The word sat oddly these days.
Ashcombe still stood, but only just. The eastern wall wore a patchwork of new timber where the old stone had failed. Half the cottages in the village needed repair before winter. Three widows depended on grain from stores already stretched thin. Even the weather seemed determined to test them, grey clouds hanging low over the valley as though considering whether to drown what little remained.
The morning smelled of damp stone, horse, woodsmoke, and fresh-cut timber. Somewhere near the kitchens a woman was scolding a boy. Hob was arguing with one of the masons. A dog barked near the gatehouse.
Normal sounds.
Living sounds.
Then the screaming started.
Not the ordinary racket of the stables, nor the outraged protest of a horse objecting to poor treatment, but the stableboys. Three of them by the sound. Shrill enough to wake saints and loud enough to suggest either fire or stupidity.
Given experience, Thomas put his money on stupidity.
The sound had him moving before conscious thought caught up, old battlefield habits taking command. His hand found the hilt at his hip as he crossed the bailey at a dead run, mud sucking at his boots while the half-mended east wall flashed past on his left. By the time he reached the stable, his pulse had quickened and every sense was alert for trouble.
The door crashed open beneath his shoulder.
“Bloody hell,” he barked. “What is the matter with you?”
The three stableboys stood pressed against the far stalls in a terrified knot.
They pointed. Thomas followed their gaze to see a woman in the hay.
For one awful heartbeat his stomach dropped.Dead. Another one.
The old certainty struck hard and fast. Another body. Another face. Another person he had failed to save. Then she coughed.
The sound exploded from her, followed by a groan and a sharp intake of breath that lifted her chest.
Alive. Thank the saints.
Thomas let his hand ease from the sword as he looked properly. And discovered the boys' terror might not be entirely unreasonable.
The gown was the first problem. It was blue, the color of a robin’s egg. The fabric caught the light in strange ways, shimmering like water beneath a summer sky, and it ended scandalously above her knees. Below it were bare legs and the most ridiculous shoes he had encountered in thirty-four years of life.
The heels were narrow spikes scarcely thicker than nails. No horse would tolerate such nonsense. Neither should a woman.
Her hair provided the second problem. It was a deep fox-red, brighter than any village girl's, pinned up in some complicated arrangement that appeared to be losing a battle with reality. Curls escaped everywhere, tumbling around her face and shoulders as though they had simply given up.
Then she started talking.
“…okay,” she muttered. “Okay. I’m okay. That was definitely not ideal.”
Thomas frowned. The accent was wrong. Not foreign exactly. English, perhaps, but twisted into sounds he had never heard before.
“I’m fine. Probably. People faint all the time. It’s a thing. Maybe dehydration. Maybe stress or too much to drink. At least I’m still in England.”
England?
The word sounded familiar and strange in her mouth.
Her eyes blinked open. Green. The color of emeralds.
They found the rafters first, then the loft, then the horses, then the three stableboys who looked ready to flee for France, and finally Thomas standing over her with one hand still resting on his sword.
Every trace of color vanished from her face.
