“Simeon.” Michael warned.
“No. ’Tis all right,” Charlotte stopped any further admonishment. “He speaks the truth. But just because he knows something about me does not mean—”
From behind his back, Mr. Simeon produced a small, soft blanket, knitted for her by Rosie, when Charlotte was a babe. She’d had it until she was eleven and then one day, not long after Rosie was thrown out, it disappeared. Charlotte never thought she’d see it again and now here it was as if brand new. “Where did you get this?” she asked him, holding it up to her face and remembering its comforting softness.
“I took it from your pram while your nurse had you out for a stroll. I heard her telling another woman about your mother. Your father, she said, was broken-hearted by his wife’s treatment of you. He took you with him to the courts when he could.”
That was true. He had taken her on many occasions, but she never liked that side of the law. And began waiting outside for him. That was where she had met Preston.
All at once, she wanted to weep. Her blanket from Rosie, her father—no. This could not be real. “What kind of masterful trick is this, Mr. Simeon?” she demanded, handing him back the blanket.
“It is no trick, dear girl. I was cursed by an old hag to leap through time and never stay too long in one place. It’s no way for a bond to grow between two people.”
He looked so dejected that, for a moment, Charlotte felt terribly sorry for him. “Is there no way to break the curse?”
“No. But I have enjoyed the days of my life otherwise. I have met almost everyone!” His smile was wide and genuine. All his smiles were. She liked Mr. Simeon. Was he telling the truth? No. It was too farfetched.
But her blanket.
“But no. There is no way to break the curse. At least, I don’t know of one as of yet.” His grin remained.
“Well, if there is,” she told him, “Michael here is adetective. I’m sure he can discover the way.”
“Thank you for your confidence in me,” Michael told her. His deep voice seduced her kneecaps off. Her smile warmed, as did his.
Mr. Simeon cleared his throat. “Did Michael tell you about the brooch?”
She nodded. They could have rehearsed the stories. Who was Michael Pendridge truly? “’Twas bequeathed to him,” she told him. “He read the name Pendragon on it and arrived here. Do I have it all?”
“The important stuff,” Michael answered, watching her reaction to things. He was skilled at finding deception. She had to use more caution with him. She didn’t smile at or with him unless she genuinely felt something.
“The brooch belonged to King Arthur Pendragon,” Mr. Simeon told her.
“But those stories are not true. He is just a legend,” she argued. This was sounding more like nonsense every moment. He’d deceived her eyes and must have found her blanket somewhere here in the keep.
“He is real, Lady Charlotte,” Mr. Simeon assured her. “His knights of the Round Table existed—still exist on a different realm than the one we know.”
“You still with us, Charlotte?”
Michael’s resonant voice seeped into her flesh and bone, low, like a drum or pulsebeat. She nodded and didn’t dare trust herself to look at him without completely losing herself.
“Arthur,” Mr. Simeon continued, “used to live in Avalon with his knights and his wife and the sisters.”
“The sisters?” Charlotte managed.
“There are nine. They sometimes go by different names. But you may know of one. She is called Morgan. It has recently been verified that it was Morgan who fashioned the brooch. She made it in order to find Arthur if he ever left Avalon—as he had once before when he came here.”
“You didn’t tell me all of this,” Michael brooded at their guest.
“There was no time so I’m telling you now.”
“What about Merlin?”
Both men turned to face her. “What did you say?” Mr. Simeon asked.
“Merlin,” she repeated. “The wizard. I have read the stories.”
“The wizard,” Mr. Simeon repeated hollowly. “I…I don’t know.” He laughed at himself, but slightly. “I had completely forgotten about him. Odd.”
