politeness would have any effect on the magic ring.
"I would if I could," it answered, "but it's too late."
/ don't get it. What's too late? Why don't you work after midnight? Union rules or something?
"It is now August twenty-fifth. St. Bartholomew's Day is August twenty-fourth."
Yeah, so? Even as she thought the question, Sara guessed what the answer would be.
"I may only grant wishes on St. Bartholomew's Day. The day I was made, actually; the saint's day doesn't have anything to do with it. I'm a one-day-only wish ring. Sorry."
It wasn't sorry, she could tell by the way the silver felt against her finger, all cool and smug. She was tempted to pull the ring off and hurl it across the tent. Or stomp on it. Rather than give in to impulse she sat very still and tried to think. From beginning to end nothing had made sense today. All she'd planned on was spending the day at the Renaissance Faire, then going home, maybe ordering a pizza, practicing guitar for a while, and watching television. No adventure, no excitement, no threats of violence. No Toma, either, but so what? She'd never expected to get what she wished for, not even before she met a magic ring.
"I want to go home," she whispered. The words filled the darkness of the hot, still night. "I just want to go home."
"You can," the ring replied. There was something almost sheepish about the way it felt on her hand.
Relief surged through her. Thank God! How? What do 1 do? What do I say?
"All you have to do is wish."
Fine. I wish to go home.
"No, not now. On St. Bartholomew's Day."
But—
"All you have to do is wait a year."
A year!
"Make any wish on St. Bartholomew's Day and I must grant it. You've only got to wait three hundred and sixty-four more days."
Sara stared at the ring in stunned disbelief. What the ring was suggesting wasn't a solution, it was a sentence. She was condemned to spend a year in this hellhole? No. Impossible. There had to be another way.
You can't do this to me.
"It's only a year, Sara. A year with Toma."
She ignored the seductive suggestion in the ring's tone. Why didn't you tell me?
"Why should I tell you everything?"
Because.. . because you're magical, that's why!
"You been watching Disney movies, girl? What gave you the idea magic is benign?" The ring's metallic voice grated along her nerve endings. "Magic is power," it went on coldly. "Power just is. It isn't power's job to teach people how to use it. You're stuck in the past for a year. Maybe by then you'll figure out how to use me properly."
She wasn't interested in hearing lectures. She didn't think arguing was going to do any good, either.
She thought violence might be an appropriate response, but she didn't know how to go about slapping around a little silver ring. / hate you, she told it. / really, really hate you. She waited for it to answer, but the ring just circled her finger, barely visible in the fading moonlight. It didn't care what she was feeling; her emotional devastation meant nothing to it. "Power just is," she whispered. "Fine. Be that way."
There had to be something she could do, some way out. Maybe it was all just a weird dream. Had to be, she decided. She stretched and yawned. She was so tired she could barely move, let alone think straight. Hallucination. Nightmare. That's all this whole thing was. She groped her way to the pallet where she'd first woken up and curled up on it without bothering to take off her clothes. This wasn't real, she assured herself as she buried her face in a feather pillow. She was going to wake up in her own bed. It was just a dream.
* * *
"I want to go home."
Sara didn't recognize the man's deep voice, but his words drew her out of a comfortable doze. You're not the only one, she thought as she opened her eyes, and discovered she was still in the tent. She groaned and screwed her eyes shut again.
"We all want to go home." It was Beng who spoke this time. The men were just outside the tent opening. "But what can we
"I would if I could," it answered, "but it's too late."
/ don't get it. What's too late? Why don't you work after midnight? Union rules or something?
"It is now August twenty-fifth. St. Bartholomew's Day is August twenty-fourth."
Yeah, so? Even as she thought the question, Sara guessed what the answer would be.
"I may only grant wishes on St. Bartholomew's Day. The day I was made, actually; the saint's day doesn't have anything to do with it. I'm a one-day-only wish ring. Sorry."
It wasn't sorry, she could tell by the way the silver felt against her finger, all cool and smug. She was tempted to pull the ring off and hurl it across the tent. Or stomp on it. Rather than give in to impulse she sat very still and tried to think. From beginning to end nothing had made sense today. All she'd planned on was spending the day at the Renaissance Faire, then going home, maybe ordering a pizza, practicing guitar for a while, and watching television. No adventure, no excitement, no threats of violence. No Toma, either, but so what? She'd never expected to get what she wished for, not even before she met a magic ring.
"I want to go home," she whispered. The words filled the darkness of the hot, still night. "I just want to go home."
"You can," the ring replied. There was something almost sheepish about the way it felt on her hand.
Relief surged through her. Thank God! How? What do 1 do? What do I say?
"All you have to do is wish."
Fine. I wish to go home.
"No, not now. On St. Bartholomew's Day."
But—
"All you have to do is wait a year."
A year!
"Make any wish on St. Bartholomew's Day and I must grant it. You've only got to wait three hundred and sixty-four more days."
Sara stared at the ring in stunned disbelief. What the ring was suggesting wasn't a solution, it was a sentence. She was condemned to spend a year in this hellhole? No. Impossible. There had to be another way.
You can't do this to me.
"It's only a year, Sara. A year with Toma."
She ignored the seductive suggestion in the ring's tone. Why didn't you tell me?
"Why should I tell you everything?"
Because.. . because you're magical, that's why!
"You been watching Disney movies, girl? What gave you the idea magic is benign?" The ring's metallic voice grated along her nerve endings. "Magic is power," it went on coldly. "Power just is. It isn't power's job to teach people how to use it. You're stuck in the past for a year. Maybe by then you'll figure out how to use me properly."
She wasn't interested in hearing lectures. She didn't think arguing was going to do any good, either.
She thought violence might be an appropriate response, but she didn't know how to go about slapping around a little silver ring. / hate you, she told it. / really, really hate you. She waited for it to answer, but the ring just circled her finger, barely visible in the fading moonlight. It didn't care what she was feeling; her emotional devastation meant nothing to it. "Power just is," she whispered. "Fine. Be that way."
There had to be something she could do, some way out. Maybe it was all just a weird dream. Had to be, she decided. She stretched and yawned. She was so tired she could barely move, let alone think straight. Hallucination. Nightmare. That's all this whole thing was. She groped her way to the pallet where she'd first woken up and curled up on it without bothering to take off her clothes. This wasn't real, she assured herself as she buried her face in a feather pillow. She was going to wake up in her own bed. It was just a dream.
* * *
"I want to go home."
Sara didn't recognize the man's deep voice, but his words drew her out of a comfortable doze. You're not the only one, she thought as she opened her eyes, and discovered she was still in the tent. She groaned and screwed her eyes shut again.
"We all want to go home." It was Beng who spoke this time. The men were just outside the tent opening. "But what can we
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