The lord made a sharp gesture—permission, Elodie thought, though the movement carried an edge of pain.
“Perhaps,” Bertram said carefully, “we should sit down.”
They gave her wine. It was sour, nothing like what she was used to, but the warmth helped. They gave her bread and cheese and some kind of cured meat, and she discovered she was ravenous despite everything. The lord watched her eat, saying nothing, and somehow his silence was worse than his questions would have been.
She noticed his gaze kept dropping to her hands. Every time she reached for bread, lifted her cup, gestured while she spoke—his eyes tracked the movement with an intensity that might have been unnerving if it weren’t so precise. Like a soldier watching for weapons. Or something else entirely.
When she’d finished, the steward—Bertram, he’d introduced himself as—cleared his throat.
“My lady. Forgive my asking, but... where have you come from?”
“London.” The word felt like a lie, even though it was true. “I was at a party. A May Day party at Baldridge Manor. There was a storm, and I was in the garden, and I fell, and then the woods...” She gestured helplessly at the hall. “Now I am here.”
Bertram’s face remained carefully neutral. “Baldridge Manor. I don’t know of any manor by that name.”
“It’s in the country. A few hours from London. The owner is Lady Baldridge. She collects medieval artifacts.” She heard herself and stopped.Medieval.She was describing the past to someone living in it.
“What year is it?” The question came out before she could stop it.
A pause as Bertram blinked at her, before saying quietly, “The Year of Our Lord eleven hundred and ninety-two.”
The wine churned in her stomach. 1192. Eight hundred and two years before she’d been born. Eight hundred years before electricity, antibiotics, women’s suffrage, the discovery of DNA?—
She’d left a May Day party. She’d arrived on what must also be May Day, or close to it—the air had the softness of late spring, and she’d noticed wildflowers blooming along the road, even through her panic. The same season. The same turning of the year.
But eight centuries earlier.
“I need—excuse me?—”
She made it to a corner before she was sick. When she finished heaving, someone pressed a damp cloth into her hand. She wiped her face and looked up to find the lord watching her from across the hall. He hadn’t moved from his position against the wall, but his hands had stilled at his sides, fingers curled tight.
Then he turned away. Abruptly. His shoulders rigid as he strode toward a side door.
“My lord—” Bertram started.
But he was already gone.
Bertram appeared at her elbow, his weathered face kind. “He doesn’t speak,” he said. “My lord Gareth. Hasn’t uttered a word in three years.”
“Why?”
Bertram’s expression flickered. “Some say it’s a curse. Others say it’s a vow. Some say his voice was stolen by the devil himself.” He paused. “What I know is that he was nearly killed by someone he trusted, and when he healed... he was silent.”
She looked at the door where he’d vanished. “He left.”
“Aye.” Bertram’s voice was gentle. “He’s not comfortable with...” He seemed to search for the right word. “Vulnerability. His own or others. Witnessing distress, it—” He stopped, shook his head. “That’s not my tale to tell. But he’s a good man, my lady. Better than most know.”
He made a gesture to a waiting servant, who stepped forward. “You’re to have the east chamber,” Bertram continued. “My lord signed before he went—you are under his protection. For as long as you need.”
For as long as I need.
They led her to a small room—clean, sparse, with a narrow bed made with rough linens. A single window looked out on darkness. Someone had left a basin of water and a pile of folded cloth that turned out to be a plain wool gown. Lady Margaret’s gown. A dead woman’s clothes. When the door closed behind her, Elodie stood in the center of the room and waited for the walls to stop spinning.
Somehow she had fallen more than eight hundred years through time. To the past and was now in a medieval castle. Without her phone, her ID, her credit cards, her anything. The necklace was gone. Vanished. And she had no idea how to go back to her own time.
Had Beltane brought her here? Would she have to wait until the next May Day to go back? If so, it meant a full year trapped in a world she’d only ever studied from the safe distance of time.
The panic came in waves. She rode the first one, breathless, hands shaking. Rode the second, tears streaming down her face.Rode the third, sobbing so hard her ribs ached. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and forced herself to think.
