Bending Tyme Read Free Page A

breasts, the woman’s companion paid no heed to the mess even as his left boot landed square in the centre of a small puddle. Esme was uncertain if that puddle was her vomit or someone else’s muck, filling the dips and holes in the cobblestones paving each side of the filthy street.
    “When I get slapped with a citation for disturbing the peace, heads will roll,” Esme muttered, collapsing onto the tufted stool in front of the vanity, wondering what this ‘authentic’ masked ball would cost her.
    She tipped her head to one side. Was the poor lighting playing tricks? She ran her fingers along the ornate scroll-work. The familiar lip of the vanity she used in her own bedroom was out of place here. With a practiced eye, Esme examined the item further—the condition of the wood, almost pristine, belied its age. She pulled open the lone thin drawer, rubbing her finger across its bottom surface, searching for the scorched indentation left by a curling iron someone had left plugged in prior to Esme acquiring the piece. Nothing.
    Esme, nauseous again, looked at her reflection. The slight distortions in the visage staring back at her were characteristic of the original glass in the heirloom vanity. Esme spread her fingers across the surface, recalling how she and Timone had removed the few remaining pieces of the original, broken glass, deciding—with great reluctance—to upgrade it with contemporary materials, meshing the heirloom with modern utility.
    Esme stood up, shaking, that vertigo overwhelming her again.
    He caught her before she hit the floor.

    * * * *

      “So, Logan, here you sit with a delectable piece at long last. I tip my hat.” Byron lifted his devil-horns mask. Conscious of the prostitute he had left just outside the door—which was standing ajar—he switched to French. “I rather assumed I would find you again sitting in the dark, fondling that locket you carry, mooning over the fair portrait within.”
      “Look at her, George,” Logan murmured in the same language, his voice soft, not wishing to disturb the slumber of the woman resting in his arms.
    Byron responded in his typical, booming voice, paying no heed to the dark scowl Logan shot him as Esme stirred. “The woman in the portrait!” he exclaimed. He rubbed his chin, considering what the night’s mad festivities had summoned—and from where?
    Esme half-opened one eye. “Who are you?” she asked Byron, her perfect French an effortless flow from her lips. She turned her face sleepily into the warmth and breadth of Logan’s chest, continuing to murmur. He tightened his embrace, scowling at his friend again.
    Byron raised one eyebrow at the scene. “What’s that she says?” He leaned closer, straining to hear Esme’s faint mutterings.
    Logan shrugged, rubbing the slight crease furrowing his brows. “She speaks of the twenty-first century, as one familiar. And there are these.” He slipped a couple of the Möbius bracelets from Esme’s wrist, handing one to Byron. Then he passed him the locket. “And there is this as well.”
    Byron’s eyebrows met his hairline this time. “Your mother did predict your heart’s desire would come from afar,” he mused. Byron studied the second item Logan had handed to him, staring at the likeness of his friend nestled inside, then spied the second locket still hanging open around Esme’s neck. “God’s teeth, Logan.” He goggled at the likeness of his friend nestled inside. “She wears the twin of your mother’s locket.”
    Logan nodded. “I was sleeping in that chair, deep in my cups, waiting for you to finish your sport. I woke to find her here. I thought I was dreaming, the drink still clouding my mind.” He fell silent, at a loss to further clarify the night’s strange events.
    Watching the confusion shadowing his friend’s face, Byron sprang to action. “I will call for a carriage, unless you plan to return to the house carrying her on horseback.” Byron always took charge,