Editing DbS (section)

== TWELVE ==
⚇乂⚇

'''THERE WAS A TRAVEL GUIDE!?''' 

THAT NIGHT, I SLEPT WELL. No kidding, that was one of the best nights of sleep I’d ever had. Which was honestly pretty weird, because I’d never slept on a feather bed before. There’s a first time for everything, I suppose.  

However, before I went to bed, I had a very… interesting encounter. And it’s all Mercutio and Benvolio’s fault. All of it. (I mean, I didn’t really dislike Benvolio for it, since I’d been looking for a particular… object… for a while before he’d shown me the library and I’d “found” it. So, thanks Benvolio.) 

So, I started off on a plush seat, trying to make sense of a fragile-looking book Benvolio had given me. It had brightly colored pictures, that seemed like something you would see out of Candyland—you know, with all of the colors and the clothes and stuff—but Benvolio said it was based on a real-life place.  

Anyways, I was sitting there, reading the book (or trying to—again, medieval is hard to read) and I heard a voice.  

“Did Benvolio lend you that book?” I looked up to find Montague looking down at me.  

“Uh, yes. Yeah, actually,” I said, nodding, carefully closing the book on my thumb to save the page I was on.  

Montague shook his head. “Should’ve known he would lend you a child’s book. Here—” he reached back and grabbed a different book from the bookshelf. It had fancy, gold-plated letters, and a cover that had eloquent drawings on it.  

“Thanks,” I said, giving a slightly-pained-but-not-looking-so-pained- that-it’s-noticeable-thanks-spy-teacher-agent-teacher-people smile. There was no literal way that I would end up reading this. Maybe in the far future when it was translated into normal English I would, but now, nope.  

Montague nodded. “Of course. Anything for one of Romeo’s little friends,” said he, ruffling my hair. 

Okay, first of all, I’d like to clarify: I am not a “little” anything. I’m average height, maybe slightly above average height. But it’s not like I’m a football player either. I’ve got curly, dark brown hair, and these bluish-green eyes that are more green than blue, depending on the outfit (something about color theory, but I’ve been told by many that I am hopelessly fashion-blind).

But that’s enough. Montague walked off, probably to go to sleep, and I heard a little laugh from a small alcove in between two shelves. A head poked out and I could see long, brown, hair and eyes very similar to Romeo’s.  

“Sorry, did I disrupt you?” asked the girl, who I recognized as Abigail.  

“Uh, no, no,” I said, shrugging, trying to be cool and such. “Your dad was just in here…” I trailed off.  

“I saw” said the girl with a little laugh. “Part of the reason I was laughing,” she stated with a smile. “The other reason is because one of the characters in this book—” she tapped the book she was reading with a free finger, thumbs preoccupied with keeping the book open “—did something really funny. Well, it was kind of funny, kind of dumb. But both I guess.” She gave a slight smile, showing her teeth a bit. Her teeth were, surprisingly, not rotting, as I’d been told George Washington’s were. I had a sudden desire to ask her what type of medieval toothpaste she used.  

“Do I talk strangely?” she asked, out of the blue. “To you, that is?”  

“No… I don’t think you do,” I said, shrugging. “I mean, I can’t really tell a difference in your speech from Romeo’s. Not right now at least. I’ll let you know once I’ve heard you speak for a few minutes,” I said, trying to be relaxed and figure out more information all at the same time. I needed data, but my tactics were failing.

“Gimme a second,” I said, coughing into my arm, whispering right before, “Transmitter. Deactivate. Two minutes.” 

The girl’s voice was “normal” now. “Heavens, art thou alright? Ne’er have I seen such a pow’rful cough emitted from a boy—much less a man.” 

Strangely enough, the girl’s voice sounded vaguely familiar. I couldn’t figure it out, until she said, “Aye, my dear brother sayeth my speaking is of some strange nature. I’m not sure if’t I truly trust the gent when he says this, though.” She gave a slight laugh after that.  

“No, I neither—” I stopped upon hearing my own voice. The agency was helpful enough to put some type of thing in my throat—that I could get removed at any time—that would change my voice according to where I was. So evidently, my communications were down, but my location systems still worked, and so did my what-time-period-is-this systems. 

Anyways, my voice sounded Scottish, with a bit of Irish mixed in with that. Most of the time, agents could use accents—I was accustomed to this, as I’d done it many a time—but only a couple could talk like they were out of a different time. Sure, a couple of us had come from a different time (long story) but very few could make it sound like we were from a different time through how we talked. And that’s where the esopha-change (patented by Freddie Smithson, a person of our agency, very few people outside of the organization knew of it) came into play. The thing could tell where you were, and it could tell what time it was there. That included the year. So, if you happened to be in Baltimore during the 80’s, you’d say “What’s poppin’” instead of “What’s up”. Thus, helpfulness.  

“—know, nor, if I did know, would I tell thee if I were to find something a mere bit diff’rent than ‘normal’ speaking.” 

I had no idea what she was talking about. Her voice sounded so familiar, though… and then I had it. She sounded like a pirate from ''Pirates of the Caribbean'' or something. And I would bet that everyone else’s voice was like that, too.  Or not, since she had asked if her voice sounded weird….

Abigail gave a smile and said, in a slightly-pained voice, “Please taketh me seriously, good man. I loathe it with every ounce of my being when one doth not taketh me of solemnity.” 

“Of course, good woman. I would never not take you s’riously. I mean, what I mean is that I would take you s’riously. Of course,” I said, and I could hear that my two minutes were up, my voice returning to that “I’ll-activate-your-Alexa-and-you-can’t-do-anything-about-it” sort of neutral accent. 

“Well, if you don’t mind my saying, I think your voice is slightly different. Where are you from, anyways?”  

“My mom’s a Scot, you know? My dad, he was, you know, an Irishman.” I hate improv. With a passion.

“Ah, that makes sense. I thought I heard some Scottish in your voice,” said Abigail giving me a real, genuine, smile, giving a little nod of ''aha''. 

“I’ve been… writing this, and I thought you might want to read it,” she spoke, handing me a stack of papers. The corners were glued together with some wax, which is how it was all stuck together in the first place. 

''So, she made glue out of wax. Impressive.''

I looked down at the parchment, and could make out the words “Traversing Guide” at the top. Abigail had made… a travel guide for Elizabethan England.  

“Thank you, Abigail. This will be really, really, useful. Thank you,” said I, relief washing over me as I sank down into the chair. This would make getting back home- the ''real'' world- so much easier. 

“Yes, of course. Don’t worry about returning it, I have the original copy in my room upstairs. You can keep that one,” she said, further explaining the hastily-glued together papers.

I nodded. “Absolutely, Abigail. Thank you,” I said again. Abigail nodded, saying something along the lines of “yeah, no problem”. Then, she walked off.  

A few feet out the door, she turned around, briskly coming back. “Do you know where your room is tonight?”  

I shook my head reluctantly, realizing Benvolio had probably given me directions to the room, but I hadn’t been listening.  

Abigail gave a compassionate smile. “Romeo’s not great with showing guests to their rooms.” 

I kept quiet about Romeo’s present whereabouts. 

“But no matter!” she declared matter-of-factly. “I’ll have you there in no time.”  

So, the two of us headed upstairs, me, with a homemade travel guide (and a lot of reading to do), and Abigail carrying her book.  

I almost stopped short around two-thirds of the way there, but I continued walking, causing a questioning look from my companion.

“Do you have a problem, Mr. Hamlet?” she asked jokingly, an eyebrow raised humorously.   

“Well, I had a question-” a curious look from Abigail “-but now I have two.”

“And they are..?”

“First: how old exactly are you?” I knew it was weird, but yes, I asked. I’m sorry, Mary Poppins stans. I have failed us. I mean you. You. I mean you. You guys are the Mary Poppins stans, not me.  

Abigail gave me a dramatic gasp. “How dare you,” she said, and I thought I’d actually made her mad. Seeing my alarmed look, she continued. “Don’t worry, a lot of people want to know that. You’re just the only one who’s been brave enough to ask. I’m sixteen. Almost. In a couple of weeks, I will be. I know, I know, it’s strange I’m not married—”  

“Not at all—” 

“Thank you. But most girls are married at my age and happily carrying a two-year-old on their back with another one on the way. But I suppose when my father is so stubborn as to do things at the same time as Capulet, it’s normal. Juliet, his daughter, isn’t exactly married, either, and she’s perfectly normal and fine. I would love to meet her and ask her about things—you know, her being the daughter of my father’s greatest adversaries and all—but there’s no way I could ever do that. It wouldn’t be quote, unquote, allowed,” said Abigail, brushing her thick hair out of her face and continuing on her way to the room. She gave a slightly apologetic-nervous-joking smile. “Sorry, I talk a lot. You can tell me to be quiet whenever you want,” the girl said with the same lopsided smile Romeo had displayed a while ago.  

“Oh, don’t worry about talking too much, that’s alright,” said I, trying to make her feel more comfortable and not so awkward. If I had ever failed a mission, it would be that one. 

A brief silence. “Your question? That is, your second question?” Abigail prompted.  

“Oh, it was, uh, how you learned to, you know, uh…” I trailed off, not sure how to phrase the question.  ''Is that something you don’t ask here..?'' My thoughts trailed off before she spoke. 

“How I learned to read?” Abigail suggested, a cool air about her.

“Yeah, that,” I said, relieved I didn’t have to finish the question.  

“Well, I had a private tutor for about three years, and then he stopped teaching me, as is normal for ladies in our time, and I ended up having to teach myself a lot and the nurse taught me some, as well,” said Abigail with a self-assured smile on her face. 

“Ah, that makes sense.” How do you respond to such a confident answer as that? 

“Fun fact, the nurse? Same one for Juliet. She left our family when the Capulets, uh… well, as Dad says, after they, uh, deserted us,” said Abigail, sounding unsure when talking of the matter. ''Interesting….''

“Oh, look, is this it?” I asked as we passed a spare room, the door open to air it out. I gave what I was later told a dorky smile, trying to ease the uncomfortable tension that was growing between us.  

Taking one look at the door, she nodded, in a “yes, this is the right place” way. “Thiiiis is it!” she said, gesturing to the door. “See you tomorrow,” she said, cutting the conversation short abruptly, fast-walking off in a whirl of green-blue skirts, leaving me with an empty room I was meant to live in, a lot of new questions, and, apparently, a tour guide.