CHAPTER 4
Rachel let herself be dragged across the muddy courtyard in a daze, her brain still trying to process what Sir Broody McScowlface had just told her.
The number kept bouncing around in her skull like a pinball, refusing to land anywhere that made sense. July 1475. As in, before Columbus. Before Shakespeare. Before indoor plumbing.
“Oh no,” she whispered, stumbling over loose stones. “No, no, no, no, no.”
The cookbook. That stupid, beautiful, three-hundred-dollar cookbook she’d been so smug about winning.A Treatise on the Mystical Art of Cookery.She should have known something was up whenYeOldeBookWyrmhad stopped bidding at two-fifty. She should have known when it smelled like roses and secrets and possibly ancient curses.
“I gloated,” she said to no one, to the universe, to whatever cosmic force had a sense of humor this twisted. “I actually gloated about getting a deal on a priceless magical artifact.”
“Cease your muttering,” Tristan growled, his grip firm but not painful on her arm.
“Save your breath for explanations that might serve you better.”
Explanations. Right.Hi everyone, I’m from the future and I think a cursed cookbook tossed me through timeseemed like a great way to get burned at the stake. Did they burn witches in 1475? She was pretty sure they burned witches in 1475.
The castle loomed ahead of them, all gray stone and narrow windows that looked more like defensive slits than anything meant to let in light. Smoke curled from the chimneys, carrying the scent of burning wood and something that might have been meat. Or might have been something she didn’t want to think about too hard. Her mouth fell open. It looked like at least a third of the roof was completely gone. Was this the medieval equivalent of living in your car?
Tristan hauled her through an arched doorway and into what could only be the great hall, and her modern sensibilities immediately went into full revolt.
The smell hit her first. A combination of smoke, unwashed bodies, wet wool, and something that might generously be called “rustic cooking.” Torches flickered along the walls, casting dancing shadows that made everything look like a particularly aggressive Renaissance fair. The floor was covered in what looked like old straw mixed with... she didn’t want to know what it was mixed with.
“Welcome to the Middle Ages,” she muttered under her breath. “Where the air quality is questionable, and the hygiene is optional.”
Several people were scattered around the hall, and every single one of them stopped what they were doing to stare at her with expressions ranging from suspicion to outright horror as a few crossed themselves.
“Saints preserve us,” thundered a voice from near the massive fireplace. “What manner of creature have you brought among us, Tristan?”
The speaker was built like a tree trunk with enormous arms, a long red beard and leather clothing that looked like it had seen actual battle. He held what appeared to be a tankard of something that definitely wasn’t coffee, and his eyes were the blue of summer skies. Despite his intimidating size, there was something almost friendly in his expression—like a golden retriever who happened to be the size of a small house. Rachel noticed he kept unconsciously touching his left shoulder, rolling it slightly as if testing an old injury.
“Hugo,” Tristan said by way of introduction, “meet our... guest.”
Five stars for intimidating presence,Rachel thought automatically,minus two for what appears to be a complete lack of personal grooming standards. Would recommend for mercenary work, not dinner parties.
“Guest?” A woman’s voice cut through the air like a blade through silk. “That’s no guest. That’s trouble in unholy garments.”
Rachel turned to see a tall, gaunt woman gliding across the floors, like she was an extra in a horror movie. Her gray hair was pulled back severely under what looked like a white cloth hat, and her pale eyes didn’t miss a thing as they raked over Rachel’s appearance. Her fingers were stained with something dark—hopefully herbs, probably something more sinister. Around her neck hung a small pendant that looked suspiciously like a tooth.
“Mistress Caldwell,” Tristan said, and there was warning in his voice. “Our apothecary, who knows much of herbs and healing.”
“And keeper of proper humors in this godforsaken place,” she corrected sharply, absently touching that tooth pendant. “Though ’tis clear we have concerns far beyond balanced humors this day.” Her gaze lingered on Rachel’s jeans with the expression of someone who’d discovered a particularly offensive insect. “Foreign influences bring naught but sorrow. I’ve seen it before.”
Two stars for bedside manner,Rachel assessed,but probably excellent at her job if you can get past the whole ‘suspicious of everything’ vibe. The kind of server who’d remember your allergies but judge you for ordering dessert.
“What in the name of all that’s holy—” Another voice joined the chorus of disapproval, this one high and quavering with outrage. A rotund man in brown robes emerged from the shadows, his face red with what appeared to be either exertion or righteous indignation. His fingers were permanently stained with ink, and he kept making little tutting sounds under his breath as if he couldn’t help himself. “Those are... those are...”
“Trousers,” Rachel supplied helpfully. “Jeans, technically. Levi’s, if you want to get specific.”
Father Clement—because this had to be Father Clement, no one else could look that personally offended by her existence—made a sound like a dying goose. His ink-stained fingers fluttered anxiously against his robes. “Tut, tut, tut! Harlot’s garments! Abomination! She flaunts her limbs like a—like a?—”
“Like a woman who believes in practical clothing?” Rachel suggested. The priest looked like he might faint. Or call for an exorcism. Possibly both. The tutting sounds increased in frequency and volume.
One star for tolerance,Rachel decided,but clearly passionate about his work. The type of restaurant manager who’d have fourteen different rules about proper uniform standards and enforce them all.
“Ooh, what’s that shiny thing?”
A new voice piped up from somewhere near ankle level. Rachel looked down to see what appeared to be a ten-year-old boy who’d been dragged backwards through a hedge and then possibly trampled by something large. His hair stuck up at impossible angles, his clothes were more patches than original fabric, and his grin revealed a gap where at least one tooth used to live.
