where is he? Sylvestor! George's question, followed by the cat's plaintive cry, served to brush aside Esma's uneasy intuition. Now a more immediate and tangible worry set her in motion. With George on her heels, she swiftly retraced her steps. They soon found Sylvestor shivering beside a tumble of rocks at the previous switchback, his fur on end as though electrified.

Is it a storm coming, then? George looked at the sky, still cloudless, with the first faint stars beginning to emerge. Maybe he knows something we don't.

Maybe so. Esma looked out toward the plain. A mist was rising, tinged a sickly yellow by the setting sun. The dusty path they'd been following was disappearing into the haze. She shivered and felt the hair on her arms lift, just like Sylvestor's fur.

Ah, I see we'll be making an early night of it. George felt it too. He looked around for a patch of level land, nearby and not too exposed. There.

Not back up!

'Fraid so, but just a few paces. Over this way. Follow me, quick. George reached for Esma's hand.

As she scooped up Sylvestor, Esmarelda cast a quick look down the hillside and saw that they were indeed trapped on the mountain for another night. The mist had become a thick fog that was boiling upward, consuming the trail and every landmark in its path. It exhaled a damp chill, and Esma hugged Sylvestor close. She caught George's hand, and they scrambled up to a knot of old, stunted firs. The trees grew within a tumble of smashed rock that had long ago filled with earth to provide purchase for the unlikely copse. George led Esma around the bigger boulders, and they found a gap between the rocks. Taking off their packs, they ducked under the low branches and tumbled their gear and themselves into a cloistered, aromatic bower. The tiny patch of fir-needle bedding beneath a lattice of bushy, entangled boughs was barely big enough for two.

Good thing we like each other. George shifted out from under Esma's weight while giving her an affectionate squeeze.

Oof! Careful of your fiddle case. Sylvestor, are you okay? He was so cold when I picked him up. Can you take him a minute?

The cat made a sharp cry as Esmarelda put him into George's arms, but then calmed.

I guess he'll be alright. But what are you doing, love? Watch those elbows!

The Gypsy was working feverishly by feel to untwist her gauzy garments. The wide skirt and flouncy under-trousers had wound around her like a shroud when she ducked into the cramped space.

Oh, help, will you? I think my pack is pinning down my skirt. Oh! Ouch! I just sat on my tambourine!

So I heard.

It's not funny!

Esmarelda was fuming. George could feel the heat coming off her, despite the evening chill. It was full dusk now, impossible to see anything under cover of the fir boughs. It didn't matter, they were pressed so closely together that every movement of one was felt by the other. Sylvestor seemed delighted by the closeness and began purring loudly. Esmarelda laughed.

Okay, maybe a little funny.

But a moment later, when she heard a soft ripping sound as she tried one more time to untangle her skirt, she began crying. George found this unusual, Esma being so flustered and emotional. Gently he helped her settle within his embrace. With Sylvestor sprawled across them both, and their packs to cushion the knotty tree roots, the couple slept.

The Gypsies had been through a tremendously peculiar series of events over the past several days, magical activities more in the nature of dreams than any reality either had previously experienced. This was saying a lot, because the events that had sent them to the Goathorns in the first place were far down the road past Ordinary. Thus, the sleepers had no need for actual dreams. The Celtic fiddler George Drumm, who had crossed an ocean, a continent, a full decade, and most recently the treacherous realm of the Goathorns Coven, snoozed with blank, heavenly bliss such as any brave man would at the end of a brave journey. The Gypsy Esmarelda was similarly exhausted and dreamless. But she had a spell lingering with her from their Goathorns escapade. Now, after the high emotions of the evening, and still in such close proximity to the coven and their magical mountain meadow, the Gypsy's aura separated from her sleeping body. It seeped out into the forest night, assumed the lovely-but-translucent shape of the Time Dancer, Esmarelda, and traveled easily within the mist toward the sound of two voices not very far away. Esma recognized both.

Two of the three are not permitted to go further.

The voice of Intuisha the High Caverns Witch came softly into Esmarelda's mind, not from any external source. This was Esma's first clue that she was out of body and traveling aurically on the Witches' astral plane. She hadn't had an opportunity to wash away the magical balm with which they'd anointed her and themselves just a day ago, prior to spinning into a trance and sending their auras to fetch Robyn. It would have been too risky to go in person into the maze of streets and fluctuating quadrants of Ochersfeldt. Nestled below the Goathorn Mountains, the city expanded and contracted like a living creature, breathing in Nature and breathing out Magic. One could get lost, permanently. But Robyn and Esmarelda had been linked by a spell crafted right there in the city of occult artisans. Esmarelda had given the charmed ankle bracelet to Robyn in hopes that its magic would be nullified in the stoically unmagical Alternate World. Instead, the ankle bracelet brought Robyn to Ochersfeldt. It had taken the entire Goathorns Coven, with Esmarelda's aura and still-enchanted ankle in tow, to rescue her from the infinite city.

You don't agree?

Intuisha was peeved, and since she, of all the Witches, was the least hostile, Esmarelda surmised that the matter must be grave indeed. She was grateful not to be wandering about in her physical body, because even in a kindly mood, the High Caverns Witch was not one to cross. Intuisha and her twin, Dremtessa the Ice Caves Witch, were actual giantesses, both spiritually and physically. Each twin was tremendously powerful, and together they were capable of incredible physical and mental feats, such as bringing the mountains they inhabited to life--or maybe they made themselves grow to the size of a mountain. From her preceding encounters with the twin Witches under undeniably enchanted circumstances, Esma couldn't be sure which. At present, she felt she was not so much approaching Intuisha as surrounded by her, but she was close enough now to see that the person whom Intuisha addressed did possess a distinct physical shape, or at least the appearance of one.

Seated, stocky, female--a woman's back became visible through the mist. She was sitting on a colorful shawl spread on the ground. Her shape was familiar, as were the braids coiled like a crown atop her head. As was the shawl. The voice, when she finally spoke, was unmistakable.

Obviously the cat can't come with.

Esmarelda marveled at how her embodied Gypsy clanswoman was able to converse with the disembodied High Caverns Witch. Even more remarkable was the feat of her reaching this precarious perch at all. How old must she be now? And able to scale this hillside, at nightfall, in a fog?

Hush, Gypsy. Intuisha's thought subdued Esma's. Come no closer. Rise higher.

At the mere suggestion, the Time Dancer's aura floated upward. The mist had gradually cleared, and from her higher vantage Esma could look over the top of Tibareth's head to see an enormous image of Intuisha painted in ice crystals across the night sky. The Witch's eyes flicked a warning to Esma and then returned to Tibareth seated cross-legged on her shawl.

The Ten Years is only for George Drumm to make up. What is it to Esmarelda if he goes back to where he left off and lives them out? He will end up just here, retrace his path through the Goathorns, and find her on the other side not a day from now. With the cat.

Assuming no harm befalls him in The Ten Years. Anything might happen in a decade. What guarantee that he will be the same man at the end of it?

With a jolt, Esma understood. The Witches had not overlooked George's stitch in Time. The years he had jumped ahead in order to be with her were lapping at their sleeping toes this very moment. Sylvestor, having already come across from the Alternate World, ought not go back ten years and muddle the timeline even more. As for herself, while she might dance hither and yon along the Spiral Map of Time on her miscellaneous magical missions, doubling back for any lengthy period could be disastrous.

Still, letting George go back without her? She didn't doubt George's love and loyalty, but Tibareth had a good point--anything could happen in ten years. What guarantee that George would make it back to pick up where he left off?

Now exists, does it not? Yesterday exists, does it not? Esmarelda exists, does she not? These are the fiddler's future, his adventures already threaded through by the Weavers. They shall not be undone. Crone, the crystalline Witch asked icily, would you disobey the Spiral?

The Spiral does not command us, Cousin, Tibareth answered warmly. And I think you are misinformed with respect to the unique way in which a Time Dancer's destiny may play out. But, since you and your sisters have been kind enough to pick up the fiddler's skipped measure, I and mine shall see to the dancer's extra steps.

Tibareth's last statement sounded conciliatory, but Esmarelda detected a sly ambiguity. Between the lines of her speech, a gap had been left for Esma and George to wriggle through--together.

We shall all see to the Time Dancer. She is one of us now, too.

If an aura could shiver, Esmarelda's would. She did not want to be one with the Witches! But look at her--floating around out of body and taking her cues from Intuisha. For that matter, she had not wanted to be one with the Gypsies, either. Not that she could ever not be a Gypsy Time Dancer. But the society of the caravan, the customs of the clans, the annual trek--a great circling like a migration--those rituals and routines had oppressed her. She had run away at a young age, only to wonder later if that too was a Gypsy ritual. Now the fates had her in their clutches. Whose code was she to follow? Tibareth seemed to be lobbying for her to proceed into The Ten Years with George, but why? Sympathy for the lovers? Possibly, but that alone would not impel Tibareth to challenge the Witches. Something else was simmering under her braided bonnet. Tibareth and Huliyana were always scheming.

Esmarelda knew of only one person she could trust, and that was George Drumm, and she had no intention of leaving his side for a minute or a decade.

So be it, Intuisha huffed, either in response to Tibareth's statement or Esmarelda's thought or both.

Esmarelda's aura watched, as aghast as a veritable ghost can get, while the mist-formed Witch took on substance--now more like an aspic than a cloud--and reached forward with a gelatinous, snaky arm to scoop up the Gypsy crone. Tibareth snatched her shawl from the ground, flung it over her shoulders with a delighted squeal, and rode down to the lower hillside in Intuisha's massive palm. Esmarelda imagined the scene of Tibareth being gently deposited outside the circle of Gypsy wagons while a cold mist sank into the valley, setting all the clan to shivering in their dreams.

Alone in the pre-dawn, Esmarelda suggested that her aura return to her body. She felt certain--was certainly trying to feel certain--that her spirit and body could not really be lost from each other. But she felt very lost, with first light coming up on unfamiliar terrain that had been too shrouded the night before to provide any useful landmarks. That copse of firs that has seemed like a lone island of vegetation amid a sea of rocks and rubble--well, the entire slope was dotted with such outcrops of dwarf scrub. George and Sylvestor could be camped out under any of them.

Hello-oh? Anyone? Esma called out mentally for one of the sisters, or their Familiars, or that Master Seer--anyone from the coven (folks whom not so long ago she had never wanted to see again)--to point her in the right direction. She was answered by an old man's cackle. It was Master Seer Varluft. She looked up toward the trail she and George had descended the day before.

Something was moving toward her. Not a person or animal. Small, black, snakelike. She floated over to see it, thinking the Master Seer had sent a slithering arrow to lead her, but it was not an arrow. It was a procession of tiny black letters--the letters of her name, the same ornate letters that had been engraved in the pendants of the ankle bracelet with the accursed spell. She thought the curse had finally been cancelled out when the trinket was chucked into the fire in the middle of Witches Meadow. Now she realized with horror that although the silver charms had melted away, the letters had taken on a life of their own--that is, had come to life like marionettes under the hand of Varluft. His devilish laughter followed Esmarelda's aura, which followed the letters, which crawled like ants, single file, single-mindedly to the copse of firs where Esmarelda's body still slept in George's embrace.

The couple had relaxed and shifted in their sleep. Two sets of legs, outstretched and lightly twined, poked out from under the fir fronds. Esmarelda's strong brown ankle lay exposed below the cuff of her pantaloons and above her embroidered wool and leather slipper. The black letters crawled over the smooth flesh, wrapped themselves around, and clung in order, evenly spaced, like a tattoo. E-S-M-A-R-E-L-D-A.

As the last A snapped into place, Sylvestor sprang. Too late. The creeping movement through the pine needles had stilled, the black bugs he was ready to pounce on were gone. Now he perceived that there was even better hunting up the hillside, and he heard the gentle snick-snick of a friend beckoning to him.

Esmarelda heard it too. That sneaky Varluft. Then his voice was in her head, the way Intuisha's had been:

The letters are for your protection. You can return them to Witches Meadow and reclaim the cat when you're ready to come back to your proper time. I would advise you to do that sooner rather than later--like, before noon. You have no idea what awaits you in The Ten Years. Anyone who encourages you to continue on with George Drumm is not your friend.

Flabbergasted, the Gypsy's astral awareness fizzled out. Her aura collapsed, slipped zephyr-like into the bower, and re-entered her body with her next breath. With a deep sigh, Esma shifted, drew in her legs, and snuggled closer to George. Sighing contentedly, he made a corresponding adjustment. And still they slept.

~~~

Stay put if you can. George spoke the instant Esma stirred. He'd been listening to the drizzle for a while. Now, as daylight filtered into the bower, he watched the dampness creeping toward them. The rain was coming harder by the minute. He began pushing pine needles around with his heels to divert the rivulets of water streaming into their nest.

What's wrong? Esma asked groggily. Oof, I feel sick. Move!

But it's raining, love.

Oh, thank the goddess! Esmarelda pushed away from George and rolled out into the soggy morning, retching. What little she had in her belly was quickly purged and washed down the hillside. George was soon at her side. He held her steady as she straightened and lifted her face to the rain.

You worry me. His instinct was to lead her back under the tree, but he saw that water had pooled all around.

Oh, it's just those Witches and their horrible magic. Help me get this stuff off so I can wash away their balm. Esma was already getting out of her clothes. She hung on to George for balance, cursing colorfully while he nudged her toward higher ground where a knob of rock offered some slight shelter.

Weevil wings and viper tongues! Wish I had soap! And I suppose every bit of our belongings will be drenched. She looked back at their saturated former shelter and then accusingly up at George. Blasted possum paws!

George burst out laughing.

Not funny! What about my herbs? What about our instruments? She fumed and continued to drape her soaked garments over his arm, while he continued to coax her toward a safer position.

I've hung our things up in the trees. They won't get soaked from underneath, and the boughs are thick. I doubt they get too wet from above either. I say! Those wispy costumes of yours get heavy. They had reached the big rock, and he plopped her pile of wet clothes on top.

Oh, thank you. I'm sorry. Of course you took care of everything.

Esma stood naked in the rain scrubbing at her arms and legs with some fronds of young pine she had grabbed along the way. George gazed at her honey-colored body appreciatively for a long minute, until it occurred to him to do the same, since he was soaked to the skin already. He peeled off his clothes and washed himself hurriedly. The rain would be letting up soon. Patches of blue sky were showing through in the distance.

All of this had happened quickly and in such a crash of high emotion, that George had forgotten the second thing he had wanted to tell Esma the moment she woke. Had she not been sick, he would have followed his weather report with the alarming news that Sylvestor was missing. Now, as they spread their clothes out to be rain-washed and air-dried, he wondered if she knew this already. She hadn't even asked about the cat, though she usually kept a close eye on him.

Sylvestor--

I know. Esmarelda was leaning against the rock, turning her left leg one way and another to look at the black marks that circled her ankle. They were not bugs, or soot, or anything that would wash away. They were the letters of her name from the ankle bracelet, a continuation of the spell she had thought was finally broken. She quickly tucked her left ankle behind her right so George wouldn't see--not yet. We need to talk.

Everything her auric self had witnessed in the night was coming back to her. She had crossed into The Ten Years with George, and Varluft had given her this tattoo so that her present self could not be confused with her past self. He had warned her about staying, but he seemed to know she wouldn't heed him. She wished she knew what it meant for their next move, but troubling as the strange tattoo was, something else was tugging at her attention. Specifically, when had her belly taken on that slight curve? It used to be flat and tight as a drumhead. It wasn't as though they'd eaten a big meal last night, or eaten anything for that matter...

Esma?

She went to George and flung her wet body against his playfully, hoping he wouldn't see her ankle, or notice her belly.

I told you, it's all the Witches' fault. Now that I've washed the balm away, I hope it won't happen again. But I traveled last night--my aura did. And I learned from Intuisha that we, that we--

What? Out with it. George took a step back from her so he could search her eyes.

It's your ten years, George. We've come back. Sylvestor had to stay behind, in his own time. The coven has taken charge of him.

"My ten years? You mean--"?

Goddess, I'm hungry! Let's see what we've got to eat.

This was not offered as a mere diversion. The Gypsy's stomach seconded her motion loudly.

~~~

Maybe if you drew me a map.

Of which, time or land?

They had retrieved their damp gear and relocated to a rocky alcove within sight of their wet clothes. Esmarelda's cloak provided some comfort for their naked bottoms, it had been folded and rolled so tightly within her pack that it remained mostly dry. They ate every last soggy morsel from their meager stash of food, and washed it down with fresh rain water collected in their tin traveling mugs. Then, while the sky finished wringing itself out, Esma recounted her auric experience.

George listened with mixed emotions. In the first place, he was angry with the Witches anew for poisoning Esmarelda with their potions. Not only had she endured another unnatural out-of-body episode, but she'd been made literally sick. He hoped that the rain had washed away the last of the Goathorns Coven's unholy influence. But, in the second place, at least she had been informed about their temporal predicament and why Sylvestor had left them. Nevertheless, in the third place, it was a predicament--their being in the past, where supposedly he belonged and she did not. Finally though, in the fourth place, what could be more delightful than watching his beautiful Gypsy love untangle her sodden braid and fan that extravagant length of dark hair around her naked shoulders? Obviously they belonged together, period. And they were together, so, in the fifth place...

Oh-ho! Watch out! George leapt up and hurried to gather the clothes that were drying quickly, especially Esma's, and threatening to flutter away. The sun had come up and a breeze with it.

My hero! Esma put down her comb and clapped.

Once again they rearranged themselves, laughing and jostling, sorting and drying, scrounging for more food in the bottom of the packs. This was the Travelers' life--waking to nature and comradeship, everything simple yet unpredictable--a walk in the woods, a performance in the city. They were at home wherever they went, and too rich in hidden resources to be defeated by a temporarily empty pocket or plate. Did it matter the day, the year, the decade?

"Like Tibareth said, you're a Time Dancer and able to travel the Spiral Map of Time, so there's no reason you can't stay with me here in my ten years. George was figuring it out. That's what she was getting at, don't you think? They had settled down again, resigned to waiting a while longer for the sun to finish its work. Esma had slipped into her underclothes and was rebraiding her hair. He had thought she would agree with him instantly, but she hesitated. You think not?"

Well, it's true that Varluft put this blasted tattoo on me so I couldn't be mixed up with my younger self in the past. Esmarelda indicated the ornate black letters that spelled out her name around her left ankle, but neither she nor George turned their eyes to the charm that still plagued them, it was so utterly creepy. "Still, it's really unwise to go doubling back. You jumped ahead before living out these years. You'll find no George Drumm here except yourself. But, I'm here, somewhere, not much more than a girl, on the adventure that will make me the person I am, for better or worse, and bring us together, definitely for better--so we do not want to interfere with her in any way.

Hmmm. So, back to maps. We need both--time and land. How close are we to young you, my peach? And exactly where have we come out, time-wise?

Don't speak of food unless you have some. As for maps, we have the one we made for ourselves. The first leg we plotted out was from Resthaven to Red Mountain. You know, that little jaunt that took us all spring.

George was poking into the leather tube that held his music and writings. He chuckled. We were only about four weeks off from our schedule. He found what he was looking for and carefully extracted the roll of parchment with their rough map and itinerary.

Yes, we didn't figure how much dawdling we would do, Esma mused.

After Red Mountain, we were to set off for Sky, where you claim to have a standing invitation to visit the palace and entertain the King and Queen.

"Will have. If we don't alter things. But I am a stranger to them now, in the ten-years-ago."

And from Sky, having rested up from the Red Mountain ordeal--

We were right about that, at any rate. Esma shivered.

Yes, an ordeal it was, and not done yet. George fell silent.

Well, go on, what next? Esma prodded.

On to Hedzaj Province to find Oskar's caravan and return Huliyana's magic satchel. The satchel was a thorn in George's side. He was not a thief, but he had stolen it in order to follow Esmarelda across Time. So, he was a thief, and a cheat. But he'd thought he would at least return the satchel, if not the years.

You followed me forward ten years, and I've followed you back ten years. It feels like it should equal out, Esmarelda said wistfully. But you're supposed to be ten years older than me, and you're not, and you won't be unless you stay here to live out your ten years and I return.

"I see no benefit in being ten years older than you. If you stay and endure an extra ten years with me, we'll end up the same age still."

Esma thought for a minute and then smiled. George Drumm, your logic is unassailable.

And my pants are dry. Let's get moving. He tossed her clothes over and began to get into his own.

Where to?

"Oskar's caravan. That long trek has been cancelled out. We're here already. We heard the wagons yesterday, and you saw Tibareth last night. That means Huliyana and company are not far off--just down below in the valley, you said. I can return Huliyana's magic satchel, and she won't even have missed it for very long. Though it will be a bit the worse for wear--" George faltered.

A bit indeed, Esma smirked. Magic satchels were custom made to fit the user, woven to mimic the path of the Spiral Map of Time. To use a satchel to travel the Spiral, you had to crawl into it and count the knots around. Lanky George had likely stretched out petite Huliyana's magic satchel beyond recognition.

And meanwhile my clothes are shrinking? Esmarelda's mood soured as she tugged at the drawstring on her skirt. She looked up and saw that George's brow was furrowed. He was studying their map. She said, I know what you're thinking. The Gypsies are very near, but we're nowhere near the Hedzaj.

We weren't when we came out of the Goathorn Mountains.

Just below Goathorns Peak, Weaver Oshi's summit. It's known as The Top of The World, and maybe it really is.

In which case, maybe we went up one side of the world and came down on the other? Look. George turned and gestured in a wide arc. They had been moving north when they left the Goathorns, with mighty Red Mountain to their west and Goathorns Peak disappearing into the clouds to their east. But a different configuration of mountains loomed behind them now. Also, the vast plain into which they had been descending, the Wild Wilde, was changed. When they turned to gaze down the hillside, they saw that the land was more undulating, with small communities visible within its verdant folds. The sun was directly overhead.

Noon. Wherever they were.

That's that, then, the Time Dancer concluded, remembering Varluft's warning. Her chance to simply hike back through the Goathorns and return to her own time had passed. The magic of it was a like a sobering slap in the face. I know where we are. And when. And what comes next. Let's get some food before you face them.

Me? Alone?

"I told you, I know what comes next. You return Huliyana's satchel, and we skeddaddle away from the Gypsies as fast as we can. We're going to spend The Ten Years in a place I've never ever been, or even been near--Sumweir Isle."

George opened his eyes wide and then grinned. Brilliant, Esma. Mum will be so pleased.

Chapter 2

Of course it wasn't that simple. They still needed to learn the exact date in this place. Then create a story to explain George's sudden departure and return, and why he would soon be leaving the caravan again. And they needed a safe place for Esma to wait for him. She was determined not to reveal herself, no matter what. By her estimation, her young self was long away; but just two years ago she had come back to the past, to very near this place, to ask for advice from Tibareth and Huliyana, which is how she met George. What a mess--she had two past selves to avoid.

And I really cannot think straight when I'm so hungry, Esma complained.

To George she appeared to be fully in command. She was performing a bit of Gypsy magic right before his eyes, and at the same time explaining the phenomenon he had unwittingly but correctly identified.

It seemed outrageous to your logical mind, but your senses recognized this place, and so you spoke the truth. We have come down from The Top Of The World on the opposite side of the world. Those are now the Dromandy Mountains, not the Goathorns. That pass we came through, if we could possibly find it and tried to backtrack, would snake through the Dromandies all the way to Andarra, where I studied with Weaver Ehrte. Esma shuddered. Where I study with her even now.

She had found what she was looking for in their gear, and shook out a light caftan. She turned this inside out and put it on over her clothes. Now its pleasing pattern of purple and pale pink stripes only showed at the sleeve cuffs, which she carefully turned up to create two narrow bands of trim for the otherwise drab sheath of dark indigo. Two turns of the cuffs also made the sleeves tighter at the wrists, so they would hide the light fabric of her blouse underneath. Esma worked carefully to make the sleeves match in length and the cuffs smooth, like embroidered bands. Then she picked up the wide sash she sometimes wore with the caftan, and this too she turned wrong side out before winding it around her waist--around and around--then tucking in the ends, no flutter or flourish allowed. Through all of this, she continued to explain their situation to George.

Listen. Can you hear them in the distance? I can just make out the clatter whenever the jays stop squawking. The Gypsies will be setting out for Camelsback Plateau. Good camping there. From Camelsback, the northwest route would take them up to Andarra. That's where you were bound, remember? Before my future self--now my two-years-ago self--came on the scene. Another shudder. The southern route leads to the Fashlasi Plains below the plateau. Knowing that my people never showed up near Andarra during my time with Ehrte, I will have told them to go south and avoid the mountains, because to cross paths with me then--that is, now--would--that is, will--alter the past.

Esma huffed in frustration, and unrolled a pair of dark woolen socks with the heels cut out. She perched on a low rock and put the socks on over top of her embroidered slippers, with the low heels poking through the holes in the bottom. When she had finished rolling the socks up over her calves and smoothing the voluminous lower legs of her pantaloons into them, she appeared to be wearing soft leather boots. When she stood, the caftan hung