Katrina
The first brush of his lips had multi-colored sparks going off in Katrina's head, like the brilliant sparkshot the battle-mages used, wreaking as much destruction on her powers of reason as sparkshot did on buildings. She felt her knees going weak as the kiss deepened, and she gripped Andrew's shoulder tighter for it. Then, abruptly, it was over, and the details of her workshop were again visible to eyes that had grayed over with desire.
Andrew shoved his hand into his pockets and grinned at her; that wicked sunburst that had stolen her heart. "Good morning."
Katrina steadied herself with one hand on the workbench behind her, the other going up to rake through short brown curls. "Ah-" She stopped, cleared her throat to fix a voice that had come out far too husky. "Hell of a way to start the day," she managed.
To keep her hands occupied, she grabbed a grape lollipop from the coffee mug of them on the workbench and unwrapped it, popping it in her mouth. The artificial flavoring did nothing to dispel the taste of him, but remembering the last few months did. Her workshop, where she created the highly dangerous weapon called sparkshot for the government battle-mages, had been broken into, not once, but nine times over the course of six weeks. This despite the government-made wards she activated every night and her own state-of-the-art security system. She had never heard a thing in her apartment over the workshop, the apartment where Andrew, her fiancé, had proposed. It had freaked Katrina out, enough that she'd started keeping a big stick with a nail in by the door.
After the fourth break-in, Andrew, the youngest captain on Achester's police force, had taken on the case himself and gone deep undercover in the industrial part of town (the shady part). Katrina hadn't seen him for over a month because of the investigation. Guards had been assigned for the first three weeks after he'd taken the case, though their presence hadn't halted the thefts. Then one day the guards had disappeared and the break-ins had stopped.
That had been two weeks ago. Since then, Katrina hadn't heard a whisper of or from Andrew, though the newspapers had reported turmoil and sparkshot explosions in the industrial area. Now suddenly Andrew was back, and she wanted answers before she gave into the urge to jump him because she was ecstatic to see him. "So I'm guessing your presence means you've caught the thief?"
He kept his hands in his pockets and perched on the edge of her desk. "Yeah. I've been trying to expedite bringing the guy responsible to trial the past couple of weeks. Sorry I've been out of reach, but this guy was well-connected, and we had to keep it as quiet as possible." Andrew took his hands out of his pockets and hooked them in his belt, a brooding look on his face as he started to pace. "He hired a vampire to break in; one who had been a thief when he was alive. He knew the wards wouldn't work on anything but a human. There was all this sparkshot in the warehouse. Enough to blow up the city. We think that's what he was going to try."
Katrina went to him, wrapped her arms around his waist as tightly as a monkey clinging to a branch. "But you caught him before he could. That's what matters." Giving in to an urge she'd had since he walked in the door, trying to take his mind off what might have been, demonstrating how happy she was that he was back, Katrina proceeded to jump his bones.
Emily
Cleaning the garage wasn't exactly Emily's idea of an enthralling way to spend a Saturday morning, but her dad would pay her 20 bucks if she finished by noon, and money was money, after all. Her little brother had been supposed to help, as it was a major job, but he'd snuck off to go sledding before she could catch him. So Emily had to clear the garage enough to pull the car into by herself, bundled up in an old hoodie against the winter chill in the unheated room off her house. To start, she'd dragged in a trashcan to throw things into and attacked her dad's workbench against the wall. The unearthing of a single flip-flop she remembered from when she was ten had her snorting in disgust, as did the half-eaten and moldy muffin. The five rolls of partially used duct tape merely had her raising her eyebrows as she tossed them into the pristine red storage bins their father had bought to get himself organized and then never used.
Between the storage bins and the garbage can, she got a lot of the garage sorted fairly quickly. The four bikes leaning in a drunken row against one wall were hung on their ceiling hooks, and Emily was just hanging the last one, her useless brother's, when there was a sudden flood of multi-colored light and she started falling through cold, sticky nothingness.
Mikhail was fishing for bluegill in the royal loch. It was the first morning he'd been able to set aside for relaxation in the six weeks since the coronation, and he had no doubt that he'd be called back long before he'd fully unwound. Fishing was one of his favorite pastimes, simply because it was quiet and solitary, so he enjoyed it while he could. Alone in his canoe in the middle of the loch, he didn't have to be the prince –well, king now- of Skyrnir, but could be himself, remember who he was, try to grasp his sanity, and most importantly, get away from the crushing responsibility of his position. Of course, he wasn't stupid or irresponsible enough to abscond completely. He had his cell phone and a sparkshot-loaded gun with him in case of emergencies. Gunshots and a spray of bullets in the water near him jerked Mikhail out of his fishing-induced placid obliviousness.
Bloody assassins, was his first, irritated though as he ducked low, dragging his fishing pole down with him and grabbing his gun. There had been numerous attempts on his life recently, though not as successful as those on his father had been. But some were expected, being that they were at war. Mikhail shot in the general direction the shots had come from, trusting in Katrina's assurance that this particular sparkshot variation would disperse in the air and cling only to human targets. After waiting the appropriate 15-second interval, he sent out a thread of magical power to light the sparkshot.
The air above the woods bordering the loch lit with a satisfying display of multi-colored sparks. Mikhail knelt poised in the bottom of his canoe another moment, and was just about to straighten when, suddenly, a girl popped out of thin air to drop into the water next to his canoe.
Emily had never cried. Not even as a baby, so her parents said. She was considering breaking that tradition now, as everything else was insane as well. The nothingness that had opened in the garage seemed preferable to the strangeness it had landed her in. After dropping into the lake, some guy (although a highly attractive one) in a canoe had fished her out and taken her to what looked like a cross between the British house of Parliament and Buckingham palace. The inside resembled some important British building as well, with lush carpets and a lot of statuary, some of it extremely tacky. The difference between wherever this was and Britain was the fact that no one here seemed to speak English, which was proving a problem. People had been gabbling at her in some strange language that sounded like a cross between Russian and Gaelic, but slightly more confusing. Her rescuer had vanished shortly after they had come in. Eventually, though, an older woman in a sage green pantsuit had come into the room and barked at the other occupants in a tone that brooked no argument, and they had dispersed.
The woman had then tried speaking to her, in what Emily could tell were several different languages, none of which she recognized. Emily, shivering slightly and dripping onto the carpet, had repeated over and over in English, "I don't understand."
After several minutes, the woman had started muttering what were unmistakably curses (they are recognizable in any language) and lit a cigarette. When the cigarette was gone and the woman visibly calmer, she pointed to herself and said, slowly and clearly, as though speaking to a particularly slow child, "Meredith. Y dat wyll dhe Meredith."
Stupidly relieved to have any real communication, even something so elementary, Emily pointed to herself and said, "Emily. My name is Emily."
Mikhail had gone from the lake immediately to his office, not stopping even to change from his rather ratty fishing clothes. Summoning his advisors had brought six men to his office in the space of only a few minutes. Dewily, by far the oldest, had demanded immediately, "Who on earth was the chit you brought back with you? The Star was here for another blasted interview with your aunt, and their photographer got a shot of you carrying a girl up from one of your secluded fishing trips. I hope you've considered the gossip."
"It's nothing like that," Mikhail snapped. "She came from nowhere when I was fishing. Someone shot at me, and I returned fire, and suddenly she was there."
This brought on an argument, and difficult questions as to how someone could pop out of thin air and why he persisted in fishing unescorted, as well as a rather heated discussion on how to deal with those who had hired Mikhail's attackers. All in all, not much got done until Mikhail's aunt Meredith came in and silenced them all with a sharp whistle.
"Gentlemen! This isn't getting anything done. We've had assassination attempts before, and we have a procedure to deal with them. Our major concern should be how to get that girl home."
"Craftswoman Meredith," began the overly formal Treasurer, Deegan Leski, using the title Meredith had chosen over that of Princess when she became a fully-fledged sparkshot maker, "our main concern should be whether that girl is a spy and dangerous. Until we know that, and how she infiltrated the royal property, returning the girl to her home is not our concern."
"Oh, stuff it, Dee," Meredith replied, using the nickname she had given him when they were both growing up privileged children of the court. "The girl's from another world, so she can't be a spy, and she got here because Katrina's pregnant."
Mikhail gaped at her, as did most of his advisors save Leski, who looked flustered. "What does that have to do with anything?" Mikhail asked.
"When someone who makes sparkshot is going to bring life into the world, sparkshot they make during that time brings things in from other worlds. And I know you were using Katrina's sparkshot, because you agreed to test it and see if it was more effective."
"So if the chit is from another world, then, Merry, how do we send her back?" demanded Dewily.
"Damned if I know."
Since there was no apparent way to send her back, Emily had to stay. None of it was explained to her, though, for several weeks, until she'd gotten a basic grasp of the language under Meredith's tutelage. Meredith was an adept teacher, though she had to spend several hours of each day at work, leaving Emily under the care of others. She never fell under the care of Mikhail, though, as the neighboring country declared war a few days after the attempt on his life, and he had to strategically relocate closer to the border.
The war lasted several months, during which life at the palace didn't seem overly strained to Emily. Security didn't become overwhelming, as it had in the US after 9/11, and though there were occasional distressing headlines in the newspapers she was increasingly able to read, the capitol did not seem strained.
Eventually, she mustered her courage and new vocabulary, and asked Meredith about it. Meredith had simply looked at her strangely and said that all the citizens new the borders had to be defended, and that the army was capable of it, not understanding Emily's accustomedness to war being a hotly-debated moral issue in her place of origin.
Another difference between Skyrnir and the US was that the war only lasted about six months, and the end was widely reported and rejoiced. The army began going home immediately, all but two detachments left to help rebuild border communities.
A ball was to be held celebrating the victory; for it was a victory, no land having been lost and the enemy sent firmly on retreat. The ball was to be held two days after Mikhail and the army returned to the capitol, and Emily could admit, if only to herself, that she was looking forward to seeing Mikhail again. She had never thanked him, and knew she must have seemed pathetic, utterly unable to communicate and not looking her best. Add to that the fact that he was the most fascinating male she'd ever met.
The day of the ball dawned clear, though Mikhail slept long past dawn. He'd stayed up late the night before with some of his younger generals and officers drinking to celebrate their return. Rubbing sandy eyes, he contemplated trying to sleep a few more hours, but knew he wouldn't be able to. His slight headache was distracting enough that it would take too much effort, and he had to admit he was looking forward to the ball.
Parties, one's that were justified, weren't terribly common in his court, and he kept it that way, not wanting it to become the debauched sort of place he knew it had been in his grandfather's time. This one though, he felt was justified. It wasn't as if he had a choice, though, even if he hadn't, as Meredith had put it together, and she was formidable when she wanted something.
So he dragged himself out of bed, showered, and then red a book for most of the afternoon until it was time to get ready. The tuxedo made him feel like an overdressed penguin, but he proceeded to the ballroom acting as though it was what he wore every day.
The ballroom was a spectacle, draped in purple and gold, with flower-filled urns standing in every niche in the wall. He preceded his guests into the room, and formed a receiving line with Meredith and his councilors, who had been immediately behind him.
While the line edged slowly past, Mikhail couldn't help but look for the ward he'd unwittingly taken on. She had been . . . interesting, and he hadn't been able to help thinking of her a few times while he'd been away.
She was one of the last; something he attributed to Meredith's influence, as she said the last left the most impression. In Emily's case she was right, as the stunning gold lame dress shimmered over her like she'd been drenched in liquid gold. It fit like a liquid, as well, revealing curves that hadn't been quite as noticeable in the oversized sweatshirt and baggy pants he'd first seen her in. Mikhail was distracted enough upon seeing her that he nearly forgot what he was saying to his Minister of Agriculture.
The predatory gleam in Mikhail's eyes when he saw her had been quite consolation enough for being stuffed into the tight, ridiculous dress. Emily hadn't been entirely sure he'd remember her, and was completely sure he hadn't had the awkward dreams she'd had about him.
But he claimed her first dance, an act that surprised her, though he did it by grabbing her dance card and scribbling his name on the first spot instead of by asking, which miffed her until she realized that he didn't know how well she could now speak Skyrn.
The dance was, well, lovely, swirling around the floor in his arms to soft music, and it almost made her forget how hard she'd worked in Social Dance to learn to waltz. Then he'd taken her onto the terrace, again not asking permission. "I see a way still hasn't been found to send you home," he said as soon as they were outside, speaking slowly, as one might to a child.
"I'm sure a way will be found soon," she replied, speaking rapidly and perfectly, just to make her point. "If not, I might go back as soon as Katrina has her baby, as that's what brought me here."
He almost laughed at hearing her speak, then stopped, turned her and bowed over her hand. "I am in awe of your command of our language, lady."
"Yes, well," she said, slightly flustered. She would never get used to Skyrnir gallantry, especially not when delivered from a face that was laughing at her. "I had to be able to thank my rescuer in his own language, didn't I?"
With a start, she realized she was flirting. Mikhail didn't seem to mind, though, as his eyes were sparkling at her again. And really rather close to hers . . . Just as abruptly as that, he kissed her.
A raucous burst of laughter from inside the ballroom broke them apart. Mikhail spun away from her suddenly, grasped the railing tightly, and swore, low and vicious. He shouldn't have done that. It wasn't right, or proper, or very intelligent, considering that someone could have walked out on them at any moment.
"I'm sorry." It was all he could get out, and he couldn't look at her. He couldn't, not even when he heard her walk back inside.
Emily paced Meredith's workshop, in an annex of the palace, picking things up to stare past them blindly and replacing them, narrowly avoiding colliding with the furniture in the light-filled space. "I was walking past the ballroom this morning, and everything is cleaned up. In my world, after a party like that, it would take almost a week to clean up." Her voice was high, strained.
"That's the beauty of having a lot of servants. And you were seen, you know."
Emily nearly dropped the snow globe she was holding. "I have no idea what you mean," she said carefully.
"Your little balcony scene with my nephew," Meredith reminded her helpfully. "Leski and I saw you, and I think Esmerelda and Deegan did, as well. Esme is the one with the loud laugh, the one that made you two break off." The name Esmerelda was said with traces of venom, subtle signs of an enmity that stretched back to childhood.
Emily gave her a stricken look. "I wish we hadn't been seen at all. I don't even know how it happened."
Mikhail pored over a land agreement for the border, not looking up when Deegan entered. "Just a moment."
"Don't know how you can be alert this morning after the amount you drank last night once your girl had run off," said the old man, taking advantage of the familiarity of years and seating himself without waiting for an invitation.
Mikhail's head snapped up. "She's not my girl, and I don't know where you'd get the impression that she is."
Deegan cackled. "Need to work on your press releases, my boy. You admitted the existence of a girl. And I'd know you were lying anyway, since I saw you with her on the balcony."
Mikhail's face revealed nothing. He had been well trained, so his face resembled nothing so much as a statue. The deadpan expression was his only response to Deegan, who snickered. "Think you scared her off, the way she went running out of the ball. Should probably work that out with her; she's a pretty enough girl, and not political."
Mikhail rose abruptly. "I need to get out of here. Andrew!" His voice rose. "Cancel my appointments for this morning."
Emily didn't know quite why she'd gone down to the dock, except that it was where she'd arrived when she'd first come to this world. She sat at the end of the dock with her knees tucked up to her chin and stared out over the loch. Booted footsteps shuddered along the planks on the dock and she looked up.
Mikhail stopped. He'd come here to get away from her! And now she was blocking his way to where his canoe was tied up. "Good morning."
"Ah," Emily was less used to giving public appearances no matter what the situation. "Good morning."
"Would you like to come fishing with me?" Since he couldn't escape her, and couldn't abandon her on the docks politely, it seemed the best thing to do.
"Sure."
The days after that were somewhat less fraught with tension. Mikhail and Emily conversed like rational people upon occasion, and he gave her permission to use his private library to search for clues as to how to get her home. But all of them tended to assume that once Katrina had her baby, the effects would reverse, and Emily would go home.
Surprisingly, there were mentions of other travelers from alternate worlds. They had come at different times, different ways, had been at different periods of life. Emily could find nothing in common between them, except some mythical references in each incident, about the travelers being cursed. It wasn't true for her, though. She wasn't cursed. Not like this man, at any rate, who'd been turned into a fish from the waist down. She was ordinary, as far as that went. Stable (if bereaved) home, younger brother, no evil fairy godmothers or stepmothers out to kill her. She supposed never having cried would be seen as a curse by the rather histrionic authors of the books she found the references in, but it really wasn't. She'd just never felt the need to.
Months passed, Emily reading a great chunk of the library (though not the selection of porn magazines she found behind a particularly boring-looking history), and learning a great deal of history in the bargain, including the fact that lederhosen had once been fashionable. Katrina's pregnancy neared its end, and Emily felt the anticipation building.
Mikhail had mixed feelings when Meredith told him. One of only three sparkshot makers would now be on maternity leave, and reduced hours for years, but it was great news for her, and Meredith seemed happy. It took him a moment to realize that Katrina's delivery meant that Emily would have disappeared, if their hypothesis had been right. He sought her out in the library, not sure if he wanted her to be gone or not. She was disruptive in his life, and didn't belong in this world, but at the same time, Mikhail thought he'd be at a bit of a loss without her.
He found her sitting in one of the armchairs in his library, a priceless and ancient tome perched carelessly on the arm. "Ah," he said, for once unable to find something to say. " I thought you'd be gone."
She looked at him, the beginnings of a terrible dread in her eyes. "Why," she asked cautiously.
"Katrina's had her baby."
Emily went white. That had been her route home, the only way anyone could think she'd be sent back. She stood slowly. "No. You're lying. I'd be home, back in the real world. You're lying."
"I'm telling you the truth."
"It can't be! I want to go home! This place confuses me. You're just trying to confuse me," Emily accused as the room spun around her. "You said I'd go home when she had her baby. That was my last way home."
The room spun, darkened, as the floor leapt at her.
Emily woke on a soft, warm bed. Unfortunately, the sheets had gotten tangled beneath her and were cutting into her cheek. She put a hand up to smooth away the creases, but felt instead of sheets what felt like a button, a tie, a collar under her horrified exploring hand. The recent past flooded back to her, and she sat up abruptly, Mikhail's suit jacket falling from her shoulders, and she looked him in the eye. He looked back warily. "Katrina really had her baby?"
He nodded. "Yes. Early this morning."
Emily looked blindly away from him, gazing around the room she'd spent so long cooped up in, researching. There were six small and obviously old busts spaced around the room, complete with powdered wigs. She knew they weren't Mikhail's taste, but his father's as he'd told her he hadn't redecorated since he inherited the throne. They were sitting –well, she supposed that up until a moment ago she'd been more sprawled than seated- on the red velvet chesterfield that matched the trim on the oversized leather chairs. Settling her gaze on a glass paperweight on the mantle of the small fireplace, she took several deep breaths. So she couldn't go home. Okay. She could deal with that. She'd find a way. So she'd woken up draped over the king of the country she was trapped in. Well, she'd fainted, and he didn't seem to mind. It wasn't an issue. So she was desperately in love with someone she'd never see again if she managed to get home, and he didn't care, and he was driving her crazy, and she didn't want to admit how she felt because she'd seem like a fickle, shallow, gold-digger. Slight problem.
He was peering at her now, intense black brows furrowed. "Are you okay?"
Emily laughed, a slightly hysterical sound, and threw her arms around him. The hell with it. She kissed him enthusiastically.
He was surprised at first, and realized that this couldn't be a good thing, with Emily so on edge, and clearly upset by the news. He tried to draw away, leaning back and putting his hands on her shoulders, but she followed him, gluing herself to his chest. She shoved her tongue in his mouth.
This couldn't be totally immoral. After all, she'd started it, so it wasn't like he was taking advantage of her. He was only human, and she'd been driving him crazy for weeks. He stopped trying to make justifications as his brain shut off and his hands roamed over her passionately.
They drew apart, and looked at each other, and they both knew that things were different between them. Mikhail spoke first. "Should I have your things moved?"
Emily shook her head in regret. "No. The tabloids would find out somehow, and you'd suffer in the public opinion polls because of it."
"Then never again?"
"No! I couldn't bear that. You're the reason I can face living here for the rest of my life."
"I don't want to sneak around, to cheapen you that way." Mikhail was almost fierce.
Emily gently touched the side of his face. "It's the only way we can be together. I'm a political nightmare any other way."
The bells that tolled the hour through the palace rang two. "Shit! I've got a meeting with the council right now!"
They parted, Mikhail trying to open the door and put on his tie at the same time.
What followed Emily always thought of as an idyll, a perfect, sunny time. In her memory, the sun was always shining, the air warm, though it was really late fall. Six weeks they were given, the media none the wiser. Days were usually spent with Mikhail in meetings or making public appearances, Emily in the library. Nights were spent in Mikhail's spacious rooms, very little of them in sleep.
One morning, Emily woke up, realizing that of the six weeks, at least one of them was missing something. She went to Meredith, and after a suitably awkward conversation, obtained a pregnancy test.
That afternoon, during the preparations for the Solstice parade, Emily took Mikhail to the dormant rose gardens. She seated him on a bench and paced in front of him, arms wrapped around herself. Finally, she stopped, planted herself in front of him, and said, "I'm pregnant."
He stared at her in blank shock, dawning realization breaking across his face before being replaced by joy. He rose, took her hands. "Really?"
She nodded. "I'm sorry."
He kissed her.
Neither of them noticed the pair of photographers hiding in the bushes, nor the flash and the "Quick, run like little girls! We've got to get this in before deadline!"
After Mikhail had finished his duty in the parade, they waited for the fireworks to start so they could watch them from his balcony. He stood behind her, holding her, one hand splayed on her still-flat stomach. "We should get married soon."
"Just because I'm like this?" Emily whispered, staring out at the city.
He pressed a kiss to her cheek. "No. All this does is put things ahead of schedule. I was going to propose in a few months anyway, and we'd have a summer wedding."
She turned in his arms, amused now. "You were so sure I'd say yes?"
"Of course," he replied, one brow raised arrogantly.
"So full of yourself," she murmured, and leaned up to kiss him.
In the background the fireworks started, the special fireworks, made of sparkshot to burn longer and brighter. As the first pinwheel of light burst, the sparks seemed to race forward to capture Emily. This time, as she fell, it was in a shower of colored light instead of blackness.
When she came to herself, she was stunned. The garage. How could she be in the garage? Where was Mikhail? How could she be dreaming of home when she was awake? A wave of nausea swept over Emily. How could she be back? She'd been with Mikhail. She left the garage, slightly dazed. Maybe there was a building at the palace that resembled the garage. But no, there, across the narrow expanse of driveway, was her house. Oh, no . . . She couldn't be home. Not now. She was getting engaged. She walked into the house, dazed. Her father was probably worried. She'd been gone for months. She'd explain where she'd been, and tell him that she had to get back as soon as possible. Wandering into the kitchen, she spotted the calendar. No, that couldn't be right. It was still the same picture. The clock, too, had to be wrong. It said she'd only been gone an hour and ten minutes.
Had it been a dream, her time with Mikhail? No, it couldn't be, it had been too real. The man she was in love with couldn't be a dream. She had to get back to him. How? She'd never get back to him. The circumstances had been too specific. She'd never see him again.
At that thought, Emily broke. She doubled over, sobbing like a child. Weeping with a broken heart, she who had never cried before.
Emily stayed in her room all that weekend, listless and forlorn. Monday rolled around, and Emily's father had to knock on her door four times before he got a response.
"What?" she asked listlessly.
"Forty-five minutes before school starts. I'll give you a ride if you're ready." The offer of a ride was rare; even though the university campus where he taught history was just past the high school, he usually left earlier than Emily. It probably came because of the snow drifting past her window, and not out of his notice of anything wrong.
"No, thanks. I'm not going to go today."
"Why? Do you feel sick?" The conversation was still being conducted through the closed door.
"No. I just don't feel like it. It doesn't matter. No one expects second semester seniors to go in on Mondays anyway." She rolled over and buried her face in her pillow. She hadn't left her bed in the last two days. The sheets were a wrinkled nest, the nightstand covered in tissue, the pajama pants and old T-shirt she was wearing soiled.
"Emily," her father said in a warning tone. "We had a discussion about senioritis at the beginning of the year. You said you weren't going to do this."
She plucked at the ribbon trim on her pillowcase and didn't reply.
He waited a few moments, then said, "All right. You can get there on your own. But I don't want to get a skip call later, you hear me?"
"You won't," she said dutifully. At eighteen, Emily could call in and excuse her own absences. When he left, she'd call in, and then crawl back into bed.
Mikhail stalked his study, plagued by the same bad mood that had enshrouded him for the past week. She was gone. Dammit, why was she gone? Everything had been perfect, and they would have gotten married come the spring. The promise of an immediate heir would have overcome the political objections to their marriage, and they would have been happy.
He let out a stream of curses unbecoming to a monarch. He needed to know why she had gone. And how to get her back.
The remains of a fruit platter were in the fridge. Probably left over from one of her father's endless meetings. Emily picked at it when she dragged herself downstairs in search of food. Depression had killed her appetite. She tried to shake herself free of it as she nibbled at pineapple. She needed to think of a way to get back to Mikhail. Logic. That was what she needed. To sit down, figure out how she had been transported back, and then a way to reverse it.
Emily fetched a pad of paper and a pen from the drawer nest to the phone. Okay. She made three columns, one titled 'There,' one 'Back,' and one 'Back again.' 'There' was easy. Katrina had been pregnant, and had made sparkshot, which had had the odd side effect of summoning her. Why her, though? Why not someone else?
She jotted down the questions in the column. Next. 'Back.' Pregnant, tell Mikhail, then the midwinter celebration. Am I still pregnant? She didn't write down that question, only thought it. Sparkshot fireworks. Sparkshot and pregnancy make people go back and forth?
She frowned and gnawed on the end of the pen. If I'm still pregnant, then all I need is sparkshot. Right, like I'm gonna find sparkshot in this world. She ran a frustrated hand through her blond hair, lank from days without showering. Maybe if there's a sparkshot explosion there? No, there was supposed to be a huge fireworks display; I would have gone back almost as soon as I came here. So am I not pregnant anymore?
Sudden nausea gripped her, and she doubled over. No, it couldn't be true. She wanted Mikhail's baby so badly. She had wanted the baby even when she was afraid of Mikhail not wanting it, of him severing their relationship because of it. Emily had to still be pregnant. She had to be.
Three weeks later.
She wasn't pregnant anymore. The realization made her feel sick, made her stomach contract in pain, though that may just have been cramps. Oh God, no, don't let this be happening. Let me go back to him. Now how will I get back to him?
Emily sank on to her bed, crying.
Two months later.
She'd been gone so long. Would she even remember him anymore? No, of course she would. That was just the wine talking, Mikhail chided himself. Wine always made him depressed. He'd been drinking too much of it, after the business of the day had been concluded and he was left alone.
He drained his glass, and conducted the daily ritual he'd begun shortly after Midwinter, taking a pinch of sparkshot and throwing it in the fire. He stared into the flames as they flashed brightly and sprayed ash. She didn't appear. Mikhail cursed himself for the thousandth time for being so weak that he held onto her memory.
A soft knock sounded on the door, and he glared at it in irritation. "Enter!" he snapped.