Daughter of Time (Prequel to The After Cilmeri Series)

Daughter of Time (Chapter Three)

Chapter Three

Meg

I opened my eyes to a candle, guttering in a pottery dish on a small wooden table beside the bed on which I lay. It took only half a second for me to register that all was not as it should be.

"Oh, my God!" I reared up from the pillow. A man sat in a chair by the fire, reading a book the size of a coffee table dictionary. He looked up and smiled, and the smile was so disarming I just gaped at him, mouth open, knowing that nothing about him or the room was right, but unable to articulate why it wasn't.

The room was built on a grand scale. A long table surrounded by chairs sat near a closed door, twenty feet from the foot of the bed. The bed itself was a massive four-poster, with thick, crimson hangings all around. Only one side was open—the side on which I lay. The floor was comprised of wooden slats set tightly together. Rather than polished, it was faded and worn with what could only have been years of use. I took it all in, flicking my eyes from one item to the next, before returning them to the man in the chair.

He shifted and then stood to walk to a bookshelf on the other side of the room. He laid the book flat on top of several others, taking a moment to align them neatly one with another. While his back was turned, I looked around the bed, more panicked than ever because I realized that I was wearing nothing but a nightgown—and a gorgeous one at that, with embroidered lace and puffy sleeves; that my clothes were gone and my hair was braided in a long plait down my back.

By the time he turned back to me and spoke, I'd scooted up the bed until I was sitting upright, the covers pulled to my chin.

" ..." he said.

I had no idea what he'd said. Confused because his words were completely unintelligible, even as they tugged at my ear with familiar tones, I didn't move or saying anything, just stared. He tried again. I shook my head, uncertain.

He stayed relaxed, his hands at his sides and walked toward me, speaking a little louder, as if somehow that would help. I was desperately trying to make sense of what he was saying, but as he got closer, my breath rose in my chest until it choked me. He must have seen the fear on my face because he stopped, about three feet from the bed. I finally found my voice.

"What?" The words came out as little more than a squeak. "Who are you?" I dragged my eyes from his and flashed them around the room again, seeking somewhere to run but not seeing anything but the long distance to the door and the man standing between it and me. He didn't answer my question but again tried one of his own.

"Beth ydy'ch enw chi?"

"Meg dw i," I said, then gasped. I'd answered automatically. 'What is your name?' he'd said in Welsh. 'My name is Meg.'

I stilled myself and studied him as he stood, still calm, two paces from me. Had what he'd spoken before been in Welsh that I hadn't understood, perhaps too fast, and too complicated compared to what I'd learned from Mom? Through my foggy brain, I focused with an effort. Who is he? He still hadn't told me.

He was a large man in his late thirties, thin but muscled, nearly a foot taller than I. He wore a cream-colored shirt with a dark blue jacket, brown pants, and brown leather boots. He had a long nose and black hair, close in color to Anna's. Anna! Fear rose in me again and twisted to see if she was on the bed.

"She's asleep by the fire," the man said, reading my mind. He followed this statement by more unintelligible words, except for, "You say, 'Meg', but you mean, Marged?"

I nodded. Marged was my formal name, though I never used it. Now more afraid for Anna than afraid of him, I swung my legs to the floor and ran to where he pointed. Anna was indeed asleep in a cradle set against the far wall, with large rockers on the bottom to keep a child asleep.