When’s the last time you had any fun?
Elodie thought about it. Really thought. The answer was depressing enough that she didn’t bother typing it out.
I’ll try.
The May Day party. Right. Dr. Morrow said she’d be expected to stay for the festivities, which included the costume party. She’d need to find something to wear. Something that wasn’t ashapeless cardigan or her interview blazer with the coffee stain on the cuff she kept hoping no one would notice.
The tube station swallowed her into its depths, and Elodie let herself be carried along by the crowd, already mentally packing for a weekend of dusty artifacts and eccentric aristocrats. No matter what awaited her at Baldridge Manor, it was better than another week of being reserved, disciplined, and pretending she didn’t believe in magic.
CHAPTER 3
England, Late February 1192 — Three Years Later
The messenger was afraid.Gareth could smell it on him—the sour tang of sweat, the way his hands trembled holding the letter he carried. The man had ridden hard to reach Greywatch, and now he stood in the great hall with his eyes fixed firmly on the floor, refusing to look at the lord who waited in silence for his report.
Not a dolt like the last one.
Gareth took the missive. Broke the seal. Read.
Lord Greywatch, it began. Not Lord de Clare. No one called him by his father’s name anymore. He was simply Greywatch, as if he and the castle had merged into one cold, grey thing.
Raiders have struck again at Benwick village. Three farms burned, livestock stolen, and two men wounded. We request your aid.
Lord Ashworth
Gareth set the letter aside. Looked at the messenger, who was now actively shaking.
He raised one hand and made a gesture. Wait.
The messenger nodded frantically. Gareth turned and strode from the hall, his boots echoing against stone that had never quite learned to feel like home.
Greywatch Castle was a fortress, not a manor. Built to withstand sieges, not to welcome guests. Its walls were thick, its windows narrow, its halls cold even at the best of times—colder still in these last bitter weeks of winter. Frost clung to the arrow slits each morning, and the servants kept fires burning day and night against a chill that seemed to seep from the very stones. The previous lord had died without an heir, and the place had sat empty for years before Richard granted it to Gareth.
Some said it was haunted. Gareth found that fitting.
He found Bertram in the kitchens, arguing with the cook about the evening meal. The old steward turned at his approach, his weathered face creasing with an expression he reserved solely for his lord. Part exasperation, part worry, part something softer that Gareth didn’t want to examine too closely.
“My lord.” Bertram bowed. “I didn’t expect you down from the hall so soon.”
Gareth handed him the letter.
Bertram read it, his lips moving slightly. When he finished, he sighed. “Benwick again. That’s the third raid this month.”
Gareth nodded.
“Will you ride out?”
Another nod.
“How many men?”
Gareth held up one hand, fingers spread.
“Five.” Bertram’s brow furrowed. “Is that enough? You know I trust your judgment, my lord, but if the raiders?—”
Something flickered across Gareth’s face—there and gone, quick as a blade drawn and sheathed. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
Bertram caught himself. “Forgive me. I know you’re more than capable.”
