Into the Dim (Into the Dim, #1)(31)

“So,” Bran said, “what kind of duties does an American girl such as yourself perform all day, down there in that big house?”

My serenity flattened.

Oh, not much. Just what any normal sixteen-year-old girl does. Memorize a million books about the twelfth century. Practice speaking with a medieval accent. Learn to stab people.

And then, of course, there’s the whole traveling-through-time thing.

On the way up the mountainside, Bran told me he was out of school for the summer, and on holiday with his London-dwelling mother. He hadn’t offered anything further. I was okay with that. Of all people, I understood that everyone had their secrets.

“Not much,” I finally said, staring down at the sheep. “This and that. My aunt likes projects. What about you? What does Bran Cameron do when he’s not out stalking?”

Twirling a twig of heather between the palms of his fine-boned hands, he huffed. Instead of answering, he said, “And what is your view on knees?”

“Knees.”

“Yes, knees.”

He grinned so wide the crooked eyetooth showed. A glowing warmth started to fill me when I saw that smile.

“Absolutely. On Saturday, you see, there is a festival a couple of villages from here. It’s a small event to be sure, but the lads throw huge stones about, and there will be plenty of greasy food. Plus, bonus . . .” He waggled slim eyebrows. “I always wear a kilt to these events and thought it best to ascertain your opinion on knees. Just in case you feel unable to restrain yourself when you see mine.”

Never had a boy asked me to go anywhere with him. Ever. I’d figured this ride would be it. Just his way of paying me back for saving his life. But now, maybe . . . possibly . . . this almost-beautiful boy was actually asking me out. I had no precedent. No idea what one said in this type of situation. So, like the loser-nerd I was, I found myself blurting, “Y-you mean like a date?”

“No, Hope,” he said, tucking back a grin. “I don’t mean like a date.”

“Oh.” Disappointment. Embarrassment. By the cartload. “Sorry. I—”

I started to turn away, but he grabbed my hand. My skin felt like it was melting as I stared down at the inch of ground between us.

“I don’t mean like a date,” he said. “I mean exactly a date. You. Me. Greasy food. Knees.”

One adorable sideways smile later, and my heart started doing klutzy somersaults inside my chest.

Then, like some celestial being had judged my happiness undeserved, his words penetrated, and my grin smeared away. “Wait,” I said. “Did you say Saturday?”

At his nod, I continued, trying to hide my misery. “I can’t. I’ll be, um . . . away that day. For a few days, actually.”

His hand sprang open, releasing mine. For an instant, his gaze sharpened before he shrugged and turned back toward the view. “I see. Well, if you’re busy, you’re busy. More knees for me, then.”

“I’d love to go. Really. It’s just that—”

“It’s quite all right.” He threw a rock off the ledge, watching it tumble end over end into the valley below. “Actually, now that you mention it, my mother likely has some things for me to attend to this weekend.”

“Not fun things, I’m guessing.”

He laughed, though now it sounded flat and humorless. “No.”

“Maybe when we both get back?” I suggested.

“I’d like to think that would still be possible,” he said.

I blinked at the phrasing, and at the way his features had turned solemn. I knew the chances were pretty slim. If I even survived all this, and if we found my mother still alive, we’d likely leave as soon as possible. How that would go over back home I didn’t want to think about. Not yet.

As I stared down into the valley, something brushed the side of my face. I held very, very still as Bran Cameron tucked the strand of heather behind my ear. Its soft blossoms tickled my cheek, and the sweet, earthy fragrance filled my senses.

My lungs squeezed to half their normal size as I turned to look into his mismatched eyes.

“Uh, Bran?” His name tasted like a piece of toffee that melted too fast on my tongue. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Your eyes,” I fumbled. “They’re so strange.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Not used to making idle conversation, I take it?”

My mouth dropped open in horror. I rushed to apologize. “I didn’t, I don’t mean strange as in weird or anything. It’s just that I feel like I’ve known someone with eyes like yours, but I can’t remember who. Which is totally bizarre for me, because I have this memory thing, and . . .”

I trailed off as something fired behind his eyes. It was snuffed out so quickly, I wondered if I’d imagined it. He turned away, his gaze tracking a pair of lambs that had wandered away from the flock. “I assume it’s a family trait. Though I can’t be certain.”

“You didn’t get them from one of your parents?” I said. “Because I thought heterochromia was hereditary.”

“It’s possible.” He shrugged. “Never met the people.”

Bran’s arms went up in a lazy stretch that exposed a strip of trim, tanned stomach. I gulped and tried not to stare. Despite the casual words, a tightness formed around his eyes.