Warped (Maurissa Guibord)

teeth. His eyes were dilated black moons and his orange tabby fur stood up like it was electrified. He yowled at her, spat another hiss and sprang off the bed.
    "O-kaaay," Tessa remarked. The sound of Pie's claws as he skittered down the hall trailed away.
    Her cat was so weird.
    Tessa glanced at the time. She had about fifteen minutes before Hunter would be there. But instead of getting ready, she turned back to the tapestry. Something about it mesmerized her. It was the unicorn. Once more she noticed the droplets of blood stitched along its cheek. It was bleeding, poor thing. She reached out and ran her fingers over the smooth, white surface of its neck.
    This time when the rushing blackness took her, Tessa couldn't even cry out. In an instant she was flung through the dark. When the fog cleared, she was surrounded by brightness and the smell of fresh grass.
    She was running.
    Hartescross Village
Cornwall, England
1511
    There was a pebble in her shoe. The girl ignored it and kept running across the meadow's wet timothy grass, kicking out her skirts with each stride of her long legs. She dared to glance behind her. No sign of them yet. Still, she wouldn't stop for such a trifle. In fact, the little stone chafing her foot, the itch of the wool from damp, muddy stockings, even the bite of a mayfly in her ear, all these were nothing compared to the irritation this day had caused her.
    A husband!
    She was but ten and seven years of age, but to hear her aunt's chatter you would have thought she was a warty old crone.
    "It's time you chose a husband. Or are you too good for anyone in the village?" Her aunt had sniffed. "Lam Doddle, for instance. He's a fine lad."
    The girl vaulted over a clump of bracken and picked up her pace as if the hounds of Hell were behind her.
    Lam Doddle. A beefy ox of a boy with wet, droopy lips and a lazy eye. Her aunt thought him a catch. His father was the village cooper, a respected tradesman. Lam had all the makings of a dependable barrel-maker too, she thought. He already resembled one.
    She lengthened her stride and raced down the hill, ignoring the hampering weight of her skirts. Her aunt seemed suddenly determined to marry her off, and today's planting festival in the village had apparently fit in with her scheme. Even the games had conspired against her.
    "Who's for Hare and Hounds?" The shouted question had been followed by a resounding cheer. Numerous mugs of small beer had already been quaffed and a mound of quince tarts devoured. Everyone was ready for sport.
    "You'll be the hare," Lam announced, leering at her. At least, she thought he was leering. One never knew for sure. One of his blue eyes always seemed to be looking somewhere else altogether.
    But she agreed to play. She loved to run; she was the fastest runner in the village. And she was quite sure she could outrun Lam Doddle with rabbit snares tied to her legs.
    She was sometimes proud, as her aunt frequently observed. A feature that ill became a poor young maiden. Pride was sinful, and yet she felt sure she was meant for something better than warming a barrel-maker's bed. But what? What did she want? Whatever it was, somehow she didn't think she would find it in Hartescross.
    Her breath puffed against the cool spring air. Her limbs felt warm and wonderfully loose. She could run forever. As the hare, she'd been given a one-hundred-count head start before the hounds gave chase. Lam wouldn't wait that long. Everyone knew that the only point of the stupid game was to get caught and be kissed. As if she wanted Lam Doddle to kiss her. Ugh!
    She slowed her steps, catching a lock of her hair and twisting it around one finger. She was supposed to leave a trail for the others to follow. From the pocket of her apron she pulled a clump of knotty gray wool, cast off from this morning's spinning and too matted to be useful. She glanced around impatiently, and spotting a shrub of prickly pear, she pulled off a bit of wool and stuffed it underneath. There! Let the great oaf follow that for a trail.
    Satisfied, she turned, only to find that her hair was caught on a thorny branch. It took but a moment for her to disentangle her long black locks, but she could scarcely afford the delay; she could hear shouts and laughter in the distance. Her passionate language as she freed herself was probably also ill suited to a fresh young maiden. It was a blessing no one was there to hear it.
    Once she was free, her gaze traveled ahead of her to the