Eleanor blinked. “You speak sorcery with a smile.”
Beth sighed. “Not sorcery. Just chemistry. Which, I guess, still sounds like witchcraft to you … fabulous.”
Just great. She was going to die without figuring out how she’d traveled through time. And to make things worse, she was going to be murdered by a twenty-something Legolas in a dress.
“What is your name?” The arrow was awfully close to her very thin, fragile skin.
Beth blinked. “Um. Beth?”
“You are not sure?” The girl’s eyes narrowed. “You wear strange hose and footgear. Are you a jester?”
She glanced down at her leggings. “They’re Lululemon. Also, not a jester. Just misplaced.”
“You speak in riddles. Are you French?”
Her mouth fell open. “Do I sound French?”
“You sound mad.”
“That’s fair.”
The bow didn’t lower. In fact, the girl took a step closer, the tip of the arrow now uncomfortably aligned with Beth’s left eye.
“What fabric is your hose made from?”
Without meaning to, she flinched. “Is this a fashion interrogation?”
“They cling like a second skin. You could move swiftly in such things.” The girl’s gaze sharpened with interest. “Are they made for fighting?”
“I mean, they’re great for yoga.”
“Yo … gah?”
She opened her mouth, then closed it again. “It’s like sword fighting, but with more stretching and fewer blades.”
A pause. Then, almost reverently, the girl said, “Show me.”
Beth blinked. “What?”
“Show me this yo-gah. Now.”
“Oh, I don’t think?—”
The girl loosed an arrow without warning. It thudded into a tree trunk three inches to Beth’s right, dead center of a knot in the bark.
Beth yelped and stumbled back, hands raised. “Okay! Okay! I’ll show you, just don’t shoot!”
With a breathless laugh of panic, she dropped to the mossy earth and pushed herself into a wobbly backbend, limbs trembling. “See? Perfectly harmless.”
Without thinking, she kicked one leg up, then the other, lifting into a shaky handstand that lasted all of three seconds before she toppled sideways into a tangle of ferns and leaves.
Before she could scramble upright or attempt child’s pose, the thunder of hooves shattered the quiet. The girl spun, bow raised again, then lowered it almost at once, swearing under her breath.
“Brother,” she called.
Beth straightened, brushing moss from her knees.
The man who emerged from the trees was tall and broad-shouldered, clad in black and silver. His cloak caught the wind, flaring behind him with a sweep too perfect to be real, like something conjured from a fever dream or a scene carved into memory. His hair, dark and tousled, curled slightly where it grazed his collar, and his jaw was carved in stern lines that spoke of command, not compromise. He moved like a man well-accustomed to obedience, each step deliberate, the heavy tread of his boots stirring dust and dread alike.
