Here, a man like Belmaine could do lasting damage. He could take Ashcombe, along with the lands, title, and the people from Thomas. It wasn’t like her own time, where it would take an act of parliament to strip a certain former royal couple of their titles. In this time, the king could wave his hand and the deed would be done.
Not to mention, she wasn’t a guest with a return flight, a credit card, and the option of blocking a number. She was a single woman with no family and far too many questions clinging to her like burrs.
A widow, Thomas had called her.
Under my protection.
The words had warmed her when he said them, which was foolish. Worse, they’d followed her all evening, through the hall, during supper, and even as Walter muttered over the accounts, continuing to warm her as Edith snapped instructions, and Alyson fell asleep with her cheek pressed to Amelia’s sleeve.
Under my protection.
It sounded safe. It also sounded like another weight Thomas had no business carrying.
So when the household called it a night, Amelia went looking for the sword.
She took the stub of tallow she’d saved, because apparently she was now the kind of woman who hoarded candle ends like a raccoon with a Costco membership, and crept out of the room as quietly as she could.
She made it three steps before she tripped over her own foot.
“Right,” she whispered. “Excellent. Stealthy medieval ninja. Very impressive.”
It was already raining and she had it all planned. Somewhere in the tower, surely, the sword would be waiting. It would have the same sapphire. She’d prick her finger and bleed on the blade, then she’d wake up, find a phone, and call her mom and cousin to tell them she was fine.
Amelia would hug Bree, she’d even hug her footballer husband. She’d thank every saint she’d ever heard of, including the ones she hadn’t. She’d never complain about Gaz again, even if he spent the rest of his life saying brilliant when he meant mildly acceptable.
She’d go home.
That thought nearly stopped her in the middle of the yard.
Her mother would be frantic by now. Or would she? Did time move the same way? Had Amelia been gone weeks there too, or only a few minutes? Was her phone sitting dead in some patch of wet grass near the ruined tower while her mother called and called and left messages that went nowhere?
She couldn’t think about that. Thinking about her mother was a trap door. One wrong step and she’d be at the bottom of it, broken and useless.
The tower smelled of damp stone, dust, old straw, and mice. Not recent mice, she hoped, though she wasn’t taking a vote. The flame on her stub of tallow trembled as she stepped inside, throwing long shadows over barrels, broken baskets, a cracked chest, and a wooden frame that looked as if it had once been part of a loom.
Something rustled.
“Please be spiders,” she whispered. “And not rats. I’m willing to negotiate with spiders.”
Amelia decided not to investigate. A woman had to have standards.
She searched the tower once quickly, heart beating so hard she could feel it in her throat. Then she searched again slowly, on her knees, holding the little flame to every shadow.
There was no sword. Some part of her knew, deep down, that she wouldn’t find it.
There was a cracked bell lying on its side like some sad, defeated turtle. There was a cracked stool, a rusted hinge, and bundles of rushes gone dry and brittle. A chest with a bit of ripped linen and no lid. There was also the same stone ledge beneath the narrow window.
Amelia stared at it so long her eyes began to burn. She knelt, and ran her hand over the stone. Nothing. No iron brackets. Noold marks where an ancient sword had hung. No fat blue stone. No rusted blade waiting to fling her seven centuries in the right direction.
No way home.
The truth came quietly. That was the worst part. No thunder. No flash of lightning. No dramatic music, which frankly felt rude.
It just arrived with the rain and sat beside her on the cold floor.
The sword must not exist yet. Maybe it hadn’t been forged yet, might not for years. Decades, for all she knew.
Amelia didn’t cry.
