Eight months ago I’d had central heating, grocery delivery apps, and a tiny apartment in Boston with a radiator that hissed like an offended cat every November.
Now I was standing barefoot on medieval rushes wondering whether the kitchens had enough cinnamon for Christmas pastries.
Time travel, apparently, destroyed perspective first.
A knock sounded at my door before I could spiral further into existential crisis.
“Enter,” I called.
The maidservant Agnes pushed inside carrying folded wool in her arms. “Lady Harper,” she said, already moving toward the bed.
“The Baron’s lady sister has sent greenery for the hall. She says if the garlands are not hung before sunset the servants will complain all twelve days.”
I blinked. “The servants complain about holiday timing?”
“They complain about everything.” Agnes looked scandalized I’d needed this explained. “That is why God invented holidays. So people may complain festively.”
I laughed before I could stop myself.
Agnes paused. Over the months her fear of me had faded from outright suspicion into cautious affection. The first week at Thames she’d crossed herself every time I used unfamiliar words. Last week she’d smuggled extra honey cakes into my chamber because she thought I looked tired.
“Your hair is curling again,” she observed critically. “The damp air does it.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“It suits you.”
Agnes gave me the sort of look usually reserved for children and mildly concussed soldiers. “Wear the green wool today,” she ordered. “The one Geoffrey likes.”
Then she exited before I could recover enough dignity to object.
The great hall smelled like pine boughs, beeswax, roasted meat, and woodsmoke by midday.
Someone had woven ivy through the rafters. Evergreen branches framed the dais while servants hurried back and forth carrying trenchers, candles, winter apples, and enough bread to feed a minor kingdom. Musicians tuned pipes near the hearth while several children belonging to retainers darted recklessly between tables under increasingly futile adult supervision.
The castle felt alive in a way it hadn’t since before Rochester.
War still hung over everything. Men still carried injuries. Riders still arrived mud-streaked with news from the south. But Christmastide had wrapped itself stubbornly around Thames, warm and golden as candlelight against stone. And somehow, I had become part of it.
“Lady Harper!”
I turned as the steward nearly collided with me while balancing account rolls beneath one arm.
“We require your judgment.”
“That sentence continues alarming me every time someone says it.”
“The grain stores from Reading,” he said urgently. “The Baron says we are to preserve double winter reserve as you advised, but the kitchen insists that amount will spoil before Candlemas.”
Three months ago no one at Thames would have cared what I thought about grain preservation. Now the steward was chasing me across the hall over storage disputes.
I followed him toward the side tables where the Baron stood speaking with Geoffrey and Aldwin over an open account ledger.
The Baron glanced up as I approached. “You were correct about the roads,” he said without preamble.
It took me a second to follow the conversational leap. “The snow?”
“The southern routes became impassable two weeks earlier than expected. Several neighboring holdings failed to stock properly before the freeze.” His mouth flattened slightly. “They are now paying absurd prices for winter grain.”
