Leonie's Gift

He watches from behind the old peach tree as she climbs from the mare’s back. Her crimson curls lift in the night breeze, her violet eyes catch and reflect the moonlight, even from this great distance. She is as lovely as he’s been told, a small and fragile creature set against the rugged backdrop of the stables.

“She could have been a movie star,” he murmurs. In another time, another place.

The horse pricks its ears in his direction, forcing him to step back deeper into the shadows. But he cannot resist speaking again, this time in words less audible than an exhale. “And you shall be, little queen,” he promises. “If just for one hundred minutes.”

She had been turning toward the tack room when the mare twitched. Now, her back stiffens beneath her black velvet doublet; her head swivels toward his hiding place; the pansy eyes narrow and flash.

“Jig’s up,” he says loud enough to ease her fears. Then he steps into a band of light unmarred by the crisscrossing branches above. “Greetings, Leonie of SIONLY.”

Unlike her mount, she does not startle. Her hand tightens around the bridle to soothe the horse’s nervous prancing. She may look like a child, but she is a brave woman, and not one to be trifled with. It is no wonder she has held captive the love of not one but two strong men. If he were part of her world, he would be the third notch carved into the scabbard at her waist.

“Friend,” he calls out.

She spins away and leads the horse through a wooden door. A moment later she emerges alone, the knife unsheathed and pointed in his direction. Her voice carries over the night cries of crickets and barn owl – but just barely. He would have described it as silvery as altar bells, but for the menace in its tone.

“Stand back, ‘friend’. I do not take kindly to trespassers on my husband’s estate. Nor will he.”

He nods in agreement and holds his place. “So I’ve been told.”

She moves toward him, her leather boots clattering along the stone path. “Who told you? How did you get in here? How do you know me?”

“ ‘Through the ancient wrought iron gate’” he recites from memory. “ ‘Past the simple plaque bearing the name SIONLY’.”

She halts a handful of steps away, the blade winking in the moonlight.

“You have fans,” he tries to explain, but he is sure she is not listening. She has noticed his attire. “I know, I know. I would have dressed more appropriately, but they don’t make waistcoats and cravats where I come from.” He glances down and gestures at his white t-shirt and well-worn khakis. “Not much for satin breeches either, as you can see.”

“Where you come from,” she repeats. “And that would be?”

He hesitates, knowing this will only confuse her more. A lift of the knifepoint loosens his tongue. “New York City, most recently. Toledo, Ohio, before that.”

Her lush little mouth turns down at the corners. It makes him sad to see it. Those lips should always be smiling. Or kissing.

“The New World?” he tries. The frown remains. Perhaps he has the centuries confused. “I do tend to get around a lot more now than I used to. The Caribbean one month; Tahiti the next.”

Her face relaxes. She has heard of at least one of these. “And now you are on my land,” she snaps back. “In my territory.” She looks him over boldly from head to foot, her eyes lingering on his for a moment. He wonders if she is thinking about her husband. Jack has blue eyes too, if he remembers correctly. When she pouts, he is sure of it.

“Don’t worry, milady. I won’t be staying. Just long enough to give you a gift.”

“For what?” She is circling him now, the knife holding him in place quite nicely. “From whom?”

“From me. A Christmas gift.”

That sad little frown is back, and he hastens to erase it. “Epiphany? The Feast of Saint Nicholas? Saturnalia?”

She stamps her pretty foot and he feels a pang of jealousy that he will not be the one to cool her ire.

“I am not a dunce, young man. I know of Christmastide and of the tradition of giving. I ask again, and no foolish riddles this time: How do you know me, and what are you doing here… in your peasant attire?”

He sees her sly grin and knows she is relaxing. Something about him has made her more accepting of his presence. He hopes it is what most woman find appealing, though he will never have a chance to find out.

“Elizabeth told me about you. She’s told lots of people.” He holds up his hand before she can scold him again for not being direct. “Beth is a writer – a novelist – and she has told your story far and wide. Lots of people have read about you. I’ve read about you.” He pauses wondering if he should say the rest. “And about Jack.”

She jerks at her husband’s name. “Our story?” Her voice is softer now, frightened.

“Yes, but you shouldn’t worry about it. These people don’t live in this…” He will never be able to explain the difference between her century and his. “They do not live in your country or even nearby. You and Jack will never meet them.

“Besides,” he adds. “They would never harm you. They love you.”

She has finished her circuit and is in front of him again, several steps closer, the blade lowered at her side. “Love? People I have never met? Will never meet?” She eyes his clothing again. “From a world where the delicacies no longer matter? From another time perhaps?”

Now it is his turn to frown. “You know!”

She smiles and sheathes her weapon. “Come with me. To the place where I learned about the immortality of time.”

He knows where they are going. “To the gazebo?”

She doesn’t answer, so he knows he is correct. “To the rose garden where Jack chose you as his own.”

The red curls dance as she gives a hasty shake of her head. “This Beth talks too much, I am thinking.”

She says nothing more and he keeps her silence, following along behind through a night spangled with stars and magic. Before long, the air fills with the warm scent of roses and a gentle chatter. A whisper of wind has caused the branches of hundreds of bushes to clap softly, a welcome to their queen.

“Wow, she didn’t exaggerate,” he sighs. “This is as wonderful as she described it.”

The curls dance again. “An absolute chatterbox, your Mistress Elizabeth. But one with a keen eye. Yes,” she finishes. “It is wondrous.” She halts for a moment at the steps to the gazebo. “And sad.”

He knows why she has said this, but will not confess it. The gift is waiting, and her sadness will be banished for a while. And as often as she likes forever more.

She climbs the steps to the center of the gazebo where she turns to gaze down at him. She does not invite him to join her. “So. This gift. What is it?”

“Impatient beauty,” he scolds her with a smile. “It isn’t even Christmas Eve yet.” He puts one foot on the bottom step and crosses his arms across his knee. “Would you have your surprise early?”

She smiles at his teasing. Ah, how he would love to touch her. But that is not why he has come.

“Yes. Give it to me now. Before…” She catches herself and her eyes lose some of their luster.

“Yes,” he agrees. “Before.”

A church bell chimes from a great distance. Morning will come. He cannot wait.

He lifts his foot from the step and straightens. “Leonie of SIONLY,” he says with great formality. “I bring you a camera obscura.”

Her gentle brow crinkles with confusion. “Camera?”

“Obscura. Yes. Have you heard of them?”

She tips her head to one side, just short of a nod, not quite a shake no.

“A pinhole camera,” he explains, lifting his arms and spreading his palms upward in a magician’s flourish. “Point it at an image and shine a light through the pinhole. The things it sees will be transformed to a flat surface, moving like living beings. There, but not there. Like magic.”

She smiles and sways from side to side. She is dancing like that unseen image. How appropriate!

“Yes. I have heard, but I thought it silly rumors. Storytelling.”

“Not silly where I come from. In my… world, the images don’t just move. They speak. They sing. They live forever. And you can replay them over and over again. They never grow old. They never die.”

“In your… world? In your time, you mean.”

“Yes.” He should stop speaking. He hears the footsteps behind him, moving stealthily through the rose bushes.

“And you are giving me one of your camera obscuras?” She claps her hands like a child. “How wonderful! And the image… it will speak? It will sing?”

“It is here already,” he confesses, stepping back and to one side. He should go, but wants to see her face when it happens. “You are in it. A part of it. It has captured your image too. It is yours to treasure and keep always. To take out when you are lonely or sad. To be in time and again, for eternity if you wish.”

The footsteps are closer now, the crunch of gravel so loud she cannot fail to hear it. He moves further away, but she does not tell him to halt or ask him to come back. He hears her gasp. Sees her tiny hand flutter upwards to cover her heart.

A man has approached to the gazebo’s steps, clad in the clothing of her world. His shoulders are broad and square beneath the waistcoat and burgundy velvet vest. The hand he raises toward her is large and strong. The eyes that gaze into hers with such longing are as dark and gleaming as the ebony night.

“Valour,” she mouths, the sound not reaching beyond the man before her.

“My queen,” he answers.

Then he takes the steps in one bound, his arms circling her small waist, his mouth nuzzling her neck.

“Merry Christmas, Leonie,” Jon whispers and turns away, leaving them to their reunion. “Remember. You can have this over and over as long as you live.”

It is the man’s voice that returns to him, but it is an answer just the same.

“Dance with me,” Valour has said.

Jon smiles and is gone. Just like that. There, but not there. Like magic.

Like in the movies.