Chapter 14

“You need me to explain that reference, don’t you?” Tamsyn asked, and Bowen shook his head.

“I know The Parent Trap, Tamsyn,” he told her. He didn’t bother adding that the only reason he knew about it was because in the summer of 2000, Rhys

had developed a crush on Lindsay Lohan and forced both his brothers to watch that movie many, many times. Let Tamsyn think

he actually knew something about pop culture for once.

“Well, look at you, a part of the twenty-first century after all,” Tamsyn replied, slapping his shoulder, and Bowen would’ve

reminded her that that movie—both the remake and the original—had come out in the twentieth century, actually, but he was pretty sure that would just get him one of those eye rolls, and besides, he was still trying

to right his world on its axis because she’d touched him.

That’s where he was now—a slap on the shoulder was enough to have him practically swooning and falling at her feet.

But how could he look at her in her cheerful jumper, her nose adorably wrinkled because she was plotting and she always made that face when she was coming up with a scheme, and not think of last night?

The way those velvet curtains had cocooned them in darkness and warmth, the sounds of her gasps and her moans and her fingers

working over her, the smell of her earthy and primal and so fucking good he’d come in his own fist like a teenage boy after only a few strokes.

How on the Goddess’s great green earth was he supposed to do anything now that he had been decimated so thoroughly?

And the worst of it was, she didn’t seem to be all that affected by what had happened. Maybe this kind of thing was old hat

to her. Maybe she had dozens of lovers, one in every town she’d done a job in.

That was fine. More than fine. Good, really, exactly what a liberated and beautiful woman like Tamsyn should do if that’s what she wanted, and he was fine with it.

Just...

Very, very fine.

Bowen took Tamsyn’s elbow and gently steered her farther away from the breakfast room. It was dim in the hallway, the sconces doing nothing against the gloom outside, and it was hard to believe that it was just midmorning. Bowen could smell rain, probably sleet, too, on the air, and hoped there were no more plans for traipsing through the woods tonight as he said to Tamsyn, “I agree it’s worth a shot to see if getting my grandparents over... whatever this is gets us back to 2024. But I also think we need to find out a lot more about Y Seren and what powers it might have. Because no matter why we’re here, that’s the thing that sent us back.”

“Again, just so many words here in the fifties,” Tamsyn mused, then shrugged. “Agreed. No reason not to tackle both the why and the how . Where do you want to start?”

Three hours later, Bowen was greatly regretting his choice.

If they’d stuck with Tamsyn’s plan— Parent Trap first—they’d be back at the manor house, probably playing a game of sardines or something, anything that gave them an excuse

to lock Harri and Elspeth away in a dark room until they remembered they were in love with each other and the wedding was

back on.

Instead, Bowen was outside in the rapidly darkening afternoon as a steady drizzle of rain seeped through every item of clothing

he was wearing.

And he was riding a fucking bicycle .

With a bell .

They’d spent over an hour in the dusty library at Tywyll House, a gloomy room with a gallery and a spiral staircase and about

a million books, none of which had been opened in decades, if the dust was any indication.

But Bowen had figured it was best to start with books when it came to Y Seren. That’s where he always started, after all. Gather as much basic information as you can, suss out what’s good, what’s useful, what’s interesting but probably not true, and what is utter shite.

Once you had that locked down, then you could do the scary part of talking to people. Tamsyn had, of course, wanted to start there, to ask Lady Meredith outright

about the jewel, but Bowen pointed out that might raise some suspicions, should the damn thing disappear if they needed it

to get back home.

For once, Tamsyn hadn’t given him an argument, just a little salute that had been staggeringly erotic for reasons he was not

going to look at too closely.

Then they’d searched and read and searched some more, all while Bowen tried to ignore the scent of her perfume, and the nearness

of her, and the cozy room with its flickering lamps as the weather outside got nastier.

In the end, the books had yielded exactly one clue about YSeren: that before the Merediths had purchased it sometime in the last decade, it had belonged to a family named Beddoe.

And then Tamsyn had done that adorable thing with her nose again and said, “Beddoe. That was the name of the pub in the village

here. I passed it on my way to Tywyll House. Well, you know, Tywyll House in the future. Or the present as it was at the time.”

She’d frowned. “God, that makes me sound like you. Anyway, there was a sign over the door that said beddoe’s tavern , and I remembered it because that’s a great last name and one I might use for... absolutely legal and non-nefarious purposes.”

Bowen had grunted at that, but he’d agreed that this was something, and they could at least go to the village, see if Beddoe’s

Tavern was still there, and maybe make some discreet inquiries.

Hence the bloody bicycle.

“You’re both mad,” Emerald had told them as she’d watched them put on coats and wellies at the front door while one of the

lads who worked in the gardens brought around the two rickety bicycles. “Going out in this. My gran would say you’d die of

the ague, but then my gran died because she accidentally drank poison she’d been meaning to give my papa, so what did she

know?”

It might have been the first time in a year that Bowen had ever seen Tamsyn speechless.

But now here they were, mad indeed, pedaling through weather that Bowen was sadly all too familiar with—not hard enough to

be rain, too wet to be mist, a miserable kind of thing Declan called “mizzle”—and Bowen squinted against it as he navigated

the bike over ruts and puddles on the dirt road that wound through the forest from Tywyll House to the village of Tywyll itself.

He was just thinking he’d never be warm again when he heard a cheerful brrrng! and looked over to see Tamsyn ringing the bell on her own bicycle. Her dark hair sparkled with raindrops, and her wellies

were splattered with mud, but she was smiling as though this were all just a grand adventure they were having, soaking themselves

to the skin in bloody December in 1957.

Goddess, but how he loved her.

Still an awkward thing, that love—still a thing he wasn’t sure he was meant to feel, much less talk about it—but there it was, and there was no getting rid of it.

And when she turned and smiled at him, he couldn’t feel the cold of the rain at all.

All right, that wasn’t entirely true—he was shivering, his beard was dripping, and his cock had retreated so thoroughly that

even if Tamsyn had stripped naked right here in the forest, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to actually do anything about that—but it was the sentiment of the thing, wasn’t it? That when he looked at her, life felt... easier.

Better.

Happier.

Bowen had known people could feel this kind of thing. He hadn’t seen it between his parents because he’d been so young when

his mam had passed, but he saw it with Rhys and Vivienne. There were times those two were just sitting on the sofa together,

Rhys looking at his phone while idly stroking Vivienne’s hair with his free hand while she read a book, her own hand resting

on Rhys’s thigh, and it always looked so... nice.

Wells and Gwyn weren’t quite so cozy, but they had their moments, too. Like the time Bowen accidentally caught them on the

stairs, Gwyn pressed back against the wall, Wells looming over her, not touching her, not kissing her, and yet whatever it

was in the air around them had been so electric that Bowen had scurried away, his cheeks hot, like he’d caught them shagging

or summat.

Was that what people saw when he and Tamsyn were together? Just last night, Elspeth had told Harri that Bowen and Tamsyn were what two people in love looked like, and the memory warmed him even now.

Or maybe it was just that they were finally rounding the corner onto the village high street, and he could see the pub rising

up out of the misty rain like an oasis, the windows glowing, the sign over the door gently swaying.

No tavern on the sign in 1957. This just read beddoe’s , and Bowen had never been so happy to see a pub in his entire life.

He and Tamsyn wheeled their bicycles to a tall hedge just beside the door, resting them there before hurrying into the pub.

Inside, it was warm, which was a fucking blessing, and a fire crackled merrily in the hearth while the few locals at the bar

turned to see the newcomers, judged them not particularly interesting, and then returned to their pints and whatever it was

men like these gossiped about seventy years ago. Price of sheep, probably. Weather, always, what with this being Britain.

Next to him, Tamsyn wrinkled her nose. “God, I forgot everybody smoked inside back then. Back... now? Anyway.”

She rubbed at her reddening eyes, and Bowen glanced around, realizing that there was indeed a sort of cloud hanging about

the place, the tips of lit cigarettes glowing in the murkiness, the smell of pipes thick in the air, and Bowen nodded toward

the bar. “I’ll grab us a couple of pints while you look around, see if there’s anyone worth talking to.”

“Like a video game,” Tamsyn murmured, but when Bowen gave her a questioning look, she just shook him off. “Get me a cider, please,” she told him, then, even though her eyes were teary from the smoke, she threw him a quick wink. “Or Rudolph’s Rosé, if they have it.”

Bowen snorted. “Sip of that would probably kill these people,” he said. “They’re not ready for what we do to alcohol in the

future.”

“Fair point,” Tamsyn acknowledged, before pointing toward an empty table near the fire. “I’ll be over there.”

Bowen nodded and moved toward the bar, determined to redeem himself for their first meeting and that first drink, and equally

determined to find some casual way of asking if any of the Beddoes were still around.

The bar itself was an ancient piece of oak, scarred up and discolored, and he knew the sight of it would send his brother

Wells, who’d once been a publican himself and took great pride in the shininess of his bar—to the point that Rhys had openly

wondered if he was overcompensating for something—into conniptions.

The fellow behind the bar was barrel-chested with a steel-gray beard, and he had just turned around when Bowen suddenly felt

a tug at his sleeve.

He looked over, then looked down, because the woman at his elbow was tiny. Her face was creased with wrinkles, but her blue

eyes were bright and sharp, and Bowen could feel magic rolling off her. No doubt about it, this woman was a witch, and a powerful

one at that.

Which was why he wasn’t all that surprised when she looked up at him with something near wonder and said, “Oh, achan, you are a long way from home.”