Chapter 33

Imogen stood on the outer walls of Artane and looked over the sea. It roared endlessly, timelessly, reminding her more painfully than she cared to admit that she was where she was and there was probably no way to get anywhere else.

In a timely fashion, as it were.

“Imogen?”

She jumped a little, then flinched at the sight of the current lord of Artane standing there. Stephen looked far too much like Phillip for her taste, but she forced herself to smile just the same.

“My lord.”

“Stephen, if you don’t mind. I’m not used to the title yet.” He leaned against the wall next to her. “How are you?”

“Fine,” she said automatically.

“No, how are you?” he asked. He smiled. “I’m prying, I know. It honestly isn’t in my nature. Stiff upper lip and all that.”

She sighed. “I feel like I’m dreaming, like this whole thing is a dream. Past, present, future. I can’t tell the difference.”

“Without sounding daft, I’ll say that some of it is Artane,” he said carefully. “There’s something about the place that feels timeless.”

“Phillip says his father calls them paranormal oddities.”

“So I understand.”

She turned and looked at him. “What should I do?”

“Do?” he echoed. “What are you choices?”

“Go back and save him or go forward and lose myself.”

He seemed to consider. “I think going back is too dangerous. I’ve had my own very brief brush with the past and I can say with absolute honesty that when a man comes at you with a sword, he means it. If Phillip didn’t tell you to stay safely here, I’m sure that was an oversight.”

“He said just that.”

“I’m not surprised,” Stephen said seriously. “I’m quite sure he meant it.”

She studied Phillip’s descendant, if that’s how it had all played out, and wondered why he looked to be so... purposeful. “So,” she said, “did you come to tell me that?”

He smiled. “You know, in the Middle Ages, being able to read people was an important skill. Life or death in some cases, I imagine.”

“I have no other skills.”

“Have you had the chance to find that out?”

She opened her mouth to tell him she most certainly had, then realized that maybe that wasn’t exactly the case. “I thought my sister was the only shrink I had to worry about.”

Stephen smiled. “Just an observation. And to answer your question, no, I had another purpose besides trying to arrange your life for you.”

“I can’t wait to hear it.”

“The sword is still gone.”

She frowned. “And why should that mean anything?”

Stephen looked hesitant. “What that means to me is that it isn’t yet in Phillip’s hands. Considering he went back to accomplish that...”

“Oh,” she said, feeling something settle in the pit of her stomach. Then she took a deep breath. “Heather has it.”

He shook his head. “She rang me this morning. Don’t know why, professional courtesy I suppose. I’m not sure if Stephen told you that she’d been assaulted in my car park and the sword stolen. By her brother, Robert.”

The hole in her stomach grew bigger. “I knew, but I didn’t particularly want to think about the ramifications. What do you think Robert is going to do with that sword?”

“Use it as a key to get from place to place, I imagine.” He shrugged. “Or perhaps from time period to time period. I’m a little surprised he didn’t simply stab his sister and have done, but I’m guessing he thinks to go back in time and rearrange things to suit himself. I would do the same, in his shoes.”

“Rewrite the script of his life?”

“Precisely.”

“With himself in the starring role,” she said faintly. “I know the type.” She looked at him. “Then what am I to do about it?”

“Heather believes you are the only one who can put your hands on that sword and send it where it needs to go.”

Imogen looked at him in surprise. “But what of her?”

Stephen shrugged. “She used it to come to the Future, but even though she brought it with her, it’s never again worked for her. Apparently, she’s tried several times. But it worked for you.”

Imogen realized that what felt like a block of ice in her stomach was actually fear. She found that along with that fear came a serious inability to breathe.

“Me?” she managed. “Why me?”

Stephen smiled faintly. “I can’t answer that, I’m afraid. Perhaps we’re here on this rock with a list of things to accomplish and this is an item on your list. Perhaps you were fated to meet Phillip and rescue him. Perhaps you have magical powers we don’t dare examine.”

She smiled in spite of herself. “Well, I think we can discount the last.”

“I suppose so,” he agreed. He glanced at the ocean to his right. “All I know is that England is a magical place. Scotland is more so, I daresay. I’m fortunate to have spent so much time so near the crossroads of both. We are the caretakers of this place for the moment and I almost believe, looking back on it now, that perhaps I was prepared—for lack of a better word—for the roles I’ve taken on.” He smiled at her. “Sorry. The walls tend to leave me more philosophical than I should be.”

“And you think I have any part in any of this?” she asked

“It would seem that way, wouldn’t it?”

She had to take a deep breath. “What should I do?”

“Go save your love.”

“I have no idea how.”

He smiled faintly. “Don’t you?”

“I’m just supposed to go hang out at Haemesburgh, wait until Heather’s brother shows up with Phillip’s sword, then take it away from him?”

“You’re a moviemaker,” Stephen said with a shrug. “Arrange the scene to suit yourself.”

She put her hand over her stomach. “I’ll need a ride.”

“I have one waiting for you downstairs. I’m not sure you’ll need an introduction.”

She took a deep breath, then followed him downstairs, trying simply to keep herself from falling on her face. She was used to sneaking past danger, not confronting it, but maybe it was time that changed.

She did indeed recognize the man in the great hall, slouching negligently against the lord’s table with his hands in his pockets. He saw her, then straightened. He made her a slight bow.

“Miss Maxwell.”

She was somehow utterly unsurprised. She looked at the blond demigod who had stuffed her underwear back in her suitcase, then decided she might make more of an impression if she glared at him.

“Sam or Theo?”

“Aye.”

She scowled. “You aren’t going to tell me, are you?”

“Where would be the sport in that?”

“You’re not too big to punch in the nose, you know.”

The twin, whichever one he was, only smiled and made her another bow before he looked at Stephen. “My lord Artane.”

“I’m feeding you again tonight, aren’t I?” Stephen asked with a sigh.

“After I’ve delivered Miss Maxwell safely to her destination, aye, that would be lovely.”

Stephen shook his head. “My life...” He shook his head again, then reached out his hand. “Imogen, it’s been a pleasure. I don’t know what your plans are, but my hall is always open to you. Please take advantage of that any time you like. I’ll ask Mrs. Gladstone not to pick your pockets on the way in next time.” He looked at the twin, sighed, then walked off.

Imogen looked at her ride. “I need to get to Haemesburgh.”

“Of course.”

“You know things.”

“I might.”

“But you’re not going to tell me about them.”

“Where would be the sport in that? Do you have your wee rucksack to replace the old one?”

“I’ll go get it.”

···

An hour later, she was watching one of Phillip’s younger cousins—she still couldn’t decide which—go off to park his obscenely expensive sports car she was sure he hadn’t stolen. He seemed unconcerned about her safety, which she supposed could have been a good thing or a bad thing. He promised he would be wandering about the courtyard should she feel the need to scream for aid, but he thought she might want to be about her business on her own.

She looked at Haemesburgh’s great hall and wondered if she might be about to get herself killed.

Well, if there was one thing she had, it was a nose for danger, and she didn’t smell any at the moment. She walked into the great hall, let her eyes adjust, then paused to still her own racing heart so she could see if there might be anyone else in the place. She didn’t hear any heavy breathing or the telltale cursing of a sibling or thug with mayhem on his or her mind.

There was, however, a sword behind the lord’s table.

The feeling of déjà vu that washed over her was overwhelming. For a moment, she wasn’t sure she hadn’t gone back in time to relive the day when she’d first seen Phillip’s sword.

But she hadn’t. She knew too much, she’d seen too much. She walked across the floor silently, watching for any movement and feeling far too much like she was trapped on a set where the writers hadn’t been able to decide between a horror movie or a spy flick.

She made it to the lord’s table, then walked around it. She looked at the sword for a moment or two, wrestling with herself, then reached out and put her hand on it.

The hall exploded around her.

She had seen battle scenes in movies, of course, and even been on the distant periphery of one being shot. But she’d never been in one, so to speak, until that moment.

She realized that while she was not only in the present, as long as she kept her hand on the sword, she was in the past as well. She could see the battle raging in the great hall; she could hear the shouts of the men. She realized with horror—and yes, it was apparently a horror film she was doing—that even though a pair of Phillip’s men were there, they weren’t going to be enough.

Phillip was fighting. She wasn’t sure where the men he was fighting had come from or whom they served, but it apparently wasn’t Phillip. It was so shocking to see him, bloodied, filthy, exhausted, she almost couldn’t find her voice to speak.

And then he caught sight of her.

She knew at that moment that whatever happened, she would never, ever again find anyone like him.

He vaulted over the table and put his hand on his sword, over hers. “Thank you,” he managed. “But how—?”

“My lord, behind you!”

Phillip pulled his sword away from her and spun around. Instantly, the connection was lost.

The sounds of battle faded. She stood there behind the lord’s table and shook. Silence descended, accompanied by a stillness that she wasn’t sure she cared for. She could almost hear her heartbeat.

It was all so anticlimactic. She looked around the hall and found it just as empty as it had been ten minutes earlier. If she hadn’t known better, she might have supposed she’d just imagined everything she’d just seen.

But the sword was gone.

She supposed she could have picked up a history book and figured out what happened to him, but the thought of that was about as appealing as the thought of ripping out her heart with her bare hands.

She could have used her phone, she supposed. She could have simply asked for a bio of Phillip de Piaget, Lord of Artane, Possessor of Stunning Cheekbones, and Keeper of Her Heart.

She supposed no search engine would have come up with anything for that last part.

She sat there until the hall began to grow dark. Heather didn’t come to kick her out, staff didn’t intrude to suggest tourist hours were over, thugs didn’t come to make her life difficult. Not even the twin who refused to identify himself ventured inside the hall.

Phillip didn’t come to get her, either.

She got up finally and pulled her coat around her. It wasn’t the raincoat with the advertisement on the backside. This was a proper Mac with a plaid liner and an impervious shell. It was actually warm. She thought she might be able to blend in to a crowd without trouble at the moment. Lucky her.

She walked across the hall and opened the doors, both of them at once. It was raining outside, which didn’t surprise her in the least. Lights had been turned on inside the courtyard, giving it an almost medieval sort of look. Well apart from the lack of smell, sound, and guys walking around with swords.

Her phone rang, startling her. She looked at it, hoping beyond hope for a number she thought she might want to see...

It was Prissy.

She sighed and answered. “Yes?”

“Get back to Edinburgh now.”

She felt her heart leap and not in a good way. “Is something wrong?”

“Of course there’s something wrong! You have family pouring in from all over the world and you’re heaven knows where doing heaven knows what.”

“What does it matter?” Imogen asked numbly.

“It matters, stupid, because you’re getting married tomorrow! Father and Mr. Davis have arranged it all.”

“I’m what?” Imogen said, her ears perking up. “They arranged what?”

“Your marriage! You didn’t think Marcus was going to waste this place as a backdrop, did you? He’s been singing ‘Bless Your Beautiful Hide’ all day. It’s spectacular, really.”

“Then why don’t you marry him—?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Prissy said, then she tittered. “I mean, really.”

“And I mean really,” Imogen said. “Why not?”

Prissy was silent for so long, Imogen thought she might have lost her phone signal. But no, her sister was there on the other end, sniffing.

“He wants you. I have no idea why, but there you go. Congratulations. You win.”

Imogen didn’t want to win. She sighed and hung up the phone without saying anything else. What she wanted to do was be somewhere else, somewhen else. But since that didn’t seem like it was going to happen, why not? Marriages had been arranged for centuries. Phillip would have agreed that was the case. She didn’t loathe Marcus Davis. If she could get him to stop singing, he was manageable. Difficult, but manageable. Her father was difficult and they’d learned to manage him. She could make a decent life with him. At least he would understand her obsession with movies. With enough time, maybe they would develop a relationship that included both family and work. It could happen.

She looked back over her shoulder at the empty hall, sighed, then pulled the hall doors shut behind her.

Sam or Theo, whichever it was, was waiting for her. He got out of the car and opened the passenger door for her. She walked around the car, then looked at him.

“Sam or Theo?”

“We’re interchangeable.”

“You’re killing me.”

“’Tis all part of our mystique,” he said.

She sighed and got into the car. She leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes.

If she hadn’t been so tired, she would have wept.