Beside her, Tristan had gone rigid as stone, his face carved from winter frost and bitter realization. When he spoke, his voice carried the flat acceptance of someone whose worst fears had just been confirmed.
“I should have known,” he said, so quietly that only she could hear him over the chaos. The words hit her like physical blows, each one driving deeper into her chest until she could barely breathe. “I should have known that I would bring ruin to everything I touched. Even you. Especially you.”
The defeat in his voice was worse than any accusation, more devastating than the royal fury or the threat of execution. This was the sound of a man watching his last hope crumble, realizing that everything he’d dared to believe might be possible was nothing but fantasy and delusion.
“Tristan, no—” she started to say, but the guards were upon them now, rough hands seizing her arms, dragging her away from the man whose dreams she’d helped to destroy.
Leather and steel scraped against her skin as her wrists were bound behind her back with rope that smelled of hemp and desperation. The taste of terror filled her mouth as she struggled futilely against bonds that had been designed to hold much stronger prisoners than one displaced food critic from Kansas.
The last thing she saw before they hauled her from the hall was his face—empty of hope, stripped of everything she’d thought she’d helped him reclaim. The man who’d taught her to appreciate medieval poetry, who’d shown her how to prepare herbs the way his grandmother had taught him, who’d made her believe that maybe she could build something instead of just tearing it down.
And beyond him, Lady Jacquetta’s knowing smile, cold as winter and twice as sharp. The expression of someone who’d just added a very dangerous piece to her collection of court secrets.
She’d ruined everything. Just like she always did.
The great doors of Westminster Palace closed behind them with a sound like the end of the world, shutting out the light and the chaos and any hope of redemption. The taste of bile and failure filled her mouth as they dragged her toward whatever medieval justice awaited poisoners and witches.
In the darkness that followed, Rachel finally understood what it meant to lose everything that mattered—and to know that she had no one to blame but herself for being stupid enough to allow the herbs out of her sight for one damn second.
CHAPTER 17
The dungeons of Westminster Palace smelled like despair seasoned with centuries of regret, with high notes of mold and something Rachel really didn’t want to identify. She sat on what could generously be called a stone bench, though it had clearly been designed by someone who thought comfort was a character flaw that needed correcting.
Her midnight blue silk gown, the one Isolde had sworn would make her look “properly demure and unthreatening”—now bore the distinctive patina of medieval incarceration. The expensive fabric that had seemed so elegant hours ago now felt like a costume from someone else’s life, someone who belonged in the royal courts instead of dungeon cells with questionable hygiene standards.
Seven nobles. Seven people writhing in agony because she’d insisted on garnishing their feast with herbs that someone had switched for poison.
She pressed her palms against the rough stone wall, trying to stop her hands from shaking. Never in her life had she been arrested, let alone imprisoned. She’d never even gotten a speeding ticket. Never faced the very real possibility that medieval justice might involve things like public execution and crowd entertainment. The dampness of the walls seeped through her sleeves, carrying the musty scent of centuries-old despair that made her stomach clench with nausea.
“This is a nightmare,” she whispered to herself, then louder, with forced bravado. “I’ve had food poisoning incidents before, but this is definitely a new personal low. Usually when I ruin someone’s meal, they just leave a bad review, not threaten to burn me at the stake.”
Tristan paced their shared cell like a caged wolf whose territory had been invaded by incompetent sheep. His elegant court doublet—midnight blue velvet with silver threading that had probably cost more than her rent—was torn at the shoulder where the guards had been less than gentle. Each footstep against stone echoed with barely contained fury, and the scent of smoke from wall torches mixed with his rage until the very air felt combustible.
The silence stretched between them like a chasm, filled only with the rhythmic drip of water somewhere in the darkness and the distant sounds of palace life continuing above them. She found herself remembering another evening, just weeks ago, when that same careful stride had carried him through Greystone’s kitchens while she’d babbled about spice combinations and proper seasoning techniques.
“You see patterns others miss,” he’d said that night, his voice warm with something that had felt dangerously close to admiration. “You understand flavors in ways that would take years to learn. ’Tis a gift.”
The memory felt like a knife twisting in her chest now.
“Cease your babbling,” he said finally, his voice carrying that deadly quiet that preceded explosions. “Your jests ring hollow when seven people lie dying from what you claimed would revolutionize royal cuisine.”
The harsh words hit her like a physical blow, and something cold settled in her stomach. Fear, yes, but also the horrible recognition that he might be right. Maybe she was exactly what she’d always feared—utterly unremarkable, deluding herself into thinking she had anything special to offer. Maybe falling through time had just given her a wider stage for her particular brand of mediocrity.
“You think I did this?” she asked, proud that her voice came out steady despite the way her heart was hammering against her ribs like a bird trying to escape a cage. “You actually think I deliberately poisoned random nobles to destroy your one shot at redemption?”
He stopped pacing to stare at her, and the expression on his face was worse than anger. It was the look of someone who’d just realized they’d been played for a fool by someone they’d trusted completely. The same look her college roommate had given her when she’d discovered Rachel had accidentally scheduled two different study groups in their room at the same time, turning what should have been quiet preparation into chaos that had cost everyone their focus.
The same look her mother had worn when Rachel’s “help” with Christmas dinner had resulted in burned rolls and a turkey that emerged from the oven three hours late. “Maybe you should just... watch next time, sweetheart. Let someone more experienced handle the important parts.”
“I think you brought chaos from the moment you appeared in my garden,” he said, each word precisely aimed to wound. “Speaking of cursed cookbooks and falling through time, dressed in garments that belong to no fashion known to Christendom.”
Thunder rumbled overhead, filtering through the narrow window slit with the promise of storms to match her mood. The sound made her jump despite herself, and she hated how the involuntary flinch revealed just how terrified she really was beneath her protective layer of snark.
The irony wasn’t lost on her. For the time she’d spent at Greystone, she’d felt like she was finally becoming someone important. Someone whose opinions mattered, whose knowledge had value. Tristan had listened to her ideas about cooking, had actually implemented her suggestions, had made her feel like she was contributing something meaningful for the first time in her adult life.
She remembered the way his face had lit up when she’d suggested using her “foreign spices” to enhance traditional dishes. How he’d watched her hands as she’d demonstrated knife techniques from her time, his attention focused and intent as if she were sharing precious secrets instead of basic culinary knowledge any decent cook should know.
“You make me remember why I loved this,” he’d said one evening, flour dusting his hands as they’d worked side by side. “Why cooking felt like magic instead of mere necessity. I had forgotten what ’twas like to create instead of simply surviving.”
