Delia Sherman Read online

  As she raised the brush to her hair, the door opened. Sophie spun around to see girl staring at her—a real Miss Lolabelle in a poufy white dress and a striped silk sash around her tiny waist. Her dark hair was bundled into a net and her skin was pink and white. With her eyes and mouth all round with surprise, she looked just like a doll a tourist would buy on Decatur Street.

  The girl put one hand to her throat and gave a very Miss LolaBelle-like little scream. “Antigua!” she gasped. “Antigua! Come here!”

  A Negro girl appeared at her shoulder. “Yes, Miss Liza.”

  A slave. A real, live slave. She was very pretty, with rosy-brown skin and eyes the same Coca-Cola brown as Miss Lola—Miss Liza’s. Sophie noted the bright yellow turban wrapped around the Negro girl’s head and the little silver cross strung on a red thread around her throat and was surprised. She’d thought a slave would look more downtrodden.

  “You put Miss Liza’s brush down!” the slave girl said. “Right now, you hear?”

  Sophie dropped the brush with a clatter.

  “I do believe she was fixing to steal it!” Miss Liza’s voice was a high-pitched whine, not nearly as pretty as her face. “Bring her along to the office, Antigua. Papa will know what to do.” She disappeared in a flurry of white ruffles.

  Antigua grabbed Sophie’s arm and shook it. “You in trouble, girl! What you doing here, anyway?”

  This was not how Sophie had imagined her adventure beginning. She licked her lips. “Um. I got here by magic.”

  Antigua gave her a vicious shake. “Magic? I never heard of no magic that put folks where they don’t belong to be. You crazy, girl? Or just foolish?”

  “It’s the truth,” Sophie protested.

  “Crazy and foolish,” Antigua said. “Listen here, now. You don’t want more trouble than you already got, you best find some other tale to tell Dr. Charles. Magic! I never!”

  The slave girl took a firm grip of Sophie’s arm and dragged her out to the gallery and down the back steps. Sophie was too shocked to resist. Were slaves allowed to hustle white people around like that? Wasn’t that the reason the old days were good? Because Negroes knew their place?

  Antigua entered the house through a door that didn’t exist in 1960 and hustled Sophie down the back hall to Aunt Enid’s office—or what would be Aunt Enid’s office a hundred years in the future. When she’d knocked, she propelled Sophie across the room to the fireplace, where Miss Lolabelle was sitting by a lady on a sofa, carrying on while a tall gentleman patted her shoulder.

  Antigua released Sophie and stepped back, leaving her staring at her illustrious ancestors.

  The lady on the sofa was blonde and pale and thin as a rail, and dressed in gray silk and a lacy cap with long side-pieces. Wool and knitting needles lay on the sofa beside her. The gentleman, got up in a stiff high collar that made Sophie’s neck itch to look at, had a long, sad face and an aquiline nose. A Fairchild nose, in fact.

  The gentleman seated himself in what looked exactly like Grandmama’s big wing chair. “My daughter says she discovered you in her room with her silver hairbrush in your hand.” His voice was firm, but not unfriendly. “I trust you have some reasonable explanation?”

  Sophie was so astonished to hear someone talking just like a character in a Dickens novel that it took her a moment to realize he was actually talking to her. It took another moment to realize she was going to have to answer him.

  The lady picked up her knitting. She was working on a sock. “Perhaps a whipping will loosen her tongue, Dr. Fairchild.”

  Sophie went cold all over. It occurred to her that adventures might not be as much fun to live through as to read about.

  “I think we can get to the bottom of this without whipping, my dear,” Dr. Fairchild said.

  “I cannot agree. The wench is a thief. Even your mother believes in whipping thieves.”

  “Now, Lucy, we don’t know she’s a thief.”

  The lady raised her almost invisible brows scornfully. She had a good face for scorn, with ice-blue eyes and a thin mouth. She was knitting without looking at what she was doing. Sophie found her terrifying. “She’s bold enough for one. You, girl. Didn’t anybody ever teach you not to look at your betters?”

  Hastily, Sophie dropped her eyes to her feet.

  “You’ve nothing to be frightened of,” Dr. Fairchild said. “If you’re innocent. Now. What is your name and where you come from?”

  “Sophie,” she said, her voice shaking slightly. “I’m from New Orleans.”

  “There! We’re making progress. Can you tell me, Sophie, how you got here from New Orleans?”

  It was all too obvious neither of the Fairchilds would believe any story involving magical Creatures and time travel. Why didn’t any of the books mention that adventures were like taking a test you hadn’t studied for?

  “You got here somehow,” Dr. Fairchild prompted. “Did you come by boat?”

  Sophie had had teachers who couldn’t wait for an answer. If she just stood there looking dumb and scared, he’d probably just tell her what he wanted her to say.

  “Yes, sir,” she answered eagerly. “A boat from New Orleans.”

  Mrs. Fairchild clicked her needles angrily. “That’s a bare-faced lie, Dr. Fairchild. There hasn’t been a steamboat by in weeks.”

  “They probably put her off at Doucette,” he pointed out. “Saved themselves some time.”

  Miss Liza gave an impatient little bounce. “What does it matter where she came from? She was stealing my hairbrush, and she ought to be whipped!”

  Mrs. Fairchild turned her icy glare on her daughter. “Your father is conducting this interrogation, Elizabeth. It does not become you to interrupt him.”

  Miss Liza scowled.

  “The truth now, Sophie,” Dr. Fairchild went on. “Did you get off the steamboat at Doucette?”

  This might have been a trick question, coming from someone else. But Dr. Fairchild looked to be what Grandmama would call a Perfect Gentleman, and Perfect Gentlemen didn’t lay traps. “Yes, sir.”

  “Nonsense,” Mrs. Fairchild said. “We’re a good five miles from Doucette. Did someone drive you here?”

  Mrs. Fairchild, on the other hand, was not a Perfect Lady.

  “No, ma’am,” Sophie improvised. “I walked.”

  “Walked! Dr. Fairchild, I do believe this wench is a runaway as well as a thief. Just look at the state of her!”

  “I disagree, my dear. She’s not much more than a child. She couldn’t have made the journey from New Orleans alone. It’s more likely she lost her way between here and Doucette and fell into a ditch. She seems a little simple.”

  Mrs. Fairchild gave a laugh. “All slaves are simple when they’re in trouble.”

  Sophie looked up, shocked. “But I’m not”—Mrs. Fairchild laid her knitting aside and pulled something from her waistband: a leather strap, about an inch wide. Sophie looked down hastily—“a runaway,” she finished.

  “If you want us to believe you,” Dr. Fairchild said sternly, “you must tell us exactly who sent you here, and why.”

  Sophie hardly heard him. How could anybody think she was a slave? Slaves were Negroes. She was white. In 1960, white people were white and colored people were colored and nobody had any trouble telling them apart. It was true she was barefoot and she had a tan. Couldn’t they tell the difference between tan and black? Hadn’t they noticed her Fairchild nose?

  The silence lengthened: Dr. Fairchild wasn’t going to help her this time. Sophie was on the edge of panic when Mrs. Fairchild said, “If you look at her carefully, Dr. Fairchild, I think you’ll see why she’s reluctant to answer. Elizabeth, you may leave us.”

  “Mama!”

  “Do as your mother says, puss,” Dr. Fairchild said.

  “But, Daddy!”

  “Now, Liza.”

  Miss Liza flounced away. Dr. Fairchild took Sophie’s chin in his large, warm hand and studied her carefully, just like Grandmama. Sophie felt her face heat
uncomfortably.

  “Well.” Dr. Fairchild let her go. “Your master is Mr. Robert Fairchild, isn’t he?”

  Sophie nodded numbly.

  “Robert always did spoil his servants,” Mrs. Fairchild observed.

  “My brother,” Dr. Fairchild said, “treats his servants as he was taught to treat them.”

  “Which includes sending them on a long journey upriver without so much as a sack? And what about her traveling pass?”

  “Very true, my dear. Do you have a traveling pass, Sophie?”

  Sophie tensed. “I lost it?”

  “You lost it.” Dr. Fairchild made an impatient noise. “Don’t you know how dangerous it is for a girl like you to be without a traveling pass? If the patrollers found you, they’d put you in chains and drag you back to your master, and that would be a lot of trouble for everybody.”

  Mrs. Fairchild said, “This is all very well, Dr. Fairchild, but it doesn’t tell us what she was doing in Elizabeth’s bedroom.”

  Dr. Fairchild sighed. “Very well, Lucy. Sophie. Why were you in Miss Liza’s room? The truth, now.”

  Because it’s my room, a hundred years from now. “I—got lost.”

  “A likely story! If you ask me, Dr. Fairchild, there’s more to this girl than meets the eye. Have you ever seen anything like those spectacles?”

  Sophie touched her glasses. They were just ordinary, blue plastic frames with little metal flowers on the temples. “My father gave them to me.”

  Mrs. Fairchild sent her a glare that could have stripped paint. “If you refer to Mr. Robert as your father again, I will have you whipped.”

  “Now, Lucy, the girl probably doesn’t know any better. It’s like Robert to have spoiled her, just as it’s like him to send her without writing to warn us. Unless, perhaps, he wrote Mother. Or she might have a letter with her. Do you have a letter from your master, child?”

  “I lost that, too.” Sophie found it all too easy to sound pathetic. “I lost everything.”

  “Convenient. I don’t mind telling you, Dr. Fairchild, I don’t believe I’ve ever heard such a collection of untruths since the day I was born.”

  Dr. Fairchild sighed. “Well, she’s a Fairchild—no question about that. I’ll talk it over with Mother tonight and write Robert in the morning. In the meantime, we’ll just presume she’s a new addition to the family. Antigua?”

  The slave girl had been standing by the door so quietly, Sophie had forgotten she was there. She acknowledged her name with a little curtsy. “Yes, Dr. Charles.”

  “Get this girl something to eat, then take her to Mammy.”

  Mrs. Fairchild took up her knitting again. “You, girl. How old are you?”

  “Thirteen, ma’am.”

  “I thought you were younger. Thirteen is much too old to be running around with your legs showing. Get her something decent to wear, Antigua. As for you, girl, I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re used to in Mr. Robert’s household. In my household, you will behave with proper humility, or you will be punished.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”

  Dizzy with relief, Sophie curtsied and followed Antigua out of the office. She thought she’d done pretty well, all things considered. A member of the family, Dr. Charles had said. Maybe things were going to work out after all.

  Chapter 7

  It had been raining in 1860, too. The sky was a patchy gray, and the wet grass clung to Sophie’s legs as she followed Antigua around the back of Oak Cottage and along the edge of the garden.

  A whiff of something good brought water to her mouth. “What’s that?”

  Antigua snorted. “You don’t know roast chicken when you smells it? I thought you just acting simple so’s Dr. Charles feel sorry for you. Maybe it ain’t an act, huh?”

  Sophie was stung. “I’m not simple.”

  “Then don’t ask fool questions.”

  Sophie shut her mouth and wondered when the friends she’d wished for were going to show up.

  They walked up to Aunt Enid’s garden shed, looking bare and businesslike without its blanket of vine. Sophie peered through the open door into a noisy, smoky room full of women in long dresses shelling beans, stirring pots, chopping vegetables, and kneading bread on Aunt Enid’s potting table. The mammoth fireplace was all cluttered with pots on hooks and a long spit with chickens strung along it like beads on a string. The air was hot and sticky as boiling molasses and hummed with flies.

  Sophie stepped back, hoping Antigua would bring her food outside.

  “Well, looky there!” a voice exclaimed. “A stranger!”

  Next thing she knew, Sophie was standing at the center of a semicircle of curious black faces asking questions faster than she could answer them.

  “Where you from?”

  “Ain’t you light!”

  “What-for them things setting on you nose?”

  Sophie hadn’t been this close to so many Negroes since she was eight and Mama had stopped her going to church with Lily. She’d liked Lily’s church, where the singing was a lot more lively than at St. Martin’s Episcopal and the ladies were all got up in fancy hats. These women, in their faded dresses and tightly wrapped headcloths, frightened her.

  Sophie pushed her glasses up on her nose and smiled nervously.

  “Well, Miss High-and-Mighty!” a short, round woman exclaimed. “Can’t you answer a civil question?”

  “Don’t act more foolish than God made you, China. Can’t you see the child’s scared half to death?”

  The woman who had spoken was tall—as tall as Papa, with reddish-brown skin and a blue headcloth. The other women moved aside to give her room.

  Knowing authority when she saw it, Sophie held out her hand. “How do you do?”

  “Well, I never,” China said, and everybody laughed.

  “Hush yourselves, now,” the queenly woman said. “Ain’t you never seen a body with manners before?” Her hand, hard and scaly with work, folded around Sophie’s. “I’m Africa, Old Missy’s cook.”

  Antigua appeared at Africa’s elbow. “She belong to Mr. Robert. Or so she say.”

  A dozen pairs of eyes turned to Sophie with a new and intense interest. She felt her ears burn.

  “Oh, she Mr. Robert’s, sure enough,” said a dark, skinny woman.

  Someone else laughed. “And ain’t it just like him, sending off his high-yellow girl for his mammy to raise up for him?”

  Africa ignored them. “What’s your name, child?”

  “Sophie.”

  “Sophie.” Africa’s smile showed missing teeth. “And what’re them things on your nose, Sophie?”

  “Glasses.”

  Africa held Sophie’s chin and lifted her glasses off her nose. The world disappeared into a multicolored blur. Sophie squeaked and made a blind grab.

  “Don’t fret, child. I’m just looking,” said Africa.

  “But I can’t see! You don’t understand!”

  “I sure enough don’t.” Africa dangled the glasses by the earpiece. “Old Missy, she don’t have spectacles like these. Dr. Fairchild, he don’t have spectacles like these, and he’s a medical man. How come you got them?”

  “So I can see,” Sophie almost wailed. “Give them back to me. Please!”

  Africa held the glasses up to her eyes, yanked them away as though they’d bitten her. “Whoo-eee! You blind as sin, child!” She handed them back. “Better take good care of them. Oak River ain’t New Orleans. If they get broke, you’ll just have to do without.”

  “Not less you ask Mr. Robert to get you some more,” said Antigua nastily. “What work you do at Mr. Robert’s house, anyway?”

  Sophie settled her glasses back on her nose. “Work?”

  “Yes,” Antigua sneered. “Work. You know—what black folk do and white folk don’t?”

  Sophie looked down at her feet, sun-darkened and streaked with dried mud. There was a scratch above one arch and a bug crawling on her big toe. The feet surrounding her were mostly darke
r, but two or three might have been as pale as hers under the dirt. She tried to imagine what would happen if she raised her head right now and announced that she was not a slave, but a genuine white Fairchild, brought into the past by magic.

  They’d think she was crazy, just like Antigua had. And if she insisted, they’d probably tell Dr. Fairchild, who would think she was crazy, too. Maybe if she just went along, and was agreeable and polite, she could keep out of trouble until the Creature showed up to rescue her.

  Africa clapped her hands sharply. “Y’all get back inside and get on with dinner. Unless you’re hankering to tell Mrs. Charles she ain’t going to eat until three?”

  “No, ma’am,” said China with feeling. “I likes my black skin just fine on my back where it belong.”

  The other women laughed and went back into the kitchen. Africa looked down at Sophie. “I ’spect you wants a corn cake.”

  Sophie hesitated. That kitchen was probably as full of germs as it was of flies. And none of those slaves looked very clean. Still, she was hungry, and she loved corn cakes. Lily used to make them, light and spongy and a little sweet. Besides, she was the heroine of this adventure, and heroines never got so much as a head cold.

  “Please, ma’am. If it’s not any trouble.”

  Africa led her through the flies and heat to a wooden bin full of flat, grayish things that looked like cardboard cookies. The corn cake tasted even more like cardboard than it looked, but Sophie was empty enough to choke it down anyway, and even remembered to thank Africa for it before going outside, where Antigua was sitting on the bench waiting for her. “Come on, if you done stuffing you face. I gots work to do.”

  She got up and trotted purposefully away, Sophie at her heels.

  As they came into the yard, Sophie was hit with a truly eye-watering stink. “What’s that?”