Sometime later, his hand reentered her scope of vision, poured the water into a cup, and held it in front of her. It was thick, brown china, chipped. She liked cups like that—old-fashioned and durable. It suited the palm gripping it.
“Take this.”
Uma stared at the cup until he squatted and put it to her lips. “Drink.”
Oh. Of course.The first sip scorched her tongue. She didn’t mind. On the other hand, the burn as it made its way down her throat was not pleasant. Not pleasant at all. She sputtered, coughed, and pushed the mug back into his hands.
“What is that?”
“Hot moonshine. Heat you up.”
“It’s disgusting.”
“Well, I’m plumb out of champagne. This’s what we got.”
Uma reached up and wrapped her clammy hands around the too-hot mug.
The second sip wasn’t as bad, and it did help. She wasn’t quite normal yet, but she did feel…more. Her hands and feet prickled with the flow of returning blood.
Slowly, Uma emerged from her hypothermic stupor enough to allow curiosity to take over. She took in the space. It looked old. If Ms. Lloyd’s house was a three-decade rewind, this place kicked her back centuries.
She took another sip, testing the drink against her tongue. It still seared her insides but was no longer uncomfortable, just unfamiliar—and perfectly suited to the venue.
Ivan’s big hands scooted her chair back, scraping the wooden legs along the stone floor. He bent in front of the stove, opened the door—letting out a fresh wave of warmth—and fed a couple of logs into the fire.
“Figured you were a hunter out there at first. We get a lot up here. Drunk assholes shootin’ in my woods. I thought you—” He huffed out something that might have been a chuckle. “Ain’t never seen a hunter in a Honda Civic, though. Sorry I scared you.”
“’S okay.” Uma’s lips were coming back to life, but they were still like rubber.
“Ms. Lloyd kicked you out, huh?”
“Yeah. I got back too late. She wouldn’t let me in.”
“Yeah. She won’t open her door at night. Scares the shit outta her. She know where you’d be spendin’ the night?”
She shook her head. It was loose on her neck.
“Didn’t think of maybe gettin’ a hotel room or somethin’?”
Uma ignored him and looked around. The building was made of stone. It was a large workshop, one side taken up by wooden barn doors. They were closed right now, but her photographer’s mind could picture them thrown open during the day, no doubt a magnificent view of fields and forest and mountains beyond.
She turned in the chair to see that a massive worktable and anvil dominated the space. Large cast-iron gates leaned against a wall, and pieces of dark metal—rings, poles, curved shapes, and arrows—were strewn everywhere. There were railings, enormous gates, and what appeared to be brackets. Hanging along the walls and covering every possible surface were tools that looked old, polished by time and use. Leather, wood, and metal. She could smell it. She could taste it.
I’m in a daguerreotype, Uma thought. Sepia, cluttered with the paraphernalia of a bygone era, leached of color, soft around the edges. So much lovelier than reality.
“Here,” Ivan said, pulling the quilt off her. “This seat’s better.” He coaxed her out of the chair and nudged her toward the far end of the room, where he’d cleared off an enormous overstuffed armchair.
An unmade bed looked incongruous in the corner beyond that. It made her nervous enough to turn away as she sank deeply into the seat. Ivan placed the quilt back over her, and the dog curled onto her foot with a sigh, going to sleep instantly. Lucky bitch.
“You’re a…metalworker?”
“Blacksmith.”
“Oh.”
“Here.” He grabbed her mug and went to a shelf to refill it, adding a dash of hot water from the pot on the stove.
“Thanks.” Her voice came out a little slurred from the heat, the booze, the unexpected time travel.
