I even imagine otherwise?” he asked, meeting her eyes at last. Sadly. “It is a wild tale you tell. And an impossible one in the bargain.”
“Is it?” Phoebe asked, putting the question to herself as well as to Duncan. She was still trying to deal with matters herself, still speculating, ’wondering, marveling. “We don’t know much about such things, in my century or yours. For all any of us can say for sure, time is merely a state of mind, a matter of perception. Maybe, instead of being sequential, unfolding minute by minute, year by year, century by century, eternity exists as a whole, complete in and of itself.”
“Gibberish,” Duncan said, but she saw, distracted by the many ramifications of her predicament though she was, that he found her theory intriguing, if not entirely likely.
“The question is,” Phoebe muttered, running the tip of her index finger over the raised lettering on one of her credit cards, “what do I do now? Can I do back, or is the way closed forever?” She looked, as she spoke, not at Duncan, who had stepped back, but at Old Woman. “If I guessedyour name,” she asked, whimsical in her state of polite shock, “and dared to say it out loud, would the magic take me home?”
Old Woman laid one hand on Phoebe’s shoulder, warm and heavy and reassuring. “You already be home, child. And you got here by a magic all your own. You’re with us because that’s what you wanted in the deepest pan of your heart.”
Duncan sighed, drew near again, and picked up a small photograph of Eliott, Phoebe’s half brother. “This miniature is remarkable,” he said, a frown of confusion creasing his forehead. “I cannot see the brushstrokes.”
“That’s because there are none,” Phoebe said, quite gently, considering that she was both irritated and scared. And something else that was harder to define. “This is a photograph—sort of a reflection, captured on paper.”
Her handsome host looked up, his eyes narrowed in wariness and suspicion and something Phoebe hoped was the beginning of belief. “And when was—will—this be invented?”
“Sometime in the nineteenth century, I think. There are a great many pictures of the Civil War, which began in 1860, so even though the process was still pretty cumbersome, they’d mastered the fundamentals by then.”
Duncan looked pale and, again, a muscle flexed at the edge of his jaw. “What Civil War is this?” he asked, in a reasonable but otherwise utterly expressionless tone of voice.
“You’re not ready to hear about that just yet,” Phoebe told him. “You’ve got your hands full with the Revolution, and, well, let’s just say that the War Between the States wasn’t one of our country’s finer moments. And then there was Vietnam, but that would
really
depress you—”
“Enough,” Duncan interrupted. “Are you telling me that our nation will go to war against itself?”
Phoebe sighed, wishing, of course, that she hadn’t mentioned that particular period in American history. “Yes,” she said.
“For what cause?”
“It was very complicated, but I suppose it had more to do with slavery than anything else.”
Duncan appeared to be developing a headache of monumental proportions. “Even now,” he mused, “that question makes for bitter division among the staunchest patriots.”
“If you guys had only outlawed it when you drew up the Declaration of Independence, everyone—especially black people—would have been spared a lot of grief. But it isn’t going to happen: The planters from the southern colonies, among others, will maintain that slavery is necessary to economic survival, and, in the long run, they’ll get their way.”
Old Woman interceded quietly. “That’s enough of such talk, child,” she said, laying her hands lightly on Phoebe’s cramped shoulders. The tense muscles relaxed with dizzying suddenness, as if some powerful drug had been injected. “Come away with me now. You got to have some
“Is it?” Phoebe asked, putting the question to herself as well as to Duncan. She was still trying to deal with matters herself, still speculating, ’wondering, marveling. “We don’t know much about such things, in my century or yours. For all any of us can say for sure, time is merely a state of mind, a matter of perception. Maybe, instead of being sequential, unfolding minute by minute, year by year, century by century, eternity exists as a whole, complete in and of itself.”
“Gibberish,” Duncan said, but she saw, distracted by the many ramifications of her predicament though she was, that he found her theory intriguing, if not entirely likely.
“The question is,” Phoebe muttered, running the tip of her index finger over the raised lettering on one of her credit cards, “what do I do now? Can I do back, or is the way closed forever?” She looked, as she spoke, not at Duncan, who had stepped back, but at Old Woman. “If I guessedyour name,” she asked, whimsical in her state of polite shock, “and dared to say it out loud, would the magic take me home?”
Old Woman laid one hand on Phoebe’s shoulder, warm and heavy and reassuring. “You already be home, child. And you got here by a magic all your own. You’re with us because that’s what you wanted in the deepest pan of your heart.”
Duncan sighed, drew near again, and picked up a small photograph of Eliott, Phoebe’s half brother. “This miniature is remarkable,” he said, a frown of confusion creasing his forehead. “I cannot see the brushstrokes.”
“That’s because there are none,” Phoebe said, quite gently, considering that she was both irritated and scared. And something else that was harder to define. “This is a photograph—sort of a reflection, captured on paper.”
Her handsome host looked up, his eyes narrowed in wariness and suspicion and something Phoebe hoped was the beginning of belief. “And when was—will—this be invented?”
“Sometime in the nineteenth century, I think. There are a great many pictures of the Civil War, which began in 1860, so even though the process was still pretty cumbersome, they’d mastered the fundamentals by then.”
Duncan looked pale and, again, a muscle flexed at the edge of his jaw. “What Civil War is this?” he asked, in a reasonable but otherwise utterly expressionless tone of voice.
“You’re not ready to hear about that just yet,” Phoebe told him. “You’ve got your hands full with the Revolution, and, well, let’s just say that the War Between the States wasn’t one of our country’s finer moments. And then there was Vietnam, but that would
really
depress you—”
“Enough,” Duncan interrupted. “Are you telling me that our nation will go to war against itself?”
Phoebe sighed, wishing, of course, that she hadn’t mentioned that particular period in American history. “Yes,” she said.
“For what cause?”
“It was very complicated, but I suppose it had more to do with slavery than anything else.”
Duncan appeared to be developing a headache of monumental proportions. “Even now,” he mused, “that question makes for bitter division among the staunchest patriots.”
“If you guys had only outlawed it when you drew up the Declaration of Independence, everyone—especially black people—would have been spared a lot of grief. But it isn’t going to happen: The planters from the southern colonies, among others, will maintain that slavery is necessary to economic survival, and, in the long run, they’ll get their way.”
Old Woman interceded quietly. “That’s enough of such talk, child,” she said, laying her hands lightly on Phoebe’s cramped shoulders. The tense muscles relaxed with dizzying suddenness, as if some powerful drug had been injected. “Come away with me now. You got to have some
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