Warped (Maurissa Guibord)

herself. She took in a deep, shaky breath and let it out.
    He gave her a puzzled frown. "You speak most strangely, mistress."
    "Really," she said, eyeing him. "So do you." He had spoken English. But not like Tessa had ever heard before. His voice was deep, with a strange accent. Not exactly British, not exactly French. Mostly Hugh Grant with a little Pepe Le Pew thrown in.
    That did it. She was gone. Completely psycho.
    "How did you bring me to ..." He looked around her room once more and then shook his head. "How did you release me?" he demanded. Perhaps it was his accent or the way he held himself, but he seemed, thought Tessa, to act as though he owned the place. When she didn't answer, he raised his scratched, dirty hands, looking at them as if not sure of their substance. "How did you transform me thus?" he asked. His voice rose. "Cast a spell? An incantation? Where is Gray Lily?" He glared at her now, suspicious. "Are you a witch as well?"
    Okay. That was really it . Time to muster up Tough Girl again. "Listen, William. " Tessa stood up and jabbed her trophy at him, breathing hard. "I don't know what happened or where you came from. I didn't do anything. I mean, I--" She broke off. What had happened, anyway? Tessa frowned and went on. "I just pulled a thread hanging from the tapestry. One little thread." She stepped over to the tapestry and pointed to the lower edge. "From right there."
    Instantly William leapt forward and pulled her back. "Don't touch it!" he hissed, gripping her elbow with a shaky hand. With a visible effort, he seemed to recover, and his hand steadied. He let go and stepped away, putting an extra couple of feet between himself and the tapestry. Though he looked like he would have preferred a couple of miles.
    "I was trapped inside there for--" His eyes darkened and he swallowed. "I think a very long time."
    Tessa stared at him. From his clothes to his odd, formal speech, nothing about him belonged here. "I think so too," she said slowly. Once again the sheer, ridiculous impossibility of the whole thing struck her. Maybe this was what happened when nice, practical girls lost their minds. But he was here. William de Chaucy was real. She could feel the warmth of him standing next to her, smell the green, smoky scent of him and see the quick flash of his eyes as they swept over her. She could reach out and touch him. Not that she wanted to.
    "So. Where're you from?" Tessa asked brightly. Good old practical Tessa.
    "From Hartescross," he replied. When this seemed to make no impression on her, Will stiffened slightly and added, "My father is the Earl of Umbric."
    "Oh. Right . Okay." Tessa nodded, taking in the rough, grimy clothing the young man wore. It certainly wasn't very impressive. He looked as if he had just rolled out of a muddy stable.
    "Hartescross. Is that in England?" she asked.
    He gave her another sharp look. This one was wasn't so much suspicious, it was more like "Are you insane?"
    "Of course," he snapped. "Cornwall."
    "Just checking," Tessa said. It could just as easily have been Tatooine. "What was the year," she asked slowly, "when you left?"
    "It is the year of our Lord"--he frowned at her, then slid his eyes around the room and went on, his voice a little less sure--"fifteen hundred and eleven."
    "Uh-huh." Tessa waited a beat, then nodded. "Okay. We need to talk. And then ... I have to call somebody."
    Scytha looked up from the Wyrd to her sisters. She traced the shining blue thread, her fingers crawling along its length like a monstrous spider. "We will contact this human. She will be made to return the threads."
    Spyn's fingers trembled and twitched as she worked. "You do it," she said querulously. "I don't like talking to humans. They never understand anything. And they always have to ask the question. Always the same question. It makes a buzzing in my head."
    Weavyr spoke. "We must find out how this happened. How did this mortal winnow the threads from living beings? Has she destroyed them? Is that what caused this mess?" She waved a frustrated hand at the Wyrd.
    "No," answered Scytha. "The threads are not destroyed. We would have sensed the pain of the souls that were ended."
    Weavyr and Spyn nodded.
    "We will get the threads back." Scytha's voice seemed now, more than ever, to carry the gloom of a deep abyss. "Or there will be consequences."
    Her shears flashed.

Chapter 15

"So you pulled a thread from the tapestry. Room starts shaking. Bing bang boom. Guy lands on the