§ § § -- October 30, 2001

Steve and Marissa were both decidedly more awake by the time they found themselves back in the time-travel room after their third day, in aboriginal Australia. Despite the beauty of the fascinating culture, they had discovered this wasn't to their liking either, after a startlingly bloody skirmish with a rival tribe that had tried to steal water from the tribe hosting the Karadimases. "I think we're due for some civilization," Steve said. "Let's go see what's next." He and Marissa began prowling the room looking for the object that bore the number 4, and when Steve found it attached to the bust of Julius Caesar, he grinned broadly. "Aha! One of my picks! We're going to the Roman Empire, honey. Hope your Latin's up to par. Cogito ergo sum."

"Well, this should give it a good workout," Marissa said with anticipation. "Emperors and refined ladies and lovely manners, and lots of learned discourse, and imagine all the things we're going to learn about the place that the scholars still haven't found out yet. Let's hurry—this is going to be wonderful." She and Steve shared an excited look, then joined hands and closed their eyes, counting to five…

§ § § -- October 31, 2001

Christian and Leslie, jolted by their alarm clock, both groaned and rolled over in unison, bumping into each other and grunting. They came fully awake at the same moment and apologized in unison, then eyed each other in confusion while the clock went on beeping. Finally Christian asked, "Why did we set that thing again?"

"Oh, that's right, we're going back in time," Leslie said through a yawn, as if this were a commonplace, everyday thing. "I think you can shut it off now."

Mumbling in jordiska, Christian did so. "Back in time," he said, shaking his head. "I'm still trying to believe this—and there you are, completely nonchalant."

"It's my job," Leslie said, grinning at his disgruntled look. "I thought you wanted to do this. You insisted you were in on Sunday, once you got over the worst of your shock."

Christian grunted, said something rude in his own tongue and shot another glance at the clock. "It's hard to get excited about anything at four in the morning. Do I have to dress up for this? Is there anything I should take, other than booster shots and potable water?"

"Nothing at all," said Leslie, laughing. "We'll be there for only a day, my love. Can't you look at it as having some fun?"

"Maybe when I wake up," muttered Christian, but he grinned reluctantly. "All right, all right, give me fifteen minutes and some breakfast. I suspect my ancestor and his friends won't have anything recognizably edible…much less thermal coffee mugs."

By four-thirty they had reached the main house, and Roarke showed them into the time-travel room. It was the first time Christian had ever seen it fitted out for a fantasy, and he stared around with fascination while Roarke briefed them. "The climate was somewhat warmer around the time the Vikings were in their period of greatest activity, so perhaps you'll find conditions slightly less forbidding than they would be nowadays. Of course, that depends on timing. What month did the landing take place?" They waited, but Christian was still gazing around with wide eyes. "Christian?" Roarke prompted.

Startled, Christian swung back to face him. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

Roarke raised an eyebrow; Leslie grinned and took pity on him. "Do you know what month, or at least what season, the landing happened?"

Christian shook his head. "It's always been in dispute. Even our Originators Saga doesn't contain that information. But if we're to play it safe, I'd suggest warm clothing in layers. We can always shed what we don't need."

Roarke nodded. "An excellent suggestion. Very well, then, you'll find the appropriate attire in the corner. When you're ready, Leslie, just go through that door there, and you and Christian will find yourselves in the proper place."

"Who are we supposed to be?" asked Leslie.

"Ah yes. Leslie, you will be a captive Irish maiden; Christian, you'll pose as one of your ancestor's cohorts. Both of you will be making the landing, since Leslie will be your captive, Christian," Roarke said.

Christian's expression grew intrigued, and he gave Leslie a mischievous look. "Hmm, this is starting to look like fun."

"Brute," said Leslie affectionately. "Okay, I guess we can start. If we have questions, we'll let you know, Father." Roarke nodded and left them to change.

They found their "costumes" waiting for them in folded piles at the foot of the table that bore the Viking ship. "Oh, so that's what you did with my ship model," said Christian. "Why is there a number 5 beside it?"

"Because it's the fifth destination for our guests," Leslie said, "and today's the day its number comes up. Father was really impressed by that model. He said it's exquisite."

Christian smiled. "I'd hope so…I spent nearly six months on it. I'll thank him later. So then, let's see what the latest fashion of the year 1092 is."

Sharing a grin, he and Leslie picked up folded piles of material. Leslie's turned out to be a wrinkled linen shift of some indeterminate light color, topped by a woolen tunic dyed dark green. Her footwear was a pair of leather shoes. Christian's boots were also of leather, as were his pants; his shirt was of wool and he had a somewhat crude fur garment to wear over this. Further, he was equipped with a sword whose hilt was intricately decorated in the Viking tradition. "Ohhh…" he murmured, examining the weapon curiously while Leslie changed her clothes. She paused in pulling the long woolen tunic over her head and eyed him curiously.

"A sword, huh? Is that going to be strictly for decoration?" she asked.

Christian looked up, raised an eyebrow at her and then smiled slyly. "Did I ever tell you that I took fencing lessons?" he asked.

Leslie stilled, giving him a skeptical sidelong look. "Are you putting me on?"

"Would I do a thing like that?" he asked with utter innocence.

"Yes, you would," she said without hesitation, and he laughed.

"Yes, you're right, I would. But not about this." Christian started to shed his own clothing, still checking out the sword. "However, I suppose I'd better quantify that. The lessons lasted barely through one school year—and I was thirteen at the time. The only truly remarkable trait I showed was that I could fence equally well with both hands…for what that was worth. I remember being particularly hung up on thrust-and-parry and discarding everything else as uninteresting. My instructor despaired of me, and he was probably quite happy when I announced I wanted to stop the lessons."

Leslie laughed a little uneasily. "I just hope you don't have to use that thing. Oh, and maybe we'd better leave all our jewelry with Father for safekeeping."

"Even our wedding rings?" Christian asked, tugging on the leather pants.

"I think it's better," she said. "Father said only that I was your Irish captive—he said nothing about our characters being married. Anyway, that's real gold and real gems. I'd hate to lose those rings in the eleventh century, if you get my drift."

He thought it over, then nodded. "You have a point there. Well enough." He finished dressing, tugged at the scratchy woolen shirt and made a face, then unlatched her ruby heart necklace for her. "This isn't going to be very comfortable."

Leslie grinned. "I don't think comfort was uppermost in the minds of these people. Modesty and probably warmth would've counted for more, I'd bet. At least I don't have to wear my wool right next to the skin. Maybe Father'd let you get away with an undershirt if you asked, but I don't think that's exactly the sign of a tough Viking."

"I'm no Viking, only descended from one." Christian pulled off his Rolex and reluctantly removed his wedding ring. "Besides, clothing has improved tremendously in the last nine hundred years, and frankly, I prefer modern fabrics."

"Me too," Leslie agreed with a little smile. "Right at the moment I feel like I'm wearing very stiff bedsheets under this tunic. But, well, it's gotta be accurate."

Christian frowned suddenly, still holding the watch and the ring in one hand. "I have a question for Mr. Roarke all of a sudden. Before we go back to whatever it is we're facing, I want to ask it of him. We have to give him our jewelry and clothing anyway."

Leslie nodded, pulling on the soft leather shoes. "Sure." She crossed the room and thumped a few times on the door with her knuckles; a moment later Roarke came in and surveyed them with interested approval.

"You look quite authentic," he said. "Of course, there will be other alterations that will be made during your transit back in time, but the clothing was the most important." He smiled when Leslie deposited their clothes and her necklace and rings in his hands. "Good thinking, Leslie. Christian, do you have anything you wish to leave with me?"

"That I do," said Christian, coming over to give Roarke his watch and ring, "and I also have a question. What about the language? Obviously, no one is going to speak modern English in the eleventh century. And jordiska will be just as useless, since the speech of the day was Old Norse."

"You're not familiar with Old Norse?" Leslie asked curiously.

"Let me explain it this way," Christian said. "While we can read our own and the Icelandic sagas, they have to be annotated and sometimes translated outright, very much as English-speakers need notes to read Shakespeare. And trying to speak it…I don't suppose you have a solution for that, Mr. Roarke."

"None is needed," Roarke said. "Simply speak whatever you are most comfortable using. If you prefer to speak your native language, Christian, indulge yourself by all means. You will be understood, and you will also understand those around you."

"But how?" Christian persisted.

Leslie nodded. "I've wondered about that myself," she said. "I mean, I encountered it once, but I couldn't figure out how it was possible."

Roarke paused a moment to eye her with a trace of suspicion. "Have you indeed? I may have to investigate that," he said, "in case you were doing something you shouldn't have been." Leslie rolled her eyes, which made Christian laugh. "You might think of it as an automatic translation device, in order to simplify a visit of this type. You see, to the Vikings you will be meeting, you'll be speaking in Old Norse. To you, they will be speaking English, or jordiska if you prefer, Christian—if you do, Leslie will hear English from you, and you will hear jordiska from her. I instigated the translation property myself to ease communication."

"Ingenious," Christian said, "though I wish I could understand how it works."

"That doesn't explain the Scottish-accent chocolates we had to use—" Leslie began.

Roarke gave a sigh, the first sign of impatience. "There's no time for that," he broke in, making a point of checking his gold watch. "Our guests are due to come through here at any moment, and you two must be in place before they arrive. I do hope you'll both enjoy your adventure, and do your best to keep yourselves safe. Leslie, keep an eye on Professor and Mrs. Karadimas, if you would."

"Will do," Leslie agreed. "Well, here goes. Come on, my love, time to meet your ancestor." She took his hand and led him back to the second door across the room; Roarke watched them, and when they paused for one last look back, he winked and nodded before ducking back into the study and pulling the door shut behind him.

Christian lifted the sword, hefted it experimentally, then carefully slid it into the scabbard attached to his outer fur garment. "I think I'll use my own language," he said to Leslie with an arch little grin. "It would be a treat to hear you speaking jordiska."

"In that case, enjoy it while it lasts," she retorted sweetly, and they both laughed a little nervously. "Okay, take my hand…I'm going to open this door and we're stepping through together, on the count of three."