Perfect Timing by Catherine Anderson Page A

bright spots of color flagged her cheeks to chase away her pallor. She spat out some words that he didn’t recognize, but it wasn’t necessary to understand to know he was being insulted. She was putting on quite a show—he had to give her that—and despite his worry over Loni, a grin tugged at his mouth. That seemed to make her even madder. Then, with an obvious attempt to collect herself, she said in English, “I told ye me reason fer coming. Believe it or not, ’struth!”
    Quincy sighed. “ ’Struth? What the hell does that mean?”
    “God’s truth. ’Tis a common word at home.”
    Quincy took the highway on-ramp and tromped the fuel pedal as he merged with traffic. He smiled to himself when she loosened one hand from the dash to brace her shoulder against the passenger door. He didn’t for a moment believe that she was truly frightened—unless, of course, she was actually crazy and completely delusional.
    “’Tis icy!” Ahead on the asphalt there was a long stretch of packed snow. She gaped at it with eyes that had gone as round as nickels. “God have mercy! Are ye out of yer mind? ’Tis slick. We shall surely—” She broke off, gulped, and closed her eyes. “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord—”
    “I’m studded up,” Quincy said, cutting her prayer short.
    She cracked open one eye to peer at him. In all his days, he’d never seen a prettier blue. “Ye’re what?”
    He felt silly explaining what was patently obvious, but the gentleman in him felt compelled to offer her some reassurance, just in case she really was afraid. Maybe she was so mired in insanity that she actually believed she was nearly five hundred years old. “My tires are studded. Studs, you know?” Keeping his attention on the road, he spared her a brief glance to see if any comprehension showed on her face. None . “Studs,” he repeated. “They’re little nails that poke out from the tires to grab on the ice.”
    “Ah,” she said, the sound tremulous. Then, “Pray tell me—what are tires ?”
    That cinched it for Quincy. Losing what little patience he had left, he flipped on the stereo to end the conversation. At the sudden sound of music and lyrics, Ceara jumped as if he’d stuck her with a hatpin.
    “Holy Mother!” She clamped her hands over her mouth, gaping at the dash. Then, apparently getting over the start, she leaned as far forward as the seat belt allowed to finger the electronic screen. “Where are they?” she asked tremulously.
    Quincy shot her a wary glance. “Where are who ?”
    “The minstrels,” she said, her voice quavering. “Do ye have a crystal ball in there? I can hear them, but I canna see them.” She traced the square outline of the display. “’Tis naught but a box.” She fixed wondering, frightened eyes on him. “Do ye have people trapped in there? ’Tis cruel beyond words, sir! And all fer yer pleasure? What manner of life can they have, imprisoned in so small a place?” She twisted on the seat to rest her palm over the speaker in the door panel. When she felt the vibration, she jerked her hand away as if something had burned her. “Lord, have mercy. ’Tis a horrible world I’ve landed in, fer certain.”
    Quincy had always prided himself on having a halfway decent imagination, but this gal took fantasy to a whole new level. Even so, for just an instant, Quincy could almost believe she truly was from the fifteen hundreds and seeing things for the first time that she didn’t understand. Bullshit , his voice of reason told him. If he allowed himself to buy into this poppycock, he was crazier than she was.
    “It’s a stereo, for God’s sake. People aren’t trapped in there, and you know it as well as I do. We don’t use crystal balls to see and hear people. We use airwaves.” He’d be damned if he allowed her to play him for a fool. “I’ve had it with this game of yours, Ceara, if that’s even your real name. Don’t screw with me. You’re way out of your