I peek my head around the corner, and the abuelas are in their places, shelling and talking. Their clothing isn’t the same, and though their faces are different, they’re cookie-cutter ancestors of the last group. Except the one in the middle. She could be the same woman.
There’s a distinct feel to the courtyard now. There’s new grout in the tiles around the fountain and young trees along the south edge. Everything is new. If I did manage ancient Spain, there won’t be a cute guy lazing around on a bike, so transportation might be tricky. I’m going to need some actual help out of this bunch of abuelitas.
I step into the courtyard, and if they’re startled at all by the appearance of a random stranger, they don’t acknowledge it. The one on the end gives me a quick once-over but doesn’t pause her angry-sounding tirade. Her flailing hands punctuate each statement, and I reconsider and step away to find someone else to tell me where and when I’ve landed.
Before I get two steps, the familiar-looking lady in the middle shushes her friend and walks over to me, her face set in a scolding slant. Silver hair brushes her shoulders. It had been pulled up in a bun last time when she’d had an armful of laundry.
I break her gaze and stare hard at my surroundings, examining the other women—they’re definitely different people . . . and yet . . . I study the familiar one. Her wrinkles haven’t changed. She doesn’t look any older or younger, her eerily identical earthy and sour portrait firmly in place.
While I study her, she scans my flip-flops and sweats, then pauses at the pink skull and crossbones across my chest.
She taps my elbow with her crooked finger. “Be careful,
niña
.” Her Spanish translates in my head again.
I cross my arms. “It’s just a shirt.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “We’ll see.”
I turn my head to watch a wagon lumber down the road Hector and I traveled a few hours ago.
She cackles. “A little different this time, eh?”
My breath catches. “What?”
“You’re an eager one. I didn’t expect to see you twice in one day.”
No way could she know that. I must not have understood her right.
I drop my arms to my sides and step away. She follows. “It would be wise to change your clothes before you venture far.”
“I don’t—I don’t understand.”
“What’s to understand? You sift time, you change clothes so you don’t look like a time tourist.” She snorts at my ignorance. “Simple.”
“Sift?”
“You call it by another name?” She cocks her head, and I get the feeling she’s testing me.
“I guess. I don’t . . .” I shake my head, warbling the Spanish. “This is new to me.”
“Yet you travel by yourself? You’re more fool than I thought.”
I turn away. She’s freaking me out. I don’t need someone else telling me what to do. I came here to play and test a theory, not get reprimanded.
“Good luck on your own,” she says, heckling me.
I spin around but bite my retort. What does it matter to her anyway?
She buries her meaty fists into her thick hips.
“Do you want me to teach you or not?”
“Teach?” I fumble for the rest of my sentence. “I just want to know when I am.”
She cackles again. There’s no other description for the crinkled laugher. “Oh,
niña
.” She grabs me by the elbow. I resist, but she’s not about to let me leave. “You don’t think maybe you should have a little more knowledge before your Ilif gets a hold of you?”
My jaw drops at her mention of his name.
She keeps walking and tosses another grin at me. “What? You think there’s some shortage of knowledge? You think only one family was given this ability?” She flutters her free hand in front of me.
Increasing the pressure against my arm, she tugs me past the circle of women—who’ve all gone back to their peas—and through the open door of the rambler. I trip on the wooden beam of the threshold, and my flip-flop twists around my toes, sending up a small dirt cloud from the packed floor. She’s still chattering away. “Sure, sure . . . anyone can visit the past.”
Two people in one day who know all about time travel, when my family’s had zero knowledge about this for decades . . . and they’ve been watching us. Well, Ilif has. I’m not sure about this woman, but she knows something about me, and that’s almost the same.
If she knows Ilif, why didn’t she help me the first time I was here or come with him to the house? It seems odd he didn’t mention her since he knew I was here, since he was watching me.
Inside the sparse room is nothing more than a place to eat and a place to sleep. She directs me to the single bench and settles herself on a narrow bed. “You’re like my bull out there. He outweighs me by fifteen hundred pounds, but I control him. He goes where I ask, he does what I want. He doesn’t know his strength, because I’ve never let him know it.” She pierces me with her gray eyes. “If you don’t watch yourself, you will be Ilif’s bull.”
“Ilif doesn’t control me.”
“Mmm. Maybe not yet.”
“I’m here finding my own answers, aren’t I?”
“You’re inviting danger.”
My mouth opens and closes, and I swallow my questions. Danger from what? She’s certainly not a threat, and this place isn’t either. Ilif?
I snort. Bring it.
I force myself to wait, to listen for once, instead of exposing my weaknesses in the first seconds.
“What do you know?” she asks.
“Nothing, apparently.” Honestly, it’s not far from the truth.
She
tsks
. I wonder if she’s reconsidered me as a waste of time.
“Why are you telling me this?” I lean forward. “What do I matter to you? Who
are
you?”
“I’ve watched Ilif for centuries. He withholds information as it suits him.” She fingers the frayed edge of the blanket beneath her. “Yet you think to outsmart him with your, what, two decades of life experience?”
“Almost three.” I sound petulant.
“Mmm.” Her silver head bobs. “But it could be different. There’s never been a female rider.” She scrutinizes me, as if reading some invisible tattoo, trying to perceive the smallest indication either that I am who she thinks I am or that I’m not worth it.
I fidget.
“Maybe . . .” She narrows her eyes and taps her thighs. “I wonder.” She straightens and pulls a small scroll from an indentation in the wall. “I don’t know how I could have missed it.”
I raise my eyebrows in question.
“You’re a Rivera, aren’t you?”
“Maybe.”
She snorts. “Yes, now I’m certain. You Riveras always were spicy as chilies.”
Okay, time to go. I push up from the bench. “Thanks, then.”
“Sit down.”
I sigh and sit, flopping my hands in my lap. Abuelitas are the same no matter the century.
She leans forward and taps the tightly rolled papers across her other hand. “Your life, it is going to change. You are no mere traveler, you are a rider.”
I drum my fingertips together. “Yeah, Ilif told us that today.”
“No. He told your father
he
was a rider.”
“Well, yeah.”
“He doesn’t think you’re a rider, because there’s never been a female before.” She holds out the scroll. “It’s time for you to learn about your family.”
I take it and scan the room. “Um, okay.”
“The ability to ride comes to you as a gift, and it will take little for you to control the basics. Others may be able to travel, like me, but we can’t affect events and can’t help teach others to travel like you. I’ve tried. Ilif has guided and taught the Rivera men for as long as I’ve known him. Instead of honoring the power, he angles their learning to support his own wishes.”
All this information suffocates me. “Today is the first day I’ve even known I could do this. Ilif showed up at our house an hour ago and barely told us anything.”
“That won’t change,
niña
, unless you find other ways to learn.”
She taps the scroll. “Take this home. You may want to read it and learn some things.”
It’s like she knows not to push me. Nothing makes me push back harder than when someone tells me I have to do something. Her reliance on my curiosity is disarming.
“Who are you?”
“Come back,” she says and points at the scroll. “After you understand what that means to you and your future.”
“Wait! When is this?”
“This afternoon we met in 1927. Now it is 143 BC.”
I open my mouth, then shut it again and rub my face. “So I can go to any time I want?”
“Read, then come back for answers.”
We stand, and she wraps a long fabric rectangle around my legs like a skirt. She drapes the tail over my shoulder to cover my rhinestoned chest before tucking it into the makeshift waistband. With gentle pressure on my back, she says, “Don’t find trouble. Don’t stay long.”
I pause on the threshold. “Who are you?”
“Penya.”
I tuck the scroll into my waistband and step into the courtyard. The hard-packed dirt is barely warm beneath my thin soles. I glance around for a clock tower but find only simple buildings, nothing over a single story tall.
Riotous blooms cover nearly every available surface, and the sweet scent carries me aimlessly through the village. Old women chatter on the corners, ignoring me.
At the road, I pause. How far do I want to press my luck today? I glance back to where Penya is standing in the doorway. She basically accused me of getting into trouble, and I haven’t even gone anywhere yet.
To the left is the route Hector took me. I’m not sure I want to revisit that experience, so I head the other way, down a sloping hill.
I came here for answers, but I’ve only managed to confuse myself further. Now Penya is involved, and I have no idea who she is or how she knows about Ilif. She’s so much like Abuelita Rosa—argumentative one minute and fussing over me the next. I don’t understand why she cares what Ilif chooses to tell me. Maybe she has her own ulterior motives. I’m willing to gather all the information I can, but I’m certainly not about to blindly follow her. With my supposed abilities, I have to assume everyone has an agenda.
Looking up, I try to orient myself. In this earlier version, the village is tiny, and it’s not long before I’m beyond the houses and walking along a shipping dock.
Fishing boats mingle on the water with sailing vessels of all sizes. A hundred yards off the coast, military-looking vessels stand guard. I move closer and take a look around. Scattered between the fishing boats, soldiers work in teams to load huge crates and weapons into wagons. I wonder why no one seems to care about these armed men in the middle of a small fishing village. Are these the same Roman soldiers who conquered Spain? Am I before or after the invasion?
I snort. Like I’d know. History never held my interest.
Once loaded, the wagon rolls past me, revealing a broad-shouldered man on the far side of the dock who appears to be overseeing the operation. He conducts the last few soldiers like machines, his curt instructions carrying the length of the short dock. If I had any sense, I’d leave before anyone spots me.
Instead, I duck behind a stack of crates and spy. I wanted to see the authentic Spain, and I can’t chicken out now.
He’s dressed like I think a conquering Roman would be: short tunic, weapons, random leather accessorizing—which I’m totally coveting—a body sculpted from some serious outdoor labor. Above him, a man yells something decidedly not in Spanish. Latin?
I gasp and inhale a lungful of dust. My subsequent choking draws attention.
The man I’ve been studying stalks toward my hiding spot. Blond curls frame his strong, youngish face, but his graceful movements make me feel hunted.
As I pull back tighter into the crates, the hem of my makeshift skirt catches on one of the nails, trapping me. I tug to wiggle it free, but the fabric tears and the top crate wobbles back and forth. I tug harder, making the tower of crates sway in a wide curve. I might as well be waving a flag over my location.
Backed between the tall rows, I can’t see him, but I’m making enough noise and commotion to attract a frigging bear. The fabric comes loose, but I go sprawling backward, my fingers raking the raw edges of the wood. I grimace as splinters fill my skin. Before I hit the ground, someone catches me and I scramble away.
Or I try to. Strong hands hold me in place and set me back on my feet at the same time. Do I run, or arc?
He holds my elbow, and I try not to make an ass of myself, but he’s quite stunning up close. There’s a hint of danger, but the tenderness of his fingers on my arm erodes any threat. Men like this don’t exist at home. There’s a rawness to him, an earthy power that’s graceful and carnal at the same time. He’s big, too. I’m five foot two on a good day with my boots on, and he towers almost a foot over me. I tip my chin up, and he’s nearly eclipsed the rising sun with his big head of unruly blond curls.
His copper eyes assess my threat level, cataloging me from head to toe.
“Are you all right?” he asks in Latin, but again the words smooth out and flow into English in my head.
Am I? I glance around. While I was messing with my skirt, the last fisherman departed, his nets repaired and put away for the day. The soldiers are gone now, too, and it seems to be just the two of us on this deserted stretch of the dock.
I smile in answer and force myself to stay where I am, resisting the urge to dip my chin and flirt my way out of the situation. He may look only a couple of years older than me, but I think he’s lived decades of experience beyond his age. There is nothing casual or youthful about him. Silly girlish actions won’t earn me any points.
He curls his long fingers around my forearm. “There is danger here.” He doesn’t elaborate and tugs me along the dock.
I bristle and stand my ground. I’m not afraid to go with him, but I’ve spent too many years fighting to fit in where men don’t think I belong. It’s habit.
I stand awkwardly, stiff and unmoving.
He pauses and considers me again. “Why are you here?”
I avert my eyes. I can’t watch his lips while I hear different words. It’s like watching a badly edited martial arts movie, and I doubt he’d appreciate my nervous laughter.