Chapter 6 #2
They entered a great hall that belonged in a museum.
High ceilings disappeared into smoky shadows.
A massive hearth dominated one wall, fire roaring against the chill from the stone.
Rushes covered the stone floor—she could smell them, herbs mixed with something less pleasant—and trestle tables lined the space, a few servants eating a late meal who scattered at their entrance.
The lord moved immediately to the corner nearest the hearth, positioning himself with his back to the stone wall. A fighter’s instinct, Elodie thought—her brain still cataloging details even through her shock. He could see every entrance from there. Every potential threat.
The older man dispatched orders. “Hot water. Food. Have someone prepare the east chamber. And for the love of heaven, get Lady Margaret’s clothes—”
“I’m not—” Elodie’s voice cracked. She tried again. “I’m not a lady. And I don’t—I don’t understand what’s happening.” A thought snagged. “Who is Lady Margaret?”
Bertram’s expression softened with something like grief. “Lord Gareth’s sister. She passed two winters ago, but her things remain. You’re of a size with her, I think.” He glanced at the lord, whose jaw had tightened almost imperceptibly. “She would have wanted them put to use.”
The lord made a sharp gesture—permission, Elodie thought, though the movement carried an edge of pain.
“Perhaps,” Bertram said carefully, “we should sit down.”
They gave her wine. It was sour, nothing like what she was used to, but the warmth helped.
They gave her bread and cheese and some kind of cured meat, and she discovered she was ravenous despite everything.
The lord watched her eat, saying nothing, and somehow his silence was worse than his questions would have been.
She noticed his gaze kept dropping to her hands. Every time she reached for bread, lifted her cup, gestured while she spoke—his eyes tracked the movement with an intensity that might have been unnerving if it weren’t so precise. Like a soldier watching for weapons. Or something else entirely.
When she’d finished, the steward—Bertram, he’d introduced himself as—cleared his throat.
“My lady. Forgive my asking, but... where have you come from?”
“London.” The word felt like a lie, even though it was true. “I was at a party. A May Day party at Baldridge Manor. There was a storm, and I was in the garden, and I fell, and then the woods...” She gestured helplessly at the hall. “Now I am here.”
Bertram’s face remained carefully neutral. “Baldridge Manor. I don’t know of any manor by that name.”
“It’s in the country. A few hours from London. The owner is Lady Baldridge. She collects medieval artifacts.” She heard herself and stopped. Medieval. She was describing the past to someone living in it.
“What year is it?” The question came out before she could stop it.
A pause as Bertram blinked at her, before saying quietly, “The Year of Our Lord eleven hundred and ninety-two.”
The wine churned in her stomach. 1192. Eight hundred and two years before she’d been born. Eight hundred years before electricity, antibiotics, women’s suffrage, the discovery of DNA—
She’d left a May Day party. She’d arrived on what must also be May Day, or close to it—the air had the softness of late spring, and she’d noticed wildflowers blooming along the road, even through her panic. The same season. The same turning of the year.
But eight centuries earlier.
“I need—excuse me—”
She made it to a corner before she was sick.
When she finished heaving, someone pressed a damp cloth into her hand.
She wiped her face and looked up to find the lord watching her from across the hall.
He hadn’t moved from his position against the wall, but his hands had stilled at his sides, fingers curled tight.
Then he turned away. Abruptly. His shoulders rigid as he strode toward a side door.
“My lord—” Bertram started.
But he was already gone.
Bertram appeared at her elbow, his weathered face kind. “He doesn’t speak,” he said. “My lord Gareth. Hasn’t uttered a word in three years.”
“Why?”
Bertram’s expression flickered. “Some say it’s a curse. Others say it’s a vow. Some say his voice was stolen by the devil himself.” He paused. “What I know is that he was nearly killed by someone he trusted, and when he healed... he was silent.”
She looked at the door where he’d vanished. “He left.”
“Aye.” Bertram’s voice was gentle. “He’s not comfortable with...” He seemed to search for the right word. “Vulnerability. His own or others. Witnessing distress, it—” He stopped, shook his head. “That’s not my tale to tell. But he’s a good man, my lady. Better than most know.”
He made a gesture to a waiting servant, who stepped forward. “You’re to have the east chamber,” Bertram continued. “My lord signed before he went—you are under his protection. For as long as you need.”
For as long as I need.
They led her to a small room—clean, sparse, with a narrow bed made with rough linens.
A single window looked out on darkness. Someone had left a basin of water and a pile of folded cloth that turned out to be a plain wool gown.
Lady Margaret’s gown. A dead woman’s clothes.
When the door closed behind her, Elodie stood in the center of the room and waited for the walls to stop spinning.
Somehow she had fallen more than eight hundred years through time. To the past and was now in a medieval castle. Without her phone, her ID, her credit cards, her anything. The necklace was gone. Vanished. And she had no idea how to go back to her own time.
Had Beltane brought her here? Would she have to wait until the next May Day to go back? If so, it meant a full year trapped in a world she’d only ever studied from the safe distance of time.
The panic came in waves. She rode the first one, breathless, hands shaking. Rode the second, tears streaming down her face. Rode the third, sobbing so hard her ribs ached. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and forced herself to think.
She was an archaeologist who studied the medieval period for a living. If anyone was equipped to survive being dropped into 1192, it was someone who understood how people lived, what they believed, and how to navigate their world.
You can do this. You’ve read hundreds of primary sources. You know the period. You know the culture. You can adapt.
She reached up to touch her throat where the necklace had rested.
“Okay,” she whispered to the empty room. “Okay. I’m in 1192. I’ve got a year—maybe—before the next May Day. A year to figure this out.” She took a shaky breath. “I study medieval history. I’ve got this. It’s fine. It’ll be an adventure.”
She didn’t sound convinced.
Outside her window, she could hear the sounds of the castle settling for the night. Distant voices. The clatter of dishes. Someone laughing.
The lord hadn’t laughed. Hadn’t spoken. Had simply looked at her with those unreadable gray eyes, watched her hands like they held some secret he was trying to decipher, and offered her shelter without asking anything in return. Then he’d fled rather than witness her falling apart.
She should be terrified of him. Everyone else clearly was—she’d seen how the servants flinched when he passed, how even Bertram measured his words carefully. But when she closed her eyes, all she could see was his hand, reaching for hers in the rain.
Tomorrow, she decided, she would find a way to communicate with him. If he couldn’t speak, perhaps there was another way. Her mind drifted to Jennifer, to the sign language they’d learned together, to the idea that words weren’t the only bridge between two people.
She’d noticed him watching her hands. Maybe that meant something. Perhaps he was already looking for a bridge too.
The fire crackled low in the small hearth, and somewhere beyond her door, she heard footsteps pause—just for a moment—before moving on.
She didn’t know if it was him. But she found herself hoping it was.