Chapter 2
Two
London, England
Present Day
Samuel de Piaget silently fitted the key into the door of his London flat, then put his ear to the wood.
Hearing nothing, he eased the door open and waited a bit longer.
When that was met with yet more silence instead of the whisper of a blade coming from a sheath or a ghostly bellow of displeasure, he hopped inside his flat and quickly shut the door behind him.
He locked it for good measure, then leaned back against it to catch his breath.
He had hoped a run would provide him with much needed clarity about several things, but all his lengthy scamper through the posher streets of Her Maj’s back yard had accomplished was to leave him desperately hoping there was something edible left in the fridge.
At the moment he suspected that if he managed to sort his difficulties before they sorted him, he would be very fortunate indeed.
He pushed away from the door, tossed his keys onto the table next to the container that currently housed umbrellas instead of more useful items, then headed down the passageway toward the kitchens to see if sustenance might indeed exist there.
His phone buzzed suddenly from the pocket of his track suit jacket, alerting him to the unpleasant fact that he’d gotten a text message.
He knew without looking that it was from the stage manager of the very-far-off-the-Avon theater troupe he was a part of, no doubt insisting he come solve whatever disasters were brewing.
Why Callum thought he was in a position to solve anything was only the beginning of the troubles brewing in Stratford.
Another round of outdoor Shakespeare had seemed like a fine idea to all concerned the previous fall, but the start of the Great English Summer’s weather had been absolutely awful.
And it certainly wasn’t as if he could invite the entire cast to spend a week in an era when a body’s ability to keep his feet under him whilst fighting in a slippery bog meant the difference between living and dying, could he?
Added to that was, in no particular order, a highly recommended costumer who banged on endlessly about details he couldn’t openly correct, a newly hired artistic director who seemed determined to redo the Bard’s finest works in completely unhinged interpretations, and a lead actress who dropped increasingly unsubtle hints about wanting to date him.
Actually, he suspected she wanted to smother him in a bucket of era-inaccurate costume embellishments on her way to taking over the running of their little troupe, but that was definitely something he couldn’t fix.
For all anyone knew, he was simply a regular bloke lucky enough to be following his dream of being on stage and he fully intended to keep it that way.
He was going to need to have a delicate conversation with Callum about what he might or might not have overheard that he shouldn’t have, but perhaps on the morrow.
Sam turned his phone off for a little peace, shoved it back into his pocket, then walked into the kitchen where he came face-to-face with Problem Number Two.
His laptop lay on the worktable, open and vulnerable. Perhaps that could have been overlooked, but the gentleman dressed in Elizabethan finery and preparing to bring the bejeweled hilt of his rapier down onto the keyboard absolutely could not.
“My lord, wait!” Sam exclaimed, rushing forward with his hands outstretched.
Fulbert de Piaget looked at him coolly. “Stand aside, nevvy, and let me be about me instructions to yer wee beastie here.”
Sam would have hip-checked his relative aside, but his parents had raised him to properly respect his elders.
That, and it would have done him no good at all given Lord Fulbert’s less-than-corporeal status.
He made his self-appointed uncle a polite bow, then rounded the table and looked down at his computer.
It was still running, thankfully, but hopelessly mired in too many tabs open with too many videos trying to play at once.
He had no one to blame for that but himself given that he’d been the one to teach his relative how to use a certain video platform to search out pet rescue videos and people falling over things—not that those two things were related but he was nothing if not accommodating where ghosts were concerned.
Telling Lord Fulbert his password in order to spare himself waking in the middle of the night to find that same specter standing at the foot of his bed, whingeing about mortals’ vexing need for sleep that left a discriminating shade unamused and not-entertained, had seemed like the most sensible thing to do at the time.
As was currently snatching up his laptop before a sword hilt came down and perhaps did some damage. Fulbert sent him a mighty look of displeasure.
“What do ye, young Samuel?” he demanded. He tapped the kitchen table briskly with the point of his sword. “Put the blasted thing down and let me remind it who is master here.”
Sam cradled his laptop to his chest and attempted his most winsome smile.
It had always worked on his mother—well, it had worked on her less often than he would have liked so he likely needed to pop home sooner rather than later and see if he’d improved his powers of persuasion any.
The material point was that it was definitely not working on Fulbert.
“But, my lord,” Sam said, gesturing at the stickers adorning the case of his machine. “Look at these quotes from William Shakespeare. You fancy the Bard, don’t you?”
Fulbert drew himself up and huffed. “Of course I do. He’s from me era, lad, not yers.”
“But I have a deep and abiding fondness for the pithiness of his words,” Sam said, wondering if he might manage to back away slowly and then do a runner.
That strategy worked brilliantly for escaping dodgy paranormal situations, but that he and Theo even needed such a thing in the first place was a bit pants—
“Young Samuel!”
Sam pulled himself back to the disaster at hand. “My apologies, Lord Fulbert. You were saying?”
“Put the blasted nether-region-topper back down upon the table and do what ye must to remove the irksome spinning orb.”
Sam considered. “And your sword, my lord Fulbert?”
Fulbert resheathed his rapier, then folded his arms over his doublet. He continued to scowl.
Sam imagined that was the best he was going to have from that quarter, so he put the computer down, cleaned up what needed attention, and tried not to be distracted by wondering about the divots already made along the edges of his keyboard.
He looked at Fulbert. “Is there anything I can find for you, my lord?”
“Seek out the incomings of flights to London on the morrow,” Fulbert said, gesturing imperiously.
Sam shut his mouth when he realized it was hanging open. “Flights, my lord? On planes—”
“Of course on aeroplanes!”
“Might I ask why, my lord?”
“Or ye might not,” Fulbert said with a steely glint in his eye. He considered for a moment or two, then shrugged. “Never ye mind, lad. I’ll terrify someone else into looking whilst ye go have yerself an early night. Wouldn’t want ye to be anything but well-rested for yer adventures upcoming.”
Sam felt something slide down his spine that felt uncomfortably like Fate. Or terror. At the moment, he was beyond trying to distinguish between the two. “My adventures, my lord?”
Fulbert only looked at him with one eyebrow lifted.
“What of a film?” Sam offered, opting for a distraction. “Or perhaps an episode from one of your favorite American television programmes?”
“Tempting,” Fulbert conceded, “but that will have to wait. I’ve work to see accomplished in the real world this eve.” He made his way across the chamber, then paused at the doorway and looked over his shoulder. “I won’t leave yer wee machine unbested later.”
Sam imagined he wouldn’t. He made his ancestor a bow, then tried not to shudder at the sing-songy how ye doin?
that floated back to him, laced as it was with a decidedly Elizabethan twang.
He listened to that fade, then looked around himself desperately for a distraction.
Unfortunately, he found his gaze relentlessly drawn to the final item that made up the chaos of his current life.
A pinboard hung on the only wall large enough to accept its enormous self.
It was usually covered by a set of cabinet doors, but at the moment those doors were open, offering a perfect view of Scotland-Yard-level details about souls needing to be maneuvered into the right place and time for their perfect happily-ever-afters to be realized.
Red string connected dates, times, places, people, families …
it was ridiculously complicated and probably more invasive to Father Time’s calendar than was polite.
Though in his and Theo’s defense, meddling with time hadn’t been anything they’d deliberately set out to do.
It had simply been one random decision that had led to something else to investigate that had landed them in yet another piece of mischief which had through yet more unbelievable events left him standing where he was, hundreds of years out of his proper time, and surrounded by things he had once scarce believed could exist outside his imagination.
He made a half-hearted search for food but found only a tin boasting shortbread that turned out instead to be a collection of disappointing digestives.
They were coated in chocolate, though, so he made do.
He leaned back against the range and munched doggedly until he heard the sound of someone coming into the flat.
Given the ferocity of both the opening and closing of the front door, then the swearing in a version of French that had fallen out of fashion quite some time ago, he deduced that his brother had arrived home.