Into the Dim (Into the Dim, #1)(24)

Doug was obviously eager to have a fresh audience. So far, he hadn’t noticed my lack of enthusiasm. For one thing, most of his intricate scientific explanations were way out of my realm of knowledge. And for the other, every synapse in my brain was taken up by thoughts of my mother. Of what might be happening to her in that other world in which she was trapped.

“See, Hope,” Doug said, oblivious, “when the ley lines are interrupted in a certain sequence, it creates an opening. A vacuum. As I mentioned last night, it’s easiest to think about it like a small wormhole. Here, let me show you.”

When he snatched a piece of paper and began scribbling more numerical equations, Phoebe jumped into his lap and planted a kiss on his wide mouth.

“Enough, love,” she said with her lips pressed against his. “You’ll make poor Hope’s head explode.”

Doug grumbled a bit, but plopped the notebook down on the table to snug Phoebe comfortably across his lap. I grinned at the sight of his brown cheek resting on the top of her crazy blue hair.

My gaze drifted past to the torrents of rain sheeting the window. An image of Bran Cameron’s face wavered before me, somehow watery and indistinct, as if the features were blurry. All but the eyes. Those odd, mismatched eyes stayed clear and sharp.

It’s pouring buckets out there. No way he’d come today. Besides, I chided myself, it’s beyond selfish, thinking about some boy when you just found out your mother’s still alive. Sort of. I tapped a fingertip idly on the glossy table. Still . . . if he came, and I didn’t show, that would just be ru—

The slam, as Collum dropped a huge stack of books on the table in front of me, brought me halfway out of my chair. The top one slid off into my lap. Court Life Under the Plantagenets: Reign of Henry II, by Hubert Hall.

“Quit daydreaming,” he said. “You’ve got a lot to make up, so get busy.”

I thumbed through the stack, shrugged, and pushed them back across the table. “Already read them. What else you got?”

“Read them again. You may know a lot, but there won’t be any reference books or computers where we’re going.”

“I don’t need to read them again.” His attitude made me mulish. “I know what they say.” I flipped open a book at random, glanced at the page number, then stared at him as I recited the words. “Page sixty-seven. Paragraph three.”

As I delivered the dry, dusty facts of the 1154 coronation of King Henry II and his wife, Eleanor of Aquitaine, the words tumbled effortlessly from my tongue. But the subject drew me back to another voice that warmed in admiration whenever she spoke of her favorite person in history.

Eleanor of Aquitaine was a brilliant and powerful woman, Mom had lectured, poking the crackling logs in our little-used fireplace. She was a champion of women’s rights even then.

On a rare impulse of mischief, I’d piped up. Yeah, and I read that when she went on Crusade with King Louis of France, she showed her boobs to the troops.

Blood rushed to my face. Daring words from an eight-year-old. My mother had laughed, though. Throaty and genuine.

Yes, she said. That is true. But perhaps not her most notable accomplishment.

When she smiled at me, eyebrows raised, pride had bloomed across my chest. I grinned back, so thrilled to contribute to a subject my mother loved.

Wanting—needing—more of her approval, I sighed. Oh, Mom, wouldn’t it be neat to travel back in time and meet Queen Eleanor in person?

My mother froze with the poker shoved deep in the fireplace. A log popped. A glowing ember landed on the carpet, but she didn’t react.

After a moment, she stood and kicked the coal back into the hearth. Yes. Well. She cleared her throat. You never know what is possible in this world, Hope. But now I think it’s time to resume your Greek lessons. Begin writing out your verb tenses.

I looked up and realized the others were staring at me. Without realizing it, I’d recited seven pages from memory. Doug stood and clapped in admiration, while Phoebe gaped, open-mouthed.

“That’s bloody brilliant, Hope,” she said. “And you can do that with anything you’ve read?”

“Interesting.” Collum’s wide mouth curled into smugness. God, I wanted to smack him. “Then why don’t you tell us what you know of King John’s treasure?”

“Hey, mate,” Doug said. “I don’t think—”

“No,” Collum said. “She knows everything, right?” He turned to me. “Then you’ll know this tale. The one where a poor farmer who lived near the Wash in Lincolnshire found the lost treasure of King John in 1573?”

I blinked at this abrupt change of topic. “What?”

“What do you know of it?” he demanded.

Though my brain was fizzing with everything that’d happened, it sharpened now. As they always did when presented with a history question, my thoughts quieted and focused. I flipped through my imaginary files for everything I’d read of the lost treasure of King John, youngest son of the medieval King Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine.

John had been a bad king. His barons turned against him, forcing him to sign the Magna Carta, which took away most of his power. It was said that after losing countless battles with the French on his own soil, the feckless king was on the run. On October 12, 1216, John and those of his men who were still loyal were fleeing with all the riches of the kingdom through the eastern part of England. His train was attempting to cross a dangerous, boggy area of mud flats and marshes located between Northampton and Lincolnshire. The king himself had crossed safely, but it was raining, and an unexpected tide came in. Some were sucked down into pools of quicksand. Others washed away in the surge. Dozens of John’s people, horses, wagons, gone in moments. Worst of all, at least from John’s perspective, all of England’s greatest treasures, including the crown jewels, were lost forever.