The Thornless Rose by Morgan O'Neill Page B

quickly as it had come, and the rain was now light but steady as she made her way toward the gatekeeper.
    “Hello, er, good day again,” she said, attempting a small curtsey, hoping it made her look authentic. “Dr. Brandon isn’t in this morning, and the lady said I couldn’t stay and wait for him.”
    “Aye. He is quite strict about letting people in before he’s seen them and agreed to it. I’m sorry if I raised thy hopes. Mayhap, I should have warned thee.” The man studied her face. “Hast thou any coin to buy victuals whilst thou awaits Dr. Brandon?”
    Anne shook her head, astonished her grandmother hadn’t thought to include old coins.
    The gatekeeper placed his sword against the wall and reached into his pocket. “Here, child, I’ve a coin or two to buy something to eat at the market.”
    When Anne started to object, he waved her off. “Protest not. Thou shalt repay me when thou art able, and I will be pleased to see it. Until then, go with these few coins, and God’s blessing upon thee.” He pressed them into her hand, then pointed up the street. “Go on. Thou shalt find enough booths to satisfy any hunger.”
    Anne looked at the strange, uneven coins. “Thanks. I will repay you,” she said. “You have my word.” Stepping past him, she found herself yearning to tell her grandmother they were taking care of her at St. Bart’s.
    As the gate closed with a boom , Anne faced the busy street. Everyone was heading in the same direction, looking like actors in a Shakespearean drama. Women, young and old, wore corsets and long skirts, while the men had codpieces and knives on their belts. All wore scarves or caps to cover their hair.
    Seeking to fit in, Anne adjusted her hood and joined the crowd. Laden carts clogged the street, some pulled by donkeys or boney horses, others pushed by men. People jostled about her, chattering in a version of English she barely understood. How was she ever going to make sense of the thees and thous?
    Shaking her head, her heart thumped with nervousness at the nearness of these people out of history— dead people, but not dead. They were here and very much alive. Amazing. She hoped she didn’t stand out too badly. Thankfully, nobody seemed to be looking her way, everyone cheerfully intent on going to market. She was shocked, nonetheless, to see how many people had black stumps for teeth and deeply pockmarked skin. As for their body odor, her sense of smell was definitely working.
    Walking swiftly, Anne pulled the edge of her hood over her nose, maneuvered through the press of bodies and headed for the square. The only thing she had to do was wait a few hours, then get back to the hospital at “nine o’ the clock” and find Dr. Brandon.
    Easy enough. She relaxed a bit more and decided to look for a place to get something to drink. Her mind wandered back to the warm little pub she’d visited before all the craziness started.
    Her head came up sharply. The Crook existed now, didn’t it? And it wasn’t more than a couple of blocks away.
    The rain let up, and the sun poked through the clouds. Anne tried to mentally match the sixteenth century landmarks with what she recalled of her previous route to the pub.
    Jingling her coins, all she could think of was how good a beer was going to taste. Besides, she had to check the place out, since there could be clues about Dr. Brandon’s time traveling. She wondered if he’d ever returned to investigate.
    Anne glanced up and spotted the striding figure of a tall man, a hauntingly familiar man. She stopped dead in her tracks. There he was in the flesh! Hair black, eyes sparkling blue. She stared as he greeted passersby, his genuine smile pulling her in until she felt she could spring away and fly to him.
    “Doc––”
    Suddenly, a hand clamped over Anne’s mouth and an arm grasped her waist, trapping her. Terrified, she struggled against her captor’s iron grip, tried to yell, but the hand muffled her efforts. Her desperate