The question caught her off guard, hitting some vulnerable place she’d been trying not to examine too closely. The memory of him teaching her to cook in the darkness, sharing his mother’s recipe, the way he looked at her like she was something precious and rare—it all came flooding back with uncomfortable intensity.
“I...” She stopped, suddenly aware that whatever she said next would change something fundamental between them. “I don’t know. This whole situation is complicated enough without adding feelings to the mix.”
“Feelings,” Isolde repeated with evident amusement. “How delightfully vague. Brother dear, I do believe our guest is attempting to avoid discussing the obvious.”
“Isolde,” Tristan warned, but there was no real heat in it.
“What? It’s perfectly clear to anyone with functioning eyes. The way you two look at each other, the careful way you avoid touching, the fact that you’ve been more animated in the past few days than you’ve been in six months?—”
“Enough.” Tristan’s voice carried enough authority to cut through his sister’s observations, though she caught the faint color rising in his cheeks. “Rachel’s situation is complicated enough without your meddling.”
“My situation is insane,” she corrected. “I’m trapped in the wrong century with no way home, no understanding of how I got here, and no guarantee that any of this magical time-travel nonsense will work out the way your ancestor’s story suggests. Plus, apparently there are people who want me dead for existing.”
“About that,” Isolde said, her expression turning serious. “If you truly are here to help clear Tristan’s name, you need to understand that Guy de Montague has invested too much in my brother’s disgrace to allow it to be overturned. Especially not by a mysterious stranger with impossible knowledge.”
“So what do you suggest?” Rachel asked. “That I hide in this crumbling castle for the rest of my life, however long that might be?”
“I suggest,” Isolde said, leaning forward with the focused intensity of someone outlining a battle plan, “that we use every advantage we have. Your outsider’s perspective, my connections at court, and Tristan’s knowledge of the trade routes that were used against him.”
“You want us to work together? The three of us?”
“I want us to prove that Guy forged those trade documents,” Tristan said, his voice taking on the quiet intensity that always made her pulse quicken. “I want to expose his conspiracy and reclaim my family’s honor. And I want to ensure you’re safe while we do it.”
Rachel looked around the solar—at the faded tapestries, the scarred desk, the narrow windows that let in the gray afternoon light—and something settled in her chest. This wasn’t her world, wasn’t her time, wasn’t her fight. But somehow, sitting here with these two proud, stubborn, magnificently complicated people, it felt like exactly where she was supposed to be.
“Alright,” she said, surprising herself with the steadiness of her voice. “Let’s do it. But I want specifics. What exactly are we planning to do? And don’t say ‘clear Tristan’s name’ or ‘expose Guy’s conspiracy’—I want concrete steps.”
Isolde’s smile was sharp and satisfied. “First, we need to examine the original trade documents that were used as evidence against Tristan. I still have contacts at court who might be willing to grant us access, for the right price.”
“What kind of price?” Rachel asked suspiciously.
“Information,” Isolde replied. “Gossip. The kind of currency that keeps the court’s wheels turning.”
“Blackmail,” Rachel said flatly.
“Such an ugly word,” Isolde said cheerfully. “I prefer ‘mutually beneficial information exchange.’”
“Second,” Tristan continued, “we need to trace the money. Guy’s wealth increased dramatically after my disgrace. If we can prove the connection between his profits and the trade routes I supposedly betrayed...”
“We’d have evidence of motive,” Rachel finished, thinking about the problem. “But we’d also need proof of method—how he actually forged the documents or manipulated the evidence.”
“Which brings us to step three,” Isolde said. “We need to get Guy to make a mistake. Draw him out, make him overconfident, give him enough rope to hang himself with.”
“That sounds incredibly dangerous,” Rachel observed.
“It is,” Tristan said simply. “But the alternative is accepting that Guy wins. That he destroys my family’s honor, controls the most profitable trade routes in England, and faces no consequences for his betrayal. Are you willing to accept that?”
Rachel thought about everything she’d learned in the past few minutes—about Lady Morwenna, about the impossible cookbook that had brought her here, about the possibility that her arrival wasn’t random but somehow necessary. She thought about Tristan’s quiet strength, his hidden vulnerabilities, the way he made her feel like she belonged somewhere for the first time in years.
“No,” she said finally. “I’m not willing to accept that. But I have conditions.”
“Name them,” Tristan said immediately.
“First, we do this smart. No heroic charges into danger, no sacrificing ourselves for the greater good. We plan, we prepare, and we have escape routes.”
“Agreed,” Isolde said.
“Second, if this goes badly—if we end up in dungeons or worse—someone needs to make sure Sir Whiskerbottom gets fed. That cat has been through enough trauma without being abandoned again.”
