She tripped on an uneven flagstone and stumbled forward, catching herself on the wall.
“—the sentiment is the same,” she finished, face burning. “I’m also clumsy. Did I mention that? Legendarily so. Once knocked an entire display case of Roman pottery off its pedestal. They still talk about it in the conservation department.”
They descended a spiral staircase—Elodie kept one hand on the wall the entire way, hyperaware of the worn stone steps and the complete absence of handrails or adequate lighting—and emerged into the great hall.
It was even more impressive in daylight. The massive hearth crackled with a fire, but morning light streamed through high windows to illuminate the space. Trestle tables lined the hall, and people sat eating—servants and guardsmen, from the look of their clothes, grabbing bread, cheese, and ale before starting their day.
Everyone stopped talking when Elodie appeared.
“Right,” she murmured. “Still the local curiosity, then.” She caught a few of them crossing themselves, and others kept looking at her shoulders, likely looking for the wings from her costume. Guess gossip traveled quickly in a castle.
Marian guided her to a seat at one of the lower tables—not the high table at the far end, she noticed, though she wasn’t sure if that was protocol or kindness. A servant appeared with the same bread, hard cheese, and a cup of weak ale as the rest of the inhabitants of the hall were eating and drinking.
“Is there—” She stopped herself just in time.Tea. You were about to ask for tea. Tea that won’t reach England for another five hundred years.“Is there anything else? To drink, I mean?”
“Water, my lady. Or milk, if cook has any fresh.”
“Ale is fine. Ale is perfect. Very... fortifying.”
She ate quickly, trying to ignore the glances and whispers. The bread was coarse but fresh, the cheese sharp and crumbly, the ale better than she’d expected. Simple food, but her body practically sang with relief at having something substantial in her stomach.
I can do this, she told herself.One meal at a time. One day at a time. I can figure this out. There has to be a way to go back.
Marian hovered nearby, clearly uncertain what to do with her unusual charge. Elodie was about to attempt a conversation when two boys of perhaps eight or nine came barrelling through the hall, nearly knocking over a serving girl in their haste.
“—said he took down three men at once!”
“That’s nothing. My brother says the Silent Reaper once killed ten bandits without making a sound.”
“He can’t make sounds, stupid. That’s the whole point.”
“I know that! I meant—oh, forget it. Come on, they’ll be starting soon!”
The boys disappeared through a door at the far end of the hall, still arguing.
The Silent Reaper. Lord Gareth.
Elodie was on her feet before she’d consciously decided to move.
“My lady?” Marian called after her. “Where are you?—”
“I just want to see,” Elodie said over her shoulder, already weaving between the tables, stuffing the last bit of bread and cheese in her mouth. “You don’t have to come. I’ll find my way back. Probably. Eventually.”
She followed the boys through the door, down a short corridor, and out into the bright morning light of the courtyard.
The lists. Elodie had read about them, seen the lists at other castles, studied illuminated manuscripts depicting knights at practice. But nothing had prepared her for the real thing.
The training yard stretched before her, a rectangle of packed earth surrounded by low wooden fencing. Morning mist still clung to the edges, giving the scene an otherworldly quality—like something from a dream, or a painting, or possibly a fever hallucination brought on by questionable ale. But it wasn’t a dream. It was violently, viscerally real.
At the centre of the yard, surrounded by a loose ring of soldiers, stood Gareth. He was fighting three men at once.
Elodie’s mouth fell open. She tried to close it. Failed. She’d expected brutality. Some gruesome medieval display of hacking and slashing, all grunting effort and brute force. What she saw was something else entirely. Grace was the word that came to her, yet it felt utterly inadequate for what she was witnessing.
Gareth moved through his opponents like water around stone—fluid, unhurried, inevitable. His dark hair was pulled back from his face, exposing the hard line of his jaw and the brutal scar that ran from beneath his ear across his throat. He wore a simple linen shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and leather bracers on his forearms. No armour. No helm. Just muscle and steel and a focus so absolute it was impossible to look away.
One of the soldiers lunged. Gareth sidestepped without seeming to move at all, letting the blade slide past him like he’d known exactly where it would be before it got there. His own sword came up—not a wild swing, but precise, economical movement—and caught the man’s weapon at the hilt. With a flick of his wrist, the soldier was disarmed, his sword clattering to the packed earth.
“Wow,” Elodie whispered.
