A Kiss in Time Read online

  Alex Flinn

  A Kiss in Time

  For Joyce Sweeney. Thanks for everything!

  Contents

  Part I

  Talia

  Chapter 1

  If I hear one more syllable about spindles, I shall…

  Chapter 2

  Tomorrow is my sixteenth birthday. I do not suppose it…

  Chapter 3

  Free of the encumbrance that is Lady Brooke, I fairly…

  Part II

  Jack

  Chapter 1

  What they don’t tell you about Europe is how completely…

  Chapter 2

  “Good thing we got food first,” Travis says on the…

  Chapter 3

  When I was a kid, back when my family was…

  Chapter 4

  It’s a castle. Not a modern-looking one like Buckingham Palace,…

  Chapter 5

  I stare at her. I’ve never seen a human being…

  Chapter 6

  She’s awake! It really is like Snow White! Holy crap!…

  Chapter 7

  Things get a little crazy then. There’s Travis at the…

  Part III

  Jack and Talia

  Chapter 1:

  Talia

  Chapter 2:

  Jack

  Chapter 3:

  Jack

  Chapter 4:

  Talia

  Chapter 5:

  Jack

  Chapter 6:

  Talia

  Chapter 7:

  Jack

  Chapter 8:

  Talia

  Chapter 9:

  Jack

  Chapter 10:

  Talia

  Chapter 11:

  Jack

  Chapter 12:

  Talia

  Chapter 13:

  Jack

  Chapter 14:

  Talia

  Chapter 15:

  Jack

  Chapter 16:

  Talia

  Chapter 17:

  Jack

  Chapter 18:

  Talia

  Chapter 19:

  Jack

  Chapter 20:

  Talia

  Chapter 21:

  Jack

  Chapter 22:

  Talia

  Chapter 23:

  Jack

  Chapter 24:

  Talia

  Chapter 25:

  Jack

  Chapter 26:

  Talia

  Chapter 27:

  Jack

  Chapter 28:

  Talia

  Chapter 29:

  Jack

  Chapter 30:

  Talia

  Chapter 31:

  Jack

  Chapter 32:

  Talia

  Chapter 33:

  Jack

  Chapter 34:

  Talia

  Chapter 35:

  Jack

  Chapter 36:

  Talia

  Chapter 37:

  Jack

  Chapter 38:

  Talia

  Chapter 39:

  Jack

  Chapter 40:

  Talia

  Chapter 41:

  Jack

  Chapter 42:

  Talia

  Chapter 43:

  Jack

  Chapter 44:

  Talia

  Chapter 45:

  Jack

  Chapter 46:

  Talia

  Chapter 47:

  Jack

  Chapter 48:

  Jack

  Chapter 49:

  Talia

  Two Years Later

  Talia

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Books by Alex Flinn

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Part I

  Talia

  Chapter 1

  If I hear one more syllable about spindles, I shall surely die!

  From my earliest memory, the subject has been worn to death in the castle, nay, in the entire kingdom. It is said that spindle, rather than Mama or Papa, was my first word in infancy, and I have little doubt that this is true, for ’tis the word which lights more frequently than any other upon my most unwilling ears.

  “Talia, dearest, you must never touch a spindle,” Mother would say as she tucked me into bed at night.

  “I will not, Mother.”

  “Vous devez ne jamais toucher un axe,” my tutor would say during French lessons.

  “I will not,” I told him in English.

  “If ye spy a spindle, ye must leave it alone,” the downstairs maid said as I left the castle, always with my governess, for I was never allowed a moment alone.

  Every princeling, princess, or lesser noble who came to the castle to play was told of the restrictions upon spindles—lest they have one secreted about their person somewhere, or lest they mistakenly believe I was normal. Each servant was searched at the door, and thread was purchased from outside the kingdom. Even peasants were forbidden to have spindles. It was quite inconvenient for all concerned.

  It should be said that I am not certain I would know a spindle if I saw one. But it seems unlikely that I ever shall.

  “Why must I avoid spindles?” I asked my mother, in my earliest memory.

  “You simply must,” she replied, so as not to scare me, I suppose.

  “But why?” I persisted.

  She sighed. “Children should be seen, not heard.”

  I asked several times more before she excused herself, claiming a headache. As soon as she departed, I started in on my governess, Lady Brooke.

  “Why am I never to touch a spindle?”

  Lady Brooke looked aggrieved. It was frowned upon, she knew, to scold royal children. Father was a humane ruler who never resorted to beheading. Still, she had her job to consider, if not her neck.

  “It is forbidden,” she said.

  Well, I stomped my foot and whined and cried, and when that failed to produce the desired result, I said, “If you do not answer, I will tell Father you slapped me.”

  “You wicked, wicked girl! God above will punish you for such deceit!”

  “No one punishes princesses.” My voice was calm. I was done with my screaming, now that I had discovered a better currency. “Not even God.”

  “God cares not for rank and privilege. If you tell such an awful lie, you will surely be damned.”

  “Then you must keep me from such a sin by telling me what I wish to know.” Even at four or five, I was precocious and determined.

  Finally, sighing, she told me.

  I had been a long-wished-for babe (this I knew, for it had been told to me almost as often as the spindle speech), and when I was born, my parents invited much of the kingdom to my christening, including several women rumored to have magical powers.

  “You mean fairies?” I interrupted, knowing she would not speak the word. Lady Brooke was highly religious, which seemed to mean that she believed in witches, who used their magic for evil, but not fairies, who used their powers for good. Still, even at four, I knew about fairies. Everyone did.

  “There is no such a thing as fairies,” Lady Brooke said. “But yes, people said they were fairies. Your father welcomed them, for he hoped they would bring you magical gifts. But there was one person your father did not invite: the witch Malvolia.”

  Lady Brooke went on to describe, at great length and in exhausting detail, the beauty of the day, the height of the sun in the sky, and the importance of the christening service. I closed my eyes. But when she attempted to carry me into my bedchamber, I woke and demanded, “What of the spindle?”

  “Oh! I thought you were asleep.”

/>   I continued to demand to know of the spindle, which led to a lengthy recitation of the gifts I had received from the various guests. I struggled to remain attentive, but I perked up when she began to describe the fairies’ gifts.

  “Violet gave the gift of beauty, and Xanthe gave the gift of grace, although surely such qualities cannot be given.”

  I did not see why not. People often remarked upon my beauty and grace.

  “Leila gave the gift of musical talent…”

  I noted, privately, that I was already quite skilled on the harpsichord.

  “…while Celia gave the gift of intelligence….”

  It went without saying….

  Lady Brooke continued. “Flavia was about to step forward to give the gift of obedience—which would have been much welcomed, if I do say so myself.” She winked at me, but the wink had a hint of annoyance which was not—I must say—appreciated.

  “The spindle?” I reminded her, yawning.

  “Just as Flavia was ready to step forward and offer her much-desired gift of obedience, the door to the grand banquet hall was flung open. The witch Malvolia! The guards tried to stop her, but she brazened her way past them.

  “‘I demand to see the child!’ she said.

  “Your nurse tried to block her way. But quicker than the bat of an eyelash, the nurse was on the floor and Malvolia was standing over your bassinet.

  “‘Ah.’ She seized you and held you up for all to see. ‘The accursed babe.’

  “Your mother and father tried to soothe Malvolia with tales of invitations lost, but she repeated the word ‘accursed,’ several times, and then she made good the curse itself.

  “‘Before her sixteenth birthday, the princess shall prick her finger on a spindle and die!’ she roared. And then, as quickly as she had arrived, she was gone. But the beautiful day was ruined, and rain fell freely from the sky.”

  “And then what?” I asked, far from interested in the weather now that I understood I might die by touching a spindle. Why had no one told me?

  “Flavia tried to save the situation with her gift. She said that since Malvolia’s powers were immense, she could not reverse her spell, but she sought to modify it a bit.

  “‘The princess shall not die,’ she said. But as everyone was sighing in relief, she added, ‘Rather, the princess shall sleep. All Euphrasian citizens shall sleep also, protected from harm by this spell, and the kingdom shall be obscured from sight by a giant wood, unnoticed by the rest of the world and removed from maps and memory until…’ People were becoming more nervous with each pronouncement. ‘…one day, the kingdom shall be rediscovered. The princess shall be awakened by her true love’s first kiss, and the kingdom shall awake and become visible to the world again.’”

  “But that is stupid!” I burst out. “If the entire kingdom is asleep and forgotten, who will be left to kiss me?”

  Lady Brooke stopped speaking, and then she actually scratched her head, as persons in stories are said to do when they are trying to work some great puzzle. At the end of it, she said, “I do not know. Someone will. That is what Flavia said.”

  But even at my tender age, I knew this was improbable. Euphrasia was small, bounded on three sides by ocean and on the fourth by wilderness. The Belgians, our nearest neighbors, barely knew we existed, and if Euphrasia disappeared from sight and maps, the Belgians would forget us entirely. Other questions leaped to mind. How would we eat if we were all asleep? And wouldn’t we eventually die, like old people did? Indeed, the cure seemed worse than the original punishment.

  But to each successive question, Lady Brooke merely said, “That is why you must never touch a spindle.”

  And it is nigh upon my sixteenth birthday, and I have never touched one yet.

  Chapter 2

  Tomorrow is my sixteenth birthday. I do not suppose it necessary to explain the furor this has occasioned in the kingdom. ’Tis a heady occasion. Each year on my birthday, guests come from around the world to celebrate—and they bring gifts! Diamonds from Africa, crystal from Ireland, cheese from Switzerland. Of course, my sixteenth birthday is of special import. Rumor has it that a ship has sailed the world over, collecting items and persons for my pleasure. They say it has even visited the British colony on the other side of the world. I believe it is called Virginia.

  But more than guests, more even than presents, is the actual hope that this whole spindle business will end today. Before her sixteenth birthday. That was what the witch Malvolia had said. So tomorrow Mother and Father will rejoice at having completed the Herculean task of keeping their stupid daughter away from a common household object for sixteen years, and then I can live the ordinary life of an ordinary princess.

  I am ready for it.

  It is not merely spindle avoidance that has been my difficulty thus far. Rather, because of this, I have been effectively shut out from the world. Other young maidens of my station have traveled to France, India, and even the wilds of Virginia. But I have not been permitted to make the shortest trip to the nearest kingdom, lest one of the populace there wished to attack me with a spindle. In the castle, the very tapestries seem to mock me with their pictures of places I have never seen. I am barely allowed outside, and when I am, it is only under the boring chaperonage of boring Lady Brooke or some other equally dull lady-in-waiting. I am fifteen years old, and I have never had a single friend. Who would want to be friends with an oddity who has never seen anything or done anything and is guarded night and day?

  Likewise, a young princess my age would ordinarily have dozens of suitors questing for her hand. Her beauty would be the subject of song and story. Duels would be fought for her. She might even cause a war, if she were beautiful enough, and I am.

  But though my beauty has been spoken of, raved of even, there has not been one single request for my hand. Father says it is because I am young yet, but I know that to be a lie. The reason is the curse. Any sensible prince would prefer a bride with freckles or a hooked nose over one like me, one who might fall into a coma at any instant.

  There is a knock upon the door. Lady Brooke! “Your Highness, the gowns are ready for viewing,” she calls from outside.

  The gowns! They have been prepared especially for tomorrow. It will be the grandest party ever. The guests will arrive at the palace door in carriages or at the harbor in ships. There will be a grand dinner tonight, and tomorrow a ball with an orchestra for dancing and a second orchestra for when the first tires. There will be fireworks and a midnight supper and magnums of a special bubbling wine made by Benedictine monks in France, then a week of lesser parties to follow. It will be a festival, a Festival of Talia. I will be at the center of it, of course, courted by every prince and raja, and before it is over, I will have fallen in love—and I will be sixteen, cured of the curse.

  “Your Highness?” Lady Brooke continues to knock.

  The gowns—I need one for tonight and several for the ball tomorrow and a dozen or so more for the coming week—must be perfect. And then, perhaps Father will speak with the tailor who designed the loveliest one and have him create fifty or so more for my wedding trip around the globe.

  Truth be told, it is the trip, rather than the wedding, which appeals to me. I care not for marriage at someone else’s whim. But it is my lot in life, and a cross I must bear to gain the wedding trip. I am more than ready to leave Euphrasia, having been trapped here for almost sixteen years. And, of course, my husband shall be handsome, and a prince.

  I fling the door open. “Well? Where are they?”

  Lady Brooke produces a map of the castle.

  I take it from her. One has to admire her organization. I see now that Lady Brooke has marked out the rooms which will be used to house our numerous royal guests. Other rooms are marked with a star. “What is this?”

  “On the occasion of your last birthday, you told your father that, upon the occasion of this birthday, you required ‘the most perfect gown in all the world.’ Your father took this request quite litera
lly and sent out the call to tailors and seamstresses the world over. China’s entire haul of silk-worms has been put to this task. Children have been pulled from their cottages and huts to spin and sew and slave, all for the pleasure of Princess Talia of Euphrasia.”

  “Very good, Lady Brooke.” I know she thinks I am silly and spoiled. Was I not gifted with intelligence? I also know this not to be the case. How can I be spoiled when I never get to do a single thing I want? I did not ask that children be pulled from their cribs to slave for me, but since they were, is it not only courteous to gaze upon their efforts and, hopefully, find a dress or two that will be acceptable? I can already picture the gown in which I shall make my grand entrance at the ball. It will be green. “The map?”

  “Yes, the map. Each tailor was asked to bring his twenty best creations, all in your exact measurements. Your father believed that you might be overwhelmed, gazing upon so many gowns at once. Therefore, he decreed that they be placed in twenty-five separate rooms of the castle. In this way, you may wander about, choosing as you will.”

  Twenty gowns times twenty-five tailors! Five hundred gowns! I grow giddy.

  “We had best get started,” I tell Lady Brooke.

  We begin to walk down the stone hallway. The first rooms are on the floor above us, and as we climb the stairs, Lady Brooke says, “May I ask what you will do with the gowns which do not meet with your approval?”

  This is a trick question, I know, like all of Lady Brooke’s questions, designed to prove that I am a horrid brat. Why care I what Lady Brooke thinks? But I do, for much as I loathe her, she is my only companion, the closest thing I have to a friend. So I rack my brain for an acceptable answer. Give them to her? Surely not. The gowns were made to my exact measurements, and Lady Brooke, who has not been blessed with the gift of beauty, is an ungainly half a head taller than I, and stout.

  “Give them to the poor?” I say. When she frowns, I think again. “Or, better yet, hold an auction and give the money collected to the poor. For food.”

  There! That should satisfy the old bat!

  And perhaps it does. At least, she is quiet as we enter the first room. Quiet disapproval is the best I can expect from Lady Brooke.

  Dresses line the walls, covering even the windows. Twenty of them, in different fabrics, different shapes, but every single one of them blue!