“Gone. It didn’t come with me. When the lightning struck, when I—” She stopped, swallowing hard against the memory of that impossible moment. “It stayed behind. In my kitchen. At least, I think it did.”
“You think?” Tristan’s voice was carefully controlled, but she could hear the undercurrent of something that might have been fear or fascination or both.
“I don’t know!” The words burst out of her with more force than she’d intended. “One moment I was standing in my apartment, bleeding on a book I’d bought off eBay, and the next I was face-down in your garden with no clue how I got there. I don’t understand any of this. I don’t understand why it happened or how it’s possible or what I’m supposed to do about it.”
“eBay,” Isolde repeated thoughtfully. “Another of those impossible words. Though I suspect it’s some manner of marketplace, judging by context.”
“It’s...” Rachel gestured helplessly. “It’s complicated. People sell things. From their homes. Through... through devices that won’t be invented for centuries.”
“Fascinating.” Isolde moved closer, her dark eyes bright with scientific curiosity. “And this cookbook—you purchased it from a stranger? Someone you’d never met?”
“Someone calledYeOldeBookWyrm,” Rachel said, then immediately regretted it as both siblings’ eyebrows climbed toward their respective hairlines. “It’s... It’s not a real name. People use false names when they conduct business online—through the devices.”
“YeOldeBookWyrm,” Tristan repeated slowly, and there was something in his voice that made Rachel look at him sharply.
“You recognize that name?”
“I know those words,” he corrected, his expression growing thoughtful. “Ye olde book wyrm. ’Tis archaic phrasing, from centuries past. A book wyrm—a creature that devours written knowledge, guards ancient texts.”
“Like a dragon,” Isolde added softly. “But one that hoards books instead of gold.”
Rachel felt a chill run down her spine that had nothing to do with the draft from the narrow windows. “You think whoever sold me the cookbook knew? Knew what it would do?”
“But how is such a thing even possible?” Tristan interjected, still looking dazed. “If what you say is true, if you truly have traveled through time—why you? Why now? Why to my garden specifically?”
“I don’t know,” Rachel said again, frustration creeping into her voice. “Do you think I haven’t been asking myself the same questions? I’m nobody. A food blogger from Kansas, not some medieval time-travel expert. The weirdest thing that ever happened to me before this was getting food poisoning from a sketchy taco truck.”
“But Lady Morwenna,” Isolde said suddenly, snapping her fingers. “There was more to her story. She didn’t arrive randomly either. She appeared during the worst flooding in Hallowhall’s history, just as the harvest failed and disease threatened to wipe out half the village.”
“So?”
“So she knew things. Healing things. Preservation techniques. Ways to purify water and store grain that saved everyone from starvation.” Isolde’s eyes were bright with realization. “She didn’t arrive by accident. She arrived when she was needed most.”
“Are you suggesting that I’m here because Tristan needs help?” Her voice climbed slightly. “Because that’s insane. I’m not some medieval superhero sent to save the day.”
“Aren’t you?” Tristan said quietly, and something in his tone made her look at him. “You spotted the flaws in my situation within hours of meeting me. You’ve been asking questions that no one else thought to ask. You see patterns that others miss.”
“That’s just basic observation skills. Any decent food critic develops them after years of spotting restaurants trying to cut corners.”
“Perhaps,” Isolde said, settling gracefully into the chair beside Rachel. “But you’re here now, whether by accident or design. The question becomes what you intend to do about it.”
Rachel looked between the siblings, seeing the family resemblance not just in their dark eyes and aristocratic features, but in the way they both carried themselves when faced with impossible situations. There was a reason the de Valois family had held power for generations.
“The family journals,” she said suddenly. “The ones about Lady Morwenna—did she ever find a way back? To her own time?”
Something flickered in Isolde’s expression. “The records say she had opportunities. During great storms, she would sometimes vanish for hours, returning wild-eyed and speaking of glimpses of her lost world. But she always came back.”
“Why?”
“She fell in love,” Isolde said simply. “With Lord Robert of Hallowhall. She wrote that the choice became easier once she found something—someone—worth staying for.”
The implication hung in the air like incense, heavy and impossible to ignore. Heat rose from her neck, spreading across her face as she realized both siblings were watching her reaction.
“Well, that’s very romantic for her,” she said, her voice coming out slightly strangled.
“But I’m not looking to make any life-altering decisions based on medieval love stories. I just want to clear Tristan’s name and figure out how to get home.”
“Do you?” Tristan’s question was quiet, but something in his tone made her pulse quicken. “Is that all this is to you? A temporary inconvenience to resolve before returning to your real life?”
