Free Crescendo by Becca Fitzpatrick Page A

was a cold night. I stood barefoot on the dirt road, sludge and rain quickly filling the potholes pockmarking it. Rocks and skeletal weeds sprang up intermittently. Darkness consumed the countryside, except for one bright spot: A few hundred yards off the road sat a stone-and-wood tavern. Candles guttered in the windows, and I was just about to head toward thetavern for shelter when I heard the distant jangle of bells.
    As the sound of the bells grew louder, I moved a safe distance off the road. I watched as a horse-drawn coach rattled out of the darkness and came to a halt where I’d been standing moments before. As soon as the wheels stopped rolling, the driver flung himself off the coach, splattering mud halfway up his boots. He tugged on the door and stepped back.
    A dark form emerged. A man. A cape hung from his shoulders, flapping open in the wind, but the hood was drawn to cover his face.
    “Wait here,” he told the driver.
    “My lord, it’s raining heavily—”
    The man in the cape gave a nod in the direction of the tavern. “I have business. I shan’t be long. Keep the horses ready.”
    The driver’s eyes shifted to the tavern. “But m’lord … it’s thieves and vagabonds that keep company there. And there’s bad air tonight. I feel it in my bones.” He rubbed his arms briskly, as if to fight off a chill. “M’lord might be better to hurry back home to the lady and little ’uns.”
    “Speak nothing of this to my wife.” The man in the cape flexed and opened his gloved hands while fixing his gaze on the tavern. “She has enough to worry about,” he murmured.
    I turned my attention to the tavern, and the ominous candlelight flickering in its small, slanted windows. The roof was crooked too, tilting slightly to the right, as if the tools used to construct it had been far from exact. Weeds choked the exterior, and every nowand then a rowdy yell or the sound of shattered glass traveled out from its walls.
    The driver dragged the sleeve of his coat under his nose. “My own son died of the plague not two years past. A terrible thing, what you and the lady are sufferin’ through.”
    In the stiff silence that followed, the horses stamped impatiently, their coats steaming. Little puffs of frost rose from their nostrils. The picture was so authentic, it suddenly scared me. Never before had any of my dreams felt this real.
    The man in the cape had started across the cobblestone walkway leading to the tavern. The edges of the dream vanished behind him, and after a moment’s hesitation I started after him, afraid I’d disappear too, if I didn’t stay close. I slipped through the tavern door behind him.
    Halfway down the back wall was a giant oven with a brick chimney. Various wooden bowls, tin cups, and utensils flanked the walls to either side of the oven, hanging in place on large nails. Three barrels had been rolled into the corner. A mangy dog was curled up in a sleeping ball in front of them. Overturned stools and a haphazard arrangement of dirty dishes and mugs cluttered the floor, which was hardly a floor at all. It was dirt, tamped smooth and sprinkled with what looked like sawdust, and the moment I stepped on it, the mud already caked on my heels sponged up the dusty earth. I was just wishing for a hot shower, when the appearance of the ten or so customers sitting at various tables around the tavern penetrated my awareness.
    Most of the men had shoulder-length hair with odd, pointed beards. Their pants were baggy and tucked into tall boots, and their sleeves billowed. They wore broad-brimmed hats that reminded me of pilgrims.
    I was definitely dreaming of a time far back in history, and since the detail of the dream was so vivid, I should have had at least some idea of what time period I’d dreamed myself into. But I was at a loss. Most likely England, but anywhere from the fifteenth to the eighteenth century. I’d gotten an A in world history this year, but period clothing hadn’t been on