Angel of the Battlefield by Ann Hood Page B

arm. “And I can say the same to you, Felix. You stood it like a soldier.”
    Felix bent his arm carefully. “I think I’m good to go,” he said.
    From one corner of the barn came a loud clattering of metal and then a triumphant “aha!” from Maisie.
    She appeared in front of Felix and Clara wielding a wooden stick.
    â€œBaseball, anyone?” she said.

    For the first time since he’d landed in the Barton’s barn, Felix stepped outside. It was a bright, sunny day, and the smell of grass and flowers was strong. Though not stronger than the smell of farm animals. Felix wrinkled his nose.
    â€œDo you have cows or something?” he said.
    â€œTwenty-five milk cows,” Clara said proudly.
    â€œWatch where you step,” Maisie said.
    â€œAnd Highlanders, Virginians, and Morgans,” Clara added.
    When she saw the blank looks on Maisie’s and Felix’s faces, she said, “Horses! My father raises them.”
    Felix looked around. The farm was enormous, with two barns in addition to the one they’d been in, rolling hills in the distance, a pond, and a large house with porches and a balcony.
    â€œWe moved here when I was eight, after my uncle died,” Clara explained. “It’s three hundred acres with lots of grassland for the horses and room for my cousins to come and stay during the summer. They just left a few days ago, which is too bad. They would have liked to learn this baseball, too.”
    Maisie gave a low whistle. “Central Park is eight hundred acres,” she said. “Two hundred and fifty of that is lawns, which means you live on a farm about as big as all the grass in Central Park.” She patted her fleece vest.
    â€œMaisie likes numbers,” Felix explained. “She likes math, and I like reading.”
    â€œI’m the one who keeps all the stats for the Mets every season,” Maisie said. “Well, usually.”
    The truth was she did it with her father, carefully filling in all the blanks in the Mets record book they got every opening day. Except this year.
    â€œOur father moved to Qatar,” Felix blurted out. “Nothing is the same anymore.”
    Maisie took in all of the things around them: the barn, the rolling hills, Clara herself. She smiled.
Nothing is the same anymore at all,
she thought excitedly. She walked ahead of them up a hill in search of a flat area to play baseball.
    Felix watched his sister disappear over the crest.
    â€œYour father moved away?” Clara asked. “Without you?”
    Felix sighed. Being in 1836 was hard enough without having to explain his parents’ divorce.
    â€œIt’s complicated,” he said.
    â€œOver here!” Maisie called to them.
    Relieved, Felix ran toward her voice. Clara ran alongside him, then hitched up her skirt and took off ahead of him.
    â€œHurry up,” she said, glancing over her shoulder before she, too, disappeared over the crest of the hill.
    â€œMaybe you guys can find something to use for bases!” Maisie said.
    She watched as Felix and Clara ran around the fields searching for things to use as bases and home plate. Why, she wondered, did Felix always manage to make friends so easily while she seemed to offend people? Even in a different century he was able to connect with someone who he didn’t—couldn’t!—have anything in common with.
    She sighed and dropped onto the warm grass, unzipping her fleece and using it as a pillow beneath her head. The sun shone high in the sky now, directly overhead. Noon. Her mother was probably breaking for lunch in her office on Thames Street back in Newport. Maisie could imagine her turning off her computer and taking out her egg salad sandwich and banana from her lunch bag.
    Felix’s laughter floated around Maisie, mixing in with the lazy buzz of a bee.
Fine,
she thought.
Be friends with a person who’s, like, two hundred years old, technically.
Thinking how