Chapter 11

Back to the Future.

Doctor Who.

The Time Machine.

Somewhere in Time.

No, dammit, that one was sad, and the entire point of listing all the time travel movies and TV shows Tamsyn had seen where

things went right and ended happily was to keep her from absolutely losing it as she found herself walking through a dark, freezing forest in the year 1957 with absolutely no idea how she’d gotten to

that year or—and this was the real kicker—exactly how she was going to get back to 2024.

This was the thing about hanging out with witches.

Sure, it was fun, and sometimes it was very lucrative, and some of those witches were...

Tamsyn allowed herself a sneaky peek at Bowen as they trudged along. She could just make out his profile, the beam of their

flashlight—or torch, as everyone else was calling it—concentrated on the ground. But even just his silhouette was enough to have her sighing.

So yeah. Exciting job, made good money, occasionally got to spend time with the hottest dude alive.

Flip side was apparently the chance of getting stuck several decades before you were even supposed to be born.

The night was cold and clear, and while there was no moon, the stars sparkled through the trees, brighter than Tamsyn had

ever seen them, and that made her feel a little better. Those were the same stars she’d be seeing if she were back in her

own time right now, and she lifted her hand just enough to give them the tiniest wave.

She didn’t think Bowen had seen her, but then he pulled her in a little tighter against his side, his voice gruffer than normal

when he said, “We’ll fix this, I promise.”

Tamsyn wasn’t sure she believed him, but she believed he believed that, and that was comforting in its way.

“So do you think it’s your grandparents?” she asked in a low voice, and even though she couldn’t see his expression when he

glanced down at her, she knew he was doing the Confusion Frown (not the Advanced One, though this was the one he used when

she said something was “sus” or “that slaps”).

“Why we’re here,” she explained. “Like, maybe we were sent back in time to be sure your grandparents get married and you get

to be born. That seems like the kind of thing time travel would be useful for.”

Bowen grunted, and Tamsyn assumed that was all the answer she was going to get until he said, “But it was Carys’s wish. Carys’s spell. That’s what sent us back here. That and Y Seren.”

Shit, that was right. It’s not like Tamsyn and Bowen had been trying to send themselves into the past. That had been all Carys,

and she was nowhere to be seen.

But YSeren was here, stuck on Lady Meredith’s dress.

Tamsyn opened her mouth, but Bowen reached over and squeezed her hand even as he shook his head. “I know,” he muttered. “If

it got us here, it can get us home. I thought that, too. But maybe let’s wait until we’re alone to talk about it.”

Alone.

Right, because they would be alone tonight.

In the same bedroom.

In the same bed.

Tamsyn was glad it was dark, because she could feel her face going hot despite the numbing cold, and to distract herself from

the absolute riot of very, very dirty thoughts going on in her brain right now, she nodded at the flashlight.

“Why aren’t you all just using magic? I’ve seen you do that before, conjure up glowing orbs and stuff.”

“Witches are an odd bunch,” he said with a sigh. “Some of them prefer the old-fashioned way; some think any magic that ‘small’

is... I don’t know, disrespectful to the forces that be or summat.”

Tamsyn smiled in the darkness. She always liked when he said that, summat, like he was a medieval blacksmith or something.

Ooh, Medieval Blacksmith might be a good one to add to the Fantasy Roster, now that she thought about it.

What did we just say about dirty thoughts, huh? Tamsyn chided herself just as the forest began to clear out a bit and the group came to a halt.

“Here we are!” Lady Meredith called out, and gestured at a tall tree standing just in front of them, its trunk so thick Tamsyn

had no idea how anyone was going to saw into it.

But then no one seemed to have a saw, she realized as she looked around, and then Lady Meredith stepped forward, laying one

hand on the tree. Her fingers glowed, and when she pulled her hand back, there was a perfect print there, outlined in golden

light, and one by one, the other witches started moving forward and pressing their hands to the tree.

Bowen heaved another sigh, and Tamsyn looked up at him, worried. “Okay, so I can’t do that,” she reminded him. She was whispering,

but Lady Meredith heard her anyway, turning and waving one elegant hand.

“Oh, are you human? No worries, darling, so is Lora.” She pointed to a dark-haired woman stamping her feet against the cold.

“And Emerald, of course,” Lady Meredith added.

The teenager once again had her book out, and she stood slumped against a tree, her flashlight pointed at its pages. “My father

was human,” she called out to Tamsyn without looking away from her book, which Tamsyn now noticed was a tattered copy of Rebecca .

“Is that how it works?” Tamsyn asked Bowen. “One witch plus one human equals another human?”

“Depends,” Bowen said. “I’ve done some research on magical genetics, but it really is random. There’s been some research in

Norway... no, Iceland... yes, Iceland. About climate maybe having an effect? Or moon phases, which seems more likely,

and you... did not want to know this much about it, did you?”

“Are you kidding? Every day, I wake up and pray, ‘Lord, please let someone give me an in-depth explanation of the effect of

climate and the moon on magical witch babies.’”

Bowen smiled down at her, that fondness back in his gaze, and it felt so easy, so right, to reach up and rest a hand on his cheek, tweaking his beard as she added, “I never dared to dream I’d have my prayers answered

and get bonus Scandinavian data.”

“You’re a pain in my arse, you know that?” Bowen replied, and Tamsyn grinned, her hand still on his cheek, her spirit entirely

too light for someone trapped in the freaking 1950s, and then Elspeth loudly sighed and said, “You see, Harri? That is what two people in love look like.”

Tamsyn dropped her hand so fast someone would’ve thought Bowen’s face was suddenly on fire, and she went to step back, except,

oh right, they were supposed to be married, so she probably wasn’t supposed to basically shriek and leap ten feet away from him when someone suggested they looked in

love.

Except... they hadn’t been pretending in that moment. They had just been being themselves, and Elspeth had still thought—

“I was planning on marrying you, Elle. I gave you my great-great-grandmother’s ring made of gold mined from the mountain my

family home sits on, the family home I was planning to gift to you as a wedding present, so I’m not sure how much more in love you expected me to appear.”

“Oh, because that’s what love is, isn’t it?” Elspeth fired back. “Possessions. Traditions. Your bloody Penhallow lineage and

finally getting a wife who could bring some power back into your bloodline.”

“I never said that!” Harri shouted back, and Tamsyn inched closer to Bowen to whisper, “I feel like your chances of getting

born are shrinking, not gonna lie.”

“Hmmph” was Bowen’s only reply.

Elspeth and Harri were still arguing even as they pressed their hands against the trunk of the tree, and after they stepped

back, Bowen moved forward, his fingers spread wide as he laid them against the black bark.

Tamsyn waited for the glow to appear, but there was nothing, and Bowen frowned at his hand, pulling it back and flexing his

fingers, then laying it back against the tree.

Still nothing.

“The fuck?” Tamsyn heard him mutter to himself, and Lady Meredith trilled out, “Language, Mr. Penhallow!”

“Apologies,” Bowen said, turning away from the tree, but Lady Meredith only shrugged.

“I don’t mind the odd bit of cursing myself, but one must set a good example for Madoc, isn’t that right, dear?”

Madoc had already laid his small hand against the tree and was now patting his glowing handprint. “It’s not even that bad a word, Mummy. It’s Anglo-Saxon, and we are Anglo-Saxons, too, or we were before we were Welsh, so we can say fu—”

Bowen clapped his hand over the boy’s mouth, giving a pained smile to Lady Meredith. “Again, apologies.”

“Well, at least we didn’t get him that parrot he wanted,” Lady Meredith said, more to herself than anyone else, then she nodded

at Bowen’s hand, still covering Madoc’s mouth.

“And as for your powers, I wouldn’t fret. Happens to many men, so I hear!”

Tamsyn muffled a snort, and Bowen scowled while Lady Meredith turned back to the group with a clap of her hands. “The log

is selected!” she cried, and as Tamsyn watched, the tree began to shiver and fade until it vanished from sight altogether.

Bowen had let go of Madoc and returned to her side. “It’ll be back at the house,” he told her, answering her unasked question,

“already burning in the fireplace. Lot more convenient than cutting it down, hauling it back...”

“Makes sense,” Tamsyn agreed, then added, “I mean, pretty much the only thing making sense at the moment, so I’m taking it.”

They all started heading back toward the castle, Tamsyn’s arm once again in Bowen’s, and it should probably bother her just

how easy that was getting for her, but it didn’t.

What did bother her was the idea that Bowen’s magic might be on the fritz. It was one thing to be stuck in another time with a witch. It was another if that witch couldn’t access magic, a thing that seemed like it might be pretty damn useful in this situation.

“So your magic,” she started, but Bowen just shook his head.

“It’s nothing to worry about.”

“Consider me not worried,” Tamsyn lied.

Tywyll House was still lit up, and as Tamsyn stepped inside and handed her borrowed coat to a footman, she could feel the

warmth of the house slipping into her, a big contrast from how the home had felt in the present.

In fact, everything looked different. It was still technically the same—same floors, same suits of armor and portraits of

glowering ancestors—but something was different.

“It’s not haunted now,” Tamsyn said, and Sir Caradoc gave a booming laugh at that.

“Haunted?” he asked. “Oh, had you heard those rumors? No, no, there hasn’t been a ghost at Tywyll House since... Darling,

who was our last ghost?”

“The Blue Boy,” she called back. “Sweet little fellow, but glad to see the back of him! And that was... oh, ’51, I suppose?

’52? Before him, there was the Headless Lady, but we haven’t had any since.”

Tamsyn wondered if she’d ever be in this world long enough to talk so casually about ghosts.

Down the hall, the Yule log was indeed roaring away, filling the whole downstairs with a pleasant warmth, and Tamsyn happily

accepted another mug of tea as Emerald approached, her eyes wide.

“Your outfit is... it’s very...”

Oh, right. Bowen’s tux fit in just fine, but Tamsyn was wearing a jumpsuit with a way lower neckline than any of the other

women were rocking this evening, and she smiled at Emerald with a shrug.

“This is how women dress in America,” she said, hoping a teenage witch living in the wilds of Wales in the 1950s didn’t have

a lot of access to fashion magazines.

And she must not have, because Emerald just nodded slowly, her voice slightly awestruck. “America,” she echoed, just as from

somewhere in the house, a clock chimed.

“Goodness, it’s already past midnight!” Lady Meredith exclaimed, checking a delicate diamond watch on her wrist. “I’m sure

everyone wants to get to bed.”

She threw a saucy look at Bowen and Tamsyn that had Tamsyn’s stomach swooping.

“Especially you two lovebirds,” Lady Meredith went on, and then winked. “Don’t worry, I’ve got the perfect room for you. It’s

a bit small, but I don’t think you’ll mind snuggling in, will you?”

“I... snuggling is...” Bowen started, red creeping up his neck, and Tamsyn took his hand, squeezing it tightly.

“We don’t mind at all, Lady Meredith,” she said, and, gulping hard, followed her hostess up the stairs.