When the hall finally began to empty, Jacquetta crooked a finger at Rachel. “Walk with me.”
They moved into the cloister, where shadows pooled between the arches. Jacquetta didn’t waste words. “I hear whispers of a book. A cookbook with… power.”
Rachel’s breath snagged. Of course, Jacquetta knew. Of course, she did.
“Emmot,” Rachel called softly. The boy darted from the shadows, gap-toothed grin subdued for once. “Fetch my book, please.”
He scampered off and returned moments later with the oiled-cloth bundle clutched tight in his hands.
Rachel took the bundle from Emmot, the weight of it familiar, heavy with everything she’d tried and failed to change. Her fingers lingered on the worn leather for a breath longer than necessary.Enough chasing doorways,she thought.Enough hoping for an exit that never opens. My place is here.
“I offer it freely.” A deliberate surrender.
Jacquetta accepted the book, sharp eyes gleaming as though she caught the unsaid truth, anyway. Her smile curved, wicked and knowing.
If you lived in my world, lady, you’d break the internet in a week.
Rachel forced a nervous laugh. “Maybe it really does hold magic. Or maybe…” She shrugged, letting her sarcasm smooth the edge. “…maybe the magic’s just in the recipes.”
“Never underestimate recipes,” Jacquetta replied, tucking the book away with the proprietary air of someone who never misplaced pieces from her chessboard. “The right mixture, the right timing, and nations can be remade.”
Her skirts whispered as she swept away, leaving Rachel lighter, freer—unburdened of the book, of the endless tug between here and home. For the first time, she wasn’t trapped. She was choosing.
When Tristan found her a moment later, the great hall behind them buzzing with restored honor and spices that smelled of promise, his smile was wide and devastating.
Rachel reached for his hand. “So. What do we do now?”
His thumb brushed her knuckles, eyes gleaming. “Anything we wish.”
She grinned, heart full. “Good. Because I’ve got plans. Dessert first. Then you.”
“A bold challenge,” he murmured. “And one I intend to win.”
CHAPTER 22
The clang of steel on wood echoed across Greystone’s lists as Rachel’s knife buried itself in the target with a satisfyingthunk. She yanked it free, muttered something unladylike, and threw again—harder this time. The blade quivered in the center ring, but instead of pride, a knot of restless dread twisted deeper in her chest.
“Another,” Hugo said, handing her a second knife. He watched her stance with the critical eye of a drillmaster, his beard braided with a bit of pink ribbon. “Though if I didn’t know better, lass, I’d say you’re trying to gut your worries, not the target.”
She snorted. “Maybe I am.” She threw again. Dead center. And still her pulse hammered, her throat tight.
It had been weeks since the storm, weeks since she had chosen Tristan, weeks since Lady Jacquetta had swept in with justice and spices and smug political power. And yet Rachel couldn’t shake the gnawing fear that something—or someone—would rip it all away.
A rustle of movement at the edge of the yard made her glance over just in time to see a familiar cat trotting toward them, tail high, green eyes smug as sin. Sir Whiskerbottom dropped something at her boots with the flourish of a king bestowing tribute.
“Oh, not another dead mouse,” she groaned, wiping sweat from her brow.
But it wasn’t a mouse. It was a ragged scrap of paper, edges torn, colors faded. Rachel bent, picked it up—then froze.
Because it wasn’t parchment. It wasn’t medieval at all.
It was glossy brochure stock.
The heading read:Medieval Feasts and Follies: A Modern Reappraisal.And beneath it were words that made her stomach drop through the soles of her boots.
Her words.
A snarky, too-modern-for-the-14th-century critique of a banquet at Lord Eston’s estate:“The venison tasted like despair wearing rosemary’s perfume, and if I’d had to endure one more goblet of watered wine, I’d have committed treason myself.”
