Besides, living in the same city, Sophia and my mom were always at each other’s throats. Two alpha females—it was painful. When my mom moved to Anna Maria Island, it was great news for my sister. But I kinda miss her. And if she was on Team Sophia for this one, I wasn’t sure what I’d do.
Strangely enough, though, she hadn’t laughed at me when I’d given her the run-down on the trip. I was pretty sure Sophia had filled her in with the—ah—less palatable version, but she didn’t really make reference to it. Just didn’t sound surprised. And not only that—she told me she wished she’d done the same thing.
“Honey, an adventure is just what you need. You and Sophia are such different creatures. Don’t let her talk you out of it, okay?”
So—okay, mom. Thanks.
The morning had left me feeling more optimistic. It might have been the good call with my mom, or maybe the snow-draped statues—I don’t know. My black eye from bashing into the Philadelphia hotel bar chair leg was almost gone. I had considered investing in some cover-up, but decided against it as too frivolous. A couple of people had looked at me nervously on the bus trip, but if a purple ring around my eye is going to buy me a seat by myself on the Greyhound, then it’s a price worth paying, sez I.
Since I’d talked to my mother, and when I wasn’t staring out the window at dog frolic, I had been surfing the Internet. Turns out ‘Jack the writer’ knew what he was talking about. Beauchamp’s Belles have a huge online presence, and have been around forever. Long before I discovered my first Jamie and Claire book, anyway. They hold regular meetings and seem to be an enthusiastic and fun-loving group. I’m sure the gathering in Philadelphia was just an anomaly. Or maybe the Philly group just liked their fun on steroids.
Nevertheless, I needed all the help I could get, and those people were experts. They knew every scene in the story—every nuance of every scene. Further investigation proved that the Belles had begun their life in Canada in the ‘90’s. That kinda explained it all, really. Every Canadian I’ve ever met has been nuts.
So, there I was, safely in New York, with time on my hands. Nearly a full day before my plane was due to fly out to Glasgow. And, on my screen, a small window opened as a link from the Belles’ site. Some kind of a Scottish time-travel reading event was listed—for that night. Apparently the happening was not an official Belle’s event, but still noted in their Fan Fiction section.
My empty calendar had suddenly filled up. I needed to be there.
The reading was scheduled to take place in a library meeting room. After the time on the road, my wardrobe needed a little work to be library-suitable. My New York hostel supposedly catered to backpacking travelers, but … well, it was pretty sketchy. I’d been planning to wash my laundry out in the sink, but looking around the hostel gave me pause. It was the sort of place where you don’t want to leave your unmentionables hanging on the towel rack of your room, if you know what I mean. My first assignment on arrival in Scotland may well have to be a search for a laundromat.
Still, I had enough clean clothes left to gussy myself up for the reading, and I set out with as much confidence as I could muster. Unfortunately, the subway in this city is not for beginners, and I took an A train when I was supposed to take an E. By the time I got to the library and found the right room, the reading was already underway.
It wasn’t really what I expected.
I mean, I’m not sure what I had expected. I’d never been to a fan-fiction reading before. I’d gone to hear John Irving read a few years earlier at the University of Chicago, and I tried (and failed) to get into an event with Neil Gaiman last summer. They’d oversold the venue, so I stood outside with a bunch of black-clothes-wearing dudes with floppy hair, and listened to the man read on a crackly loudspeaker.
Obviously, my reading-attendance experience was not vast. So when I walked into the library meeting-room, and four sets of eyes turned from the woman speaking at the front to gaze at me, it was a little embarrassing.
“Sorry I’m late,” I whispered.
No one replied. Three of the sets of eyes settled back on the speaker, who was the only person in the room to look delighted at my arrival. The remaining set of eyes belonged to a dude dressed—interestingly enough—in black, with floppy hair. He stared at me, and only at me, for the remainder of the event.
“Don’t worry,” the speaker said. “I’m only five pages in. You want me to start again?”
“Not unless you want …” I began, but a resounding chorus of “NO!” from the remaining attendees drowned out my voice. The speaker shot me a glare, all goodwill lost, and rattled her page.