One thousand years ago this was all forest. Will squares his skinny shoulders, shuts his eyes and conjures it now.

Leaves poke up between the paving stones, at first like crocuses in spring (but it's November), then more insistent. Stones shudder, crack, crumble as leaves yield to branches. Around him a thousand thousand-year-old trunks rise, a rumble swelling from roots thicker than Will's arm. The leaves, green and darker green, reach for each other, covering the sky. The trees shake hands over his head. There's grass underfoot, and he isn't cold anymore.

It's not just his imagination; once it was here.

Will is two months shy of eleven years old, and this is his newest trick: blinking himself into the history he reads in his father's heavy cloth-bound books. A gift he's been nursing for maybe a year, maybe (around the time his mother died) longer.

So far the Middle Ages are his favorite. So easy to place his father in a throne, robed and crowned. His brothers in armor, shining; they always have seemed to him to shine. They each have more than ten years on him, years of growing, learning secrets, knowing people. All three make a habit of resting a hand on top of his head. Will is their mascot, an extra, like extra credit, which most people don't count.

He read about the trees last night; he's been walking in and out of their shade ever since. Today in class he hardly raised his hand; his throat didn't feel like talking. Instead he kept his chin down, carpeted the floor with moss, read along silently: qui est l'hero dans l'histoire?

Now a chilly present-tense breeze whisks around Will, mussing his hair and the leaves. He glimpses the gray sky. What happened to the forest?

The wood went to build the great cathedrals, said the book. More people were born, farmers needed more land. Then the Black Plague, and the fires that followed it. Cities sprouted up instead of oaks, men and women instead of squirrels and robins. Progress.

Probably there were men like Will's father in charge. Strong, stern, wonderful men remaking the continent. Will wonders if anyone asked them about the trees. Probably someone did.

Adeline calls his name. He winces; he's too old to have a nurse. The forest disappears in a flash-fire, ashes fading into clouds. The school returns, the wrought-iron fence and paved yard. Will wipes his glasses on his sleeve. He hates the glasses, and he hates the idea that someone spoke up and the book didn't bother to set it down.

The breeze flutters his tie, and fleetingly he sees a falling leaf instead. One thousand years later, the world's changed. Maybe now anyone (even an extra) might get into history. Or--write it.

He walks through the gate. Adeline asks him, as usual, "What did you learn today?"

She asks in his language; he replies in hers: "Qui est l'hero dans l'histoire?" And then he runs ahead of her.