3

21st Side—16th Side: The Elf-Palace

Andrea parked her little blue MPV in the parking lot at the side of Dilsmead Hall and locked it up. She’d taken it on the principle of screwing as much out of FUP as she could, but as driving 16th side was even more nervewracking than 21st side, she was quite happy to leave it here and accept a lift from Windsor. Shouldering her rucksack, she walked to the rear of the Hall, where the Time Tube stood.

The Time Tube—a huge concrete tube, as its nickname implied—was where it had always been, behind Dilsmead Hall, on the lawn, close beside the gravel path. There was the shed that housed the cold-fusion power plant, about which Andrea understood nothing, and there was the long prefab office, raised on stilts, that housed the controls and the many monitoring computers. The building, painted an ugly beige, was grubby and mundane. You would never have suspected it of holding such technology.

A large white van was parked on the gravel nearby. Lettering on its side, to Andrea’s surprise, proclaimed it to be from a catering company. In front of it was parked a big, dirty truck that looked as if it was used for heavier business. Around these vehicles, and the office, stood a crowd of waiting people. Despite her curiosity about them, Andrea passed the gathering by, crunching along the gravel path to get a look at the Tube itself. She wanted to see if it had changed.

It was far more impressive than the shabby office. The vast concrete tube was supported in a cradle of steel girders, all painted a flat blue. A ramp rose from the gravel path to the mouth of the Tube, which was screened by dangling strips of plastic. Vehicles would drive up the ramp and stop on the platform outside the Tube’s mouth. When the green light beside the Tube gave them the signal, they would drive slowly into the Tube as its shrill sound mounted and passed beyond hearing. And somewhere around the middle of the Tube, they passed into another dimension and another time. Half of the Tube punched through into that other dimension and vanished from the 21st. It was said to have “traveled” while the other half “stayed at home.” Utterly miraculous and, at the same time, just technology, like the cell phone in her bag.

She left the path and went onto the lawn, to look at the Tube from the side. Its whole length was “at home,” and she could clearly see the division between the half that remained always in the 21st and the half that “traveled.” The stationary half was gray with 21st-century dirt and stained with rust, while the traveling half was unmarked and white.

The last time she had stood here, there had been a battle going on. Well, all right, a skirmish. Whatever you called it, people had been killed. She remembered the huge, sweating, thundering horses, the crunching and thumping of hooves and feet on the gravel, the frantic, panicky running to and fro, the threatening yells and terrified wails, the hacking, the blood. Bryce, the Head of Security, had been beheaded in that skirmish. With a gulp she turned quickly to look behind her, and was only slightly relieved to find the path empty and no threat nearby. Windsor might claim that he never had flashbacks, but for a few moments, feeling increasingly queasy, she wondered if she had the nerve to go through with this …

Snap out of it, she told herself. Have you come this far—all the misery of parting with Mick and packing and moving and finding a new place—to chicken out now? And unless you go through the Tube, you’ll never see Per again. He just doesn’t do the 21st.

That wasn’t what she’d said to Mick. She’d talked to him about work. How fascinated she was with research, with the past—she’d told him about the Tube, though swearing him to secrecy. “I had to sign a paper saying I wouldn’t tell anyone about it, so if you tell anyone, you’ll drop me in it.” Mick wouldn’t tell anyone if she asked him not to, she was sure of that. “How many people get this chance?” she’d said to him. “I can’t let it slip. I’ve got to go.”

“It’s dangerous,” he’d said.

“So’s crossing the road.” He’d looked glum. “I’ve been there before. I know the risks. I’ll be careful. But I’ve got to go.”

“Well,” he’d said, in the end. “If it makes you happy.”

He always said that. And meant it. A great feeling of love for him rose up in her as she stood outside the Tube’s office, bringing tears to her eyes. Lovely Mick. Few people would see him as a great catch. He was older than her by nearly fifteen years, and he looked it. He was a bit chubby and had great shaggy eyebrows and thinning hair on his head, but he was gentle, loving, protective, and didn’t seem to be aware that she was fat. Most of the time she felt fond of him, but now and again—as now—she was shocked to discover how deeply she adored him. Never did she want to hurt him, but—on the other end of the Tube was Per.

She felt that she needed to brace herself by doing something ordinary and bureaucratic. Walking back along the path, she pushed through the people standing around the office steps and went inside. In a tiny anteroom a receptionist sat at a desk. Behind her was the doorway leading to the room, crowded with more computers, where technicians and scientists controlled the Tube.

“I’m Andrea Mitchell. I’m booked to go through the Tube.”

“Do you have your pass?”

Andrea had forgotten that she would need it, and had to take off her rucksack and search through its pockets until she found the bit of paper. The receptionist studied it, and looked at her computer screen, while Andrea marveled yet again at the mix of breathtaking technology and plodding bureaucratic ineptitude that made up the Time Tube project. It had always been the same. Bryce—when he’d been alive—had frequently raged against the penny-pinching accountancy that wouldn’t pay to repair broken security cameras or train guards, and then had blamed him for failures of security.

“That’s fine,” the receptionist said. “Enjoy your trip.”

There were toilets off this entrance hall, and Andrea went in—after all, it would be five hundred years before she had a chance to go again, and then it would be in nowhere near as much comfort. Afterward she checked her face in the mirror. One of the pockets of her rucksack held a small makeup kit, and she carefully applied just a trace of lipstick and kohl. Dotting a little lipstick on her cheekbones, she rubbed it in to create a slight, becoming flush. For a moment she studied herself, then pulled out the pins and ties that held her hair up. It fell down about her face and onto her shoulders in heavy, light-brown waves.

She grimaced at herself, then gathered her hair up in her hands, holding it on top of her head, trying to decide whether she looked better with it up or down. It looked slightly better up, she thought, but 16th side only unmarried women wore their hair uncovered and loose. As soon as a woman married, she pinned up her hair and covered it with a cap. When she met Per again, her loose hair would be a signal. She put the pins and ties in her pocket.

Wandering outside, she found that things were moving, with people shouting good-byes and hastily clambering into vehicles. Quickly she slipped the weight of the rucksack from her shoulders again and took a cell phone from one of its side pockets. Sixteenth side it wouldn’t be any use to her, but she’d brought it for this moment. Switching it on, she keyed in a text message. “Going thru. Luv U. C U. Andy.” As she sent the message to Mick, she looked up. A large, square MPV, in a metallic racing green, was coming up the drive. She knew immediately that Windsor was behind the wheel.

Windsor saw her and smiled. Good old reliable big fat Andrea: He’d known she would be waiting. Drawing the jeep up alongside her with a spray of gravel, he leaned over and opened the passenger door. “Get in!”

She did, noticing that two big men were seated silently in the long back. “Hello,” she said to them, and smiled. They looked at her, but neither smiled or spoke.

“Never mind them,” Windsor said. “They’re just muscle.”

Andrea supposed that after his previous experiences with the Sterkarms, you couldn’t blame him for taking bodyguards with him this time. She fastened her seat belt, half expecting some jibe about it needing to be extended before it would fit around her.

Instead, peering at her, he said, “Are you wearing makeup?”

“No!” she said. She felt like asking him why he was dressed in a light-gray suit with an embroidered yellow waistcoat and a lavender tie—but that would show more interest in him than he deserved.

“You’re looking well,” he said, and moved the car slowly forward. She was wearing makeup, he was sure of it—and he didn’t need three guesses to know whose benefit it was for. All to the good: If she was actually making an effort to catch young Sterkarm’s eye, he was all the more likely to notice her, and young Sterkarm was known to have a weakness for big room darkeners like Andrea.

The truck was ahead of them on the ramp, the catering van behind them. Windsor switched the radio on. “Good old Handel.” He liked to know the exact moment when the Tube transferred him from the 21st century, and at that moment the radio would cut out. It gave him some slight feeling of control, and helped him overcome the unease that he felt now whenever he used the Tube. Deliberately he moved his mind from consideration of what might go wrong to the objectives be had to achieve.

Oh God! Andrea thought as the MPV slowly crept forward. We’re going through! We’re going into the Tube. Her heart hammered. How could she have agreed to go back there? As if life wasn’t difficult enough in the 21st century. She wondered whether Windsor would listen to her if she demanded that he stop and let her out.

He’ll have to stop at the top of the ramp, she thought. I’ll get out then. But he didn’t stop. The plastic strips slapped against the windshield as they drove straight through.

Andrea couldn’t find her voice to say that she wanted to get out, and in any case she was afraid to get out now that they were in the Tube. She had no understanding of how it worked, and feared radiation, atom dismemberment, or possibly being whizzed back to the Age of Dinosaurs. Evil magic.

The inside of the Tube looked like a section of an underground walkway. There was a road of some sort under the wheels—possibly made of rubber—and the walls were covered with white tiles, though with many inspection hatches. Terrified, she stared at the back of the truck ahead.

The truck lifted up the plastic strips at the other end of the Tube, went through, and the strips fell back into place. Their car still moved forward slowly, and Andrea found herself sitting with every muscle braced hard. When the music from the radio stopped in mid note, replaced by static, she clenched her teeth, and her hands gripped the edge of the seat. I’m growing cowardly in my old age, she thought. I used to buzz backward and forward through the Tube without a care. True, the first time she’d ever used it, she’d been awestruck, but after that, she’d soon grown used to it, and had used it as casually as she might have used a lift or an escalator. But now she could remember all too well what had come of that casualness. Casualties.

She looked at Windsor. He was staring ahead, drumming his fingers on the wheel, and making a hissing noise between his teeth in time to some tune in his head. Perhaps he’s telling the truth, she thought; and he really has recovered completely. Well, was it so surprising? The man always had been as sensitive as a brick.

The plastic strips scratched over the car’s bonnet, windshield, and roof as the car proceeded. Whatever the Tube did, she realized, it had already done it. Somewhere about the midway mark, when the music had stopped, they’d been translated from the 21st to the 16th century. They’d left their own dimension, whatever that meant. Anyone looking at the Tube, back in the good old 21st, had seen their half of it vanish.

The car nosed through the plastic strips and emerged on the platform beside the office, 16th side. In front of them was the 16th century.

Space. That was her first impression. The world opened out. The wide hills, and the wider sky, spread out before her—and there were hills beyond the hills she could see, and hills beyond those. She wound down the window, and a small breeze, cool, damp, and carrying the scent of thyme, touched her face. She could sense the miles and miles and miles of emptiness it had traveled over.

And silence. A deep silence, so deep it muffled her ears. A silence that she could almost gather up in her arms and fold in great, thick, velvety layers. All the petty din that the 21st century called silence fell away. There was no longer any drone of traffic noise, not even in the distance. No constant, almost disregarded hum of electrical equipment. No piped music, no radios, no cell phones, no car alarms, no planes flying overhead. This was true silence.

And color. Here there were no scarlets, no Day-Glo yellows or electric pinks. Everything was green, gray, buff, brown. But before visiting the 16th, she’d never realized how many subtle tints of green there were. And here they were again, on the hillsides, in the trees, together with soft golds and russets. The cloud-filled sky was full of grays, violets, and gentle blues. It was like being given new eyes, because the air was so clean here that every delicate tint of every color was more distinct, and everything was pin sharp. You could see farther, in more detail, than in the 21st. The heather was flowering, pink and mauve among the greens and fawns of the grass. There were harebells, bluer than the sky, and yellow stonecrop, and white and red campion, and many other flowers that she couldn’t name. She felt a thrill of homecoming as she experienced, again, what she had always loved about the 16th. Why had she been so nervous about going through the Tube again? It was less frightening than flying, and it brought you—not to another airport in another crowded, dirty city, but here.

Then, with a sharp sense of bafflement, she realized that she had never seen these hills before. They were in the wrong place, and were the wrong shape, to be the Bedesdale hills! What had gone wrong? Was a Tyrannosaurus Rex going to be the next thing they saw? When she looked at Windsor, he seemed quite relaxed. And beside the ramp the MPV rested on, there was the usual ugly, prefabricated office.

Ahead of them, the truck had reached the bottom of the ramp and was turning, to drive around the office. Windsor steered the MPV to follow.

“This isn’t Bedesdale,” Andrea said.

“Should it be?” Windsor asked.

“I thought—”

“That we were going to have tea with your friends, the Sterkarms? Well, we are—but the Grannams have graciously agreed to join us.”

“What?” Andrea said.

“Oh, did I forget to mention that?” He thumped his hand on the steering wheel. “Damn! I bet I forgot to mention that it’s a wedding, too, didn’t I?”

Andrea almost choked. “A wedding?”

“Silly me. You could have bought yourself a new outfit and a big hat. It’s all part of the new deal—we’re promoting cuddling and snoogling of all kinds between Sterkarms and Grannams. We’re paying for the wedding, heaping the happy couple with gifts—just doing everything we can to promote happiness and harmony, really.”

“I can’t believe it,” Andrea said. “Who’s getting married?”

“Look at that,” Windsor said. They’d rounded the corner of the office. The truck ahead of them was driving toward the steel-link fence, and Andrea glimpsed buildings beyond the fence. Shining buildings. They didn’t look like anything the 16th siders would build. She stared ahead, trying to make out more.

Gates in the fence opened automatically to let the truck ahead of them through. The MPV followed, onto a rough, rutted track. Despite its superb suspension it lurched and swayed.

The truck turned aside, and Andrea had a clear view of what lay ahead. Her eyes and mouth opened. A few yards from the steel fence of the FUP compound, a large inflatable building had been erected—unmistakably a 21st-century building, the kind put up for posh weddings. It had a central dome surrounded by four smaller domes at the corners, and it was made from silver fabric with a metallic sheen. “Architectural” detail had been added, in white and gold, especially around the arched door. On either side, painted silver, were the generators that kept it inflated. Strange, shining buttresses of filigree metal sprang from its roof to the ground—scaffolding that would support the weight of the building if the generators should fail and it deflated. To Andrea’s eye the whole thing had an oddly Eastern appearance, but with a slight shock she realized how utterly bizarre and alien it would look to the 16th siders. Its strange shape, its unknown, glittering fabric, its weird beauty, the fact that it had appeared, in an hour, where previously there had been nothing—it would seem to them a truly eldritch palace.

They drove past the inflatable and into a shantytown of huts built around it—the sort of hut that the Sterkarms could build in a morning from thin timber and mud, thatched with heather. Many 16th siders—mostly women and children, but some men—were bustling around these huts, and from the smell of roasting meat and the sight of fires and pits, Andrea soon realized what they were doing. A feast was being prepared. She looked at their faces, hoping to recognize someone, and failing in that looked for some sign—some flag or badge—that would tell her whether they were Sterkarms or Grannams. There was nothing. Reluctantly she asked Windsor, “Who are they?”

“God knows,” he said. “Who cares? Little people.”

Gritting her teeth, Andrea asked, “Little Sterkarm people, or little Grannam people?”

“One or the other. The Sterkarms have sent people to set up this shantytown on one side of us, and the Grannams are camping on the other side—all because they won’t eat our filthy Elvish food.”

Andrea looked out at the people busying themselves around the cooking huts. “Has there been any trouble?”

“I really don’t know. I have other things to think of.”

One of the security guards leaned forward from the back and said, grinning, “Hell an’ all from the kiddies—running around, knocking lumps off one another. Bit of hair pulling from the women, but the men have just been strutting around and glowering at each other.”

“Happy now, Andrea?” Windsor asked.

Andrea ignored him and looked out the window. Behind the first inflatable building was another. In fact, as Andrea soon realized, there were several, a small town of them. Lots of 21st siders, in jeans, fleeces, and sneakers, were hurrying in and out. Windsor drew up the MPV in front of a long, low, prefabricated office.

As they got out, a young man came toward them from the doorway. He was dressed in jeans, sneakers, and, over his shirt, a casual jacket emblazoned with the emblem of FUP. He carried a clipboard and, on his head, wore a tiny, fragile headset, with a wire-thin arm holding a tiny mike in front of his mouth. Andrea thought he looked faintly familiar. She’d seen his thin, worried face with its wire-frame spectacles and scattering of red pimples somewhere before, but couldn’t place where.

“Gareth!” Windsor said, greeting the young man with outstretched hand. “I’ve brought you some help. This is Andrea Mitchell.”

As he shook hands with Andrea, Gareth said, in a decidedly cool manner, “Pleased to meet you.”

“Any sign of either party?” Windsor asked.

“They won’t take us by surprise,” Gareth said. “We’ve got people watching for them. Do you want to look over what’s been done?”

“Lead on,” Windsor said, and followed as Gareth walked toward the first and largest inflatable. The bodyguards fell in behind them. Andrea took a quick look around at the blue moorland sky and at the cooking fires burning outside the 16th-century kitchen huts, then hurriedly followed the bodyguards.

The inflatable building, with its shimmering, silvery sides, dwarfed them as they walked beside it. In its sides were set round windows, and arched windows, with real, shining glass. Those windows would deeply impress the 16th siders with the Elves’ wealth.

The entrance, when they reached it, was arched and screened by a curtain of shimmering silver beads. As they pushed through them, there was a musical chiming. Very eldritch, Andrea thought.

Inside, the building was far bigger than she’d expected, and its domed roof much higher—it was hard not to be reminded of a cathedral. The biggest, central dome was translucent, letting in a soft, pearly light, which made the building’s silvery fabric shine and gleam.

A floor of polished wooden planking had been laid. Overhead hung circular frames smothered and dripping with artificial greenery and flowers—white and pink roses. More trellises and frames, decorated with flowers and leaves, hid much of the wall area. White and pink roses everywhere, with an occasional touch of yellow or pale blue. Andrea reached out and touched the petals and leaves of the nearest garland. She had to rub them between her fingers several times before she could decide that they were, as she’d suspected, artificial, though highly realistic. The very artificiality of the flowers would strike the 16th siders as wonderful. Who but the Elves could make such things, or supply them so lavishly?

In one of the corner domes a bar had been set up, and in another a sound system. Down either side of the main floor were long tables, covered with white cloths. The tables were decked with more flowers—real flowers, because their scent hung in the air—and set with shining glass, china, and cutlery. At the tables were long rows of chairs. It was all very pretty, but not particularly grand to 21st-century eyes. The chairs, for instance, were cheap ones of white molded plastic.

But here, 16th side, all but the richest stood to eat. An individual chair was a status symbol. Table coverings were a rarity, and people ate and drank from wooden plates and cups, or even slices of stale bread, though the better off might have plates of pewter or heavy earthenware. Smooth, glazed china was unheard of, and most of the 16th siders would never have seen a glass or a fork. Or a spoon made of anything except wood or horn. They carried their own sharp eating knives at their belts. These tables, with their cloths, china, glasses, metal knives and forks, with a chair for everyone—they were unspeakably lavish and luxurious.

Beyond the long tables, at the far end of the inflatable, stood something almost like an altar, decked with more flowers and supporting a large silver cross. Behind the table was a floral picture, showing two coats of arms. Andrea recognized them both. There was the Sterkarm badge: a red arm holding in its fist a dagger, on a black shield. The shield was made of dark-blue, almost black irises and the red arm of roses. Beside it was the Grannam badge: a red bull on a green shield. More roses for the bull, and a variety of green flowers and leaves for the background.

None of this would have come cheap in the 21st, so for once FUP weren’t taking the 16th siders’ goods and rewarding them with something that had cost them virtually nothing. But who exactly were the couple being married? Perhaps she’d met the Sterkarm during her previous stay in the 16th. She’d been told that she’d be sent a file to study, bringing her up-to-date on everything that FUP had been doing 16th side, but despite phone calls and e-mails, the file had never arrived. It had always been “in the post, with you tomorrow.” Now she was going to have to rely on her previous experience to wing it.

It should be a memorable occasion. Ordinary weddings were bad enough, notoriously descending into rows between the families, but the Sterkarms and the Grannams had been feuding for generations, and their hatred for each other wasn’t usually expressed by snubbing one another in the street or refusing to let their children play together.

Gareth was nervously eyeing Windsor, waiting for his approval. Andrea felt sorry for him. “It all looks beautiful,” she said truthfully. It looked beautiful even if you were used to such things. To 16th siders, she could only imagine that it would seem beyond beautiful. Unearthly. Magical.

“What about when they arrive?” Windsor asked. “Are we all set to make them welcome?”

“Over here,” Gareth said, and led them back down the hall to the entrance. A table had been set up just inside the door, crammed with many shiny little gift bags in brilliant metallic purples, reds, greens, and golds. “I thought wine and nibbles would be a waste of time,” Gareth explained nervously, “since most of them won’t touch our food. So I’ve made up these goodie bags instead. They’ve all got a packet of aspirins, and then things like a book of needles, bar of fancy soap, lacy hanky, little bottle of scent, a shiny brooch … Things like that.”

“How do you tell which are for men and which for women?” Windsor asked, since the bags seemed to be arranged in no order.

“Doesn’t matter,” Gareth said. “Everybody likes scent and lacy hankies over here.”

“Excellent,” Windsor said. “Andrea should play hostess. It’ll help to introduce her. Okay, Andrea?”

Andrea’s heart speeded up. “Oh! Yes! No problem.” She caught another annoyed look from Gareth. What was his problem? She had enough of her own. She still didn’t know quite what was going on. Should her greeting be lighthearted or solemn? “Er—whom, exactly, shall I be greeting?”

They both looked at her.

“Oh dear, fancy Miss Swotty-Drawers not doing her homework,” Windsor said. “Didn’t you read your file?”

Andrea opened her mouth to apologize, then changed her mind and was about to explain that the file had never arrived, and then realized that, whatever she said, Windsor would only twist it. Never apologize, never explain. She stared at Windsor but said nothing.

Gareth smiled. “I can take Miss Mitchell around, if you like, and bring her up to speed.”

Windsor said, “Oh fine, go on, go on.” He turned and left on business of his own.

Alone with Andrea, Gareth gave her another look over. He had been quick to bid for Brownie points with Windsor by offering to baby-sit her, but it wasn’t a job he really wanted. She was on the large side, and all that long, loose hair made her untidy. There was too much of her in every way for Gareth’s liking. He hadn’t liked the crack Windsor had made as he’d introduced her either. “I’ve brought you some help.” As if he needed help, especially from an ex-barmaid. And future concubine. “I’ll show you around the complex,” he said.

There was a lot to see. A second inflatable, just as large, had been erected behind the first. Music chimed as they pushed through the screen of silver beads. Inside was another wooden floor, and more bowers of artificial flowers, but all the seats were around the walls. “This is just for the dancing,” Gareth said.

Behind this inflatable were two blocks of chemical toilets. “For us. The 16th siders make their own arrangements.” Here, too, was the prefab office, the catering van for the 21st-side workers, and the prefab that housed Security. The cooking huts of the 16th siders had been put up at the edges of the encampment. At the back of the camp, on either side, were two more, smaller inflatables, standing apart from all the other buildings, and from each other.

“They’re the dormitories,” Gareth said. “One for the Sterkarms and one for the Grannams. We thought it would be pushing our luck to ask them to share. Where will you be staying?”

“Where I’m put, I suppose,” Andrea said, surprised.

“There are a few beds for 21st people,” Gareth said, “but I’m sleeping in the Grannam dormitory—I’ve been working with them. Would it be okay if you went in with the Sterkarms?”

“Of course. That’s what I was expecting.”

“Come on, then. I’ll show you where it is.” He led the way toward one of the inflatable dormitories, threading through parked vans and slight timber shacks. Sixteenth-siders stared at them, the Elves, as they went by.

The dormitory had a door. Inside was another wooden floor, and curtains in bright brocades, hung to make small private areas. Mattresses and sleeping bags lay on the floor. There were even beds. Gareth led the way all the way through the building to a door at the far end—a white door, its paneling picked out in gold. Andrea followed him through it.

On the other side was a domed room, all white, pink, pale blue, and silver. There were candles, and roses, and ribbons, and wreaths and garlands. On the floor were white fluffy rugs and white cushions decorated with silver fringes. There were couches and armchairs, with lots of curves and gilding, and white-and-rose cushions. Little white tables were scattered about, supporting small bowls of chocolates and bonbons wrapped in blue, silver, and pink foil. Since the 16th siders wouldn’t touch Elvish food, Andrea supposed the sweets were just there for interior decoration. She helped herself to a chocolate so they wouldn’t be wasted.

“This is only the anteroom,” Gareth said with a touch of pride, and led her to the back of the room, where they mounted three shallow white steps and drew back a brocaded curtain of rose and silver.

Behind the curtain was a huge double bed with rose-­colored covers. Garlands of roses twined the bed’s posts, and it dripped with lace and was heaped with heart-shaped pink cushions and white pillows. Hung around it were diaphanous white curtains—which wouldn’t be appreciated by the 16th siders, Andrea thought, who liked their bed curtains thick enough to keep out drafts. “Of course,” she said, looking around. “This is the bridal suite.”

Gareth allowed himself a small smile. “Like it?” Obviously he thought that all women went gaga for a few posies and bows.

“Beautiful,” she said, though she thought it overfussy and a little ridiculous, especially for the Sterkarms, whose taste was more robust. She imagined Toorkild or Sweet Milk wiping their noses—or worse—on the gauzy drapes. “Who is it who’s getting married?” She might know the couple, from her former stay in the 16th.

Gareth opened his mouth to answer, but his headset crackled, and he started for the door at a run. “Come on! They’re here!” Andrea followed eagerly, bridal suites forgotten. The Sterkarms were here. Soon she would see Per.

Outside, the paths between the inflatables were full of people, all heading in the same direction. There were men in the uniform of FUP security and people from catering; there were 16th sider women and children, and people in Elvish clothes with headsets.

They reached the edge of the encampment, the shantytown of wooden huts and cooking fires. The air was thick with the smell of roasting meat. And now they could hear the sound of horses’ hooves and music. Someone was playing a jig on the pipes. They passed between the kitchen shacks, and then they could see, coming along a moorland path, a long procession.

A string of horses and riders. The horses were all the strong, barrel-bodied, thick-necked little hobs of the border, all of them black or dark brown, with manes and tails trailing the ground. Ribbons were plaited into the manes and tails; garlands of leaves and flowers were hung around the horses’ necks. All the riders wore bright clothes, with plumed hats and flashing brooches.

On the leading horse sat a bagpiper, pumping his elbow and blowing for all he was worth. The rider beside him carried a spear from which flew a green-and-red banner. Andrea’s heart dropped with disappointment. The device on the banner couldn’t easily be seen, but if the colors were green and red, then this party must be the Grannams, not the Sterkarms. Around her, people cheered, 21st siders and 16th siders together, in welcome and appreciation of the fine sight the riders made. Andrea joined in, but her cheer was half-hearted.

Following the banner were men carrying lances, holding them upright, steadied on the toes of their right boots. From the heads of the lances fluttered little pennants of red and green. Behind them came men and women in finery, each woman riding sidesaddle, or pillion, behind a man. Even Andrea started to smile with the old sense of privilege—how lucky she was to see this! Then she remembered that she had to form part of the welcoming committee. She looked around for Gareth and, moving to his side, shouted in his ear. “Fill me in! Who are they?”

The procession swept past them, hooves thumping on the ground, and the crowd followed it, running alongside. Gareth waved to Andrea to follow him, and they fell back from the crowd and made their way, through by now almost deserted alleyways between the shacks, back to the biggest of the inflatables, the dining hall.

“The head man is Richard Grannam,” Gareth instructed her as they hurried along. “He lives at Brackenhill Tower, so call him Lord Brackenhill if you want to get in his good books.”

“Richard Grannam, Lord Brackenhill,” Andrea repeated, trying to drive it into her memory.

“His sister’ll be with him—he’s a widower and she’s a widow, so she keeps house for him. Her name’s Christina Crosar, but you’d better call her Mistress Crosar—even her brother does. And she calls him Master Grannam and Lord Brackenhill.”

The Grannams, so far, didn’t sound much like the Sterkarms.

“You should know the bride, of course!” Gareth said. “Joan Grannam, old Richard’s daughter. She’s the best of them.”

Oh, really? Andrea thought, as she hurried, panting a little, to keep up with him. She concluded that Joan Grannam was attractive. “And who’s the groom?” she asked. But they’d reached the inflatable, and Gareth wasn’t listening. The wedding ride was drawing rein in front of the building, and the crowd was gathering on either side to watch. Following Gareth, Andrea dived through the chiming silver beads that hung across the doorway.

Windsor was waiting just inside, his bodyguards discreetly in the background, among the artificial flowers. “The Skye Boat Song” was playing over the speakers, sung by a woman with an upper-crust English accent and a soprano so sharp it made Andrea wince. Presumably whoever was in charge of the music thought that was what the Grannams would like, despite the fact that the song had been written long after their time.

Gareth drew back the chiming curtain of beads and fastened it in place. Looking through the doorway, Andrea saw the Grannams dismounting and grooms leading away the horses. A man and a woman detached themselves from the bustle and came toward the inflatable, stopping at a little distance from it and gazing at it, while the rest of the procession formed up behind them.

Gareth, with the slightest nod of the head toward this man and woman, whispered, “Lord Brackenhill. Mistress Crosar.”

There was, Andrea saw, a sword hanging at Lord Brackenhill’s side. And several more swords to be seen among his followers. At the back of the crowd men were leaning lances together, like wigwam frames. She said to Windsor, “You’re not going to let them in armed?”

He raised his brows. “Why not?”

“They’d be insulted,” Gareth said irritably, “if we asked them to hand over their weapons.” He resented her implication that he’d organized things badly.

“The Sterkarms and the Grannams?” Andrea said. “Armed? Drinking? There’ll be murder done.”

“They’re big boys,” Windsor said. “They can look after themselves.”

And now the Grannam party was advancing toward the door. They walked slowly, with dignity, but even so could not prevent their eyes from darting about when they entered the building and saw the abundance of flowers and the twinkling white lights. There was astonishment on many faces, though those at the head of the procession suppressed it quickly.

Richard Grannam, Lord Brackenhill himself, was a tall, lean, and expensively dressed man. His long horse face, weathered to a dark brown with roughened, reddened cheeks, was set in a grim expression, with deep grooves making a permanent frown on his forehead. He had a neatly trimmed gray beard, but the hair on his head was hidden by a floppy blue beret, trimmed with a feather. A cloak of thick green cloth was thrown back on his shoulders to show its fur lining, and his russet jacket had ornamental slashes on the chest and sleeves, to show the quality of the linen shirt he wore underneath. His breeches, also russet, were loose and baggy, to show how much material he could afford to use, and below them he wore wide, black leather riding boots. He was one who rode, not one who walked. His sword hung from an embroidered baldric slung across his shoulder. The men immediately behind him, his private guard, all wore weapons.

Windsor, smiling blandly, held out his hand in greeting. Fortunately, the piper, finding himself in disharmonious competition with the squalling soprano, stopped playing, so people were able to hear themselves speak. Lord Bracken­hill clasped hands with Windsor without removing his embroidered gauntlets. Nor did he smile. “Dey glayder migh a sae thu,” he said.

“It gladdens me to see you,” Andrea translated automatically, as if she’d never left 16th side and never stopped doing her job. Richard Grannam, Lord Brackenhill, didn’t make any attempt to look glad, though he had used the respectful “you” rather than the familiar “thee,” so he at least acknowledged Windsor as an equal, if not a superior.

“Dey glayder migh,” Windsor said, and Andrea was surprised that he had bothered to learn even so much of the 16th-side dialect.

Mistress Crosar, who stood beside her brother, was almost as tall, but a little heavier set. Her hair was hidden completely under a cap. Beneath it her face was also long and horsy, but though it was a little touched by the sun, it was neither as brown nor as weathered as his. Her cloak was blue, and as she made a slight curtsey to Windsor, it parted and showed a black dress beneath. She glanced at Andrea disapprovingly, looked Windsor right in the eye, and spoke to him. She didn’t smile.

“She says that she is delighted to meet you again, and that they owe you thanks,” Andrea said. Mistress Crosar seemed neither delighted nor thankful.

Windsor repeated his “Dey glayder migh,” and Andrea thought it was time to offer gifts. So she held out a shiny gold bag to Lord Brackenhill and, hastily snatching a shiny red bag from the table, offered it to Mistress Crosar with a big smile. “You are well come,” she said. “We hope you will no gan early away, and this will make sure that you gan no empty-handed.”

Brackenhill and Mistress Crosar turned their eyes on her. With unsmiling faces they stared at her as she spoke. They seemed to be wondering who she was, and why she thought she had any right to speak to them. What did I say that was so bad? Andrea wondered. If these were the Grannams, no wonder the Sterkarms didn’t like them.

When she finished speaking, Brackenhill deliberately shifted his eyes from her to Windsor, while Mistress Crosar continued to stare at her, as if unable to believe quite how lowly she was. Neither of them attempted to take the gift bags. Reaching a hand behind him, Brackenhill said, “May I present my daughter?”

Oh no! Andrea thought as her face flushed. She had jumped in and rudely interrupted the introductions. Hastily she translated what Brackenhill had said and watched as he drew forward one of the girls whom she’d taken for a maid. It’s understandable, she thought—the girl was wrapped in a black, hooded cloak and hung her head as if trying to disappear.

Joan Grannam, keeping her face lowered and her hood over her head, curtseyed to Windsor, who bowed slightly in return. As the girl curtseyed, her cloak parted—it was velvet, Andrea now saw—and there was a glimpse of the splendid dress beneath, of a shining metallic scarlet, glittering with sequins. Twenty-first-century cloth and 21st-century, machine-made sequins, obviously a gift from Windsor. A gaudy frock by 21st-century taste, perhaps, but here, 16th side, there was nothing like it. People would walk twenty miles across moorland in the rain just to see that dress. It would be woven into fireside tales. Catskins, a local Cinderella, would from now on go to church in a dress like that.

As the girl rose from her curtsey, Mistress Crosar reached out and brushed the hood of the black cloak from the girl’s head, in what might have been an affectionate gesture. The girl’s hair was long and primrose fair, partly bound into plaits and partly loose, to signify that she was still unmarried. For a moment Joan raised her head, glancing toward her aunt, and Andrea saw that she was tall, and very beautiful indeed. No wonder Gareth was smitten.

Joan’s small round head perched, with lovely poise, on a long, graceful neck. Her face was an oval, with high cheekbones, large eyes, and a soft, naturally red mouth. She could have been no older than fifteen, at most, and her skin was absolutely unlined, unblemished, moist and shining.

“I be honored to meet you, Mistress Grannam,” Andrea said, trying to make good her mistake. “May I congratulate you and wish you every good tiding for this day?”

Joan looked at her directly for a moment. Her eyes were clear, huge and white and blue. “Thanks shall you have,” she murmured, before her cheeks turned a delicate foxglove pink, and she lowered her face again. With her height, her slenderness, and that lovely face, Andrea thought, the editors of 21st-side magazines would have fist fought for the right to put her on their covers.

“Be so kind,” Andrea pressed. “Take a bag. There be gifts inside. Take red one—to match your beautiful dress.”

Joan Grannam looked up momentarily, took the offered bag, and looked at the floor again. But then Mistress Crosar took the other bag.

While Andrea turned to Gareth for more bags, Brackenhill turned to a man who stood beside him: a small, stocky man with a close-trimmed beard, dressed all in black except for a small frill of white shirt at his neck. “This,” said Brackenhill, “is Father Nicholas, my priest.”

Andrea quickly translated what Brackenhill had said for Windsor.

“It gladdens me, Father Nicholas,” Windsor said, holding out his hand.

The priest ignored the proffered hand. Instead, he crossed himself and glowered. “I am here,” he said, “to wed couple, not to consort with Elven.”

Andrea glanced at Lord Brackenhill and his sister, but they were blandly staring about at the tables and flowers, apparently content for their priest to be so blatantly rude to their hosts. Windsor was looking at her questioningly, and she saw no choice except to translate what the priest had said.

“Please yourself, God Botherer,” Windsor said in his own language. Andrea offered a gift bag to the priest, who pointedly looked away. Lord Brackenhill, perhaps as a sign of graciousness to make up for his priest’s boorishness, took the bag himself.

“Be so kind,” Andrea said, “gan your way in and—be at home. This be all for your comfort. Be so good.”

Without another word, or a look, Brackenhill, his sister, his daughter, and his priest went on into the hall, looking about them at the long tables, the flowers and lights.

The Grannams who came behind them were not so reserved. They happily accepted their gift bags and peered into them, exclaiming in pleasure at the little gifts they found inside. They gaped at the tables, at the high roof, at the massed flowers. Whispering to one another, they felt the flowers and argued about whether they were real or not. Others fingered the glittery beads that made up the curtain. Andrea wondered how many of the decorations would be left when the guests departed.

She heard Gareth’s headset crackle again. “The Sterkarms,” he said to Windsor.

Andrea’s heartbeat quickened. Per was here. She looked around and saw that the Grannam party was well into the hall, admiring the glass and china on the tables. Obviously, they were going to take no part in greeting the Sterkarms.

“Well then, Andrea,” Windsor said. “Try not to screw it up this time.”

But all Andrea could think was: I’ll soon be seeing Per!