Chapter 9

The first thing Tamsyn was aware of was the pain.

No, “pain” wasn’t quite the right word. Weight. That was it. Like an elephant had just taken up residence not only on her chest, but her skull, her legs, even her hair. Her

eyelids felt swollen, her heart beating sluggishly in her chest, and as she lay there on the damp earth, a memory popped into

her head.

It wasn’t one she chose to revisit often—honestly, if it was up to her, all memories of spring break should vanish from your

brain once you hit about twenty-five—but that’s what she felt like now. Like that night outside whatever club that had been

in Panama City, Florida, one of her sorority sisters—Mamie, no, Amy; she always got them mixed up—placing a hand on her shoulder

and saying, Girl, you need to go home.

I do, Tamsyn thought as she looked up at a dark sky. I am a Girl, and I need to go home.

“Tamsyn?”

She turned her head to the side, and oh, right. It wasn’t Mamie or Amy lying on the ground next to her this time. It was Bowen. Sweet, handsome, weird Bowen, who looked every bit as bad as she felt in this moment, but still managed to be the hottest man she’d ever seen.

“I’m the what?” he asked, and dammit, apparently she didn’t feel too bad to not say things out loud.

“Nothing,” she told him now, wincing as she raised herself into a sitting position. She was still in the garden, but it had

stopped raining all of a sudden, and when Tamsyn glanced up, she didn’t see the statue that Carys had been kneeling under.

Actually...

Tamsyn looked around even though moving her head that much hurt.

Not only did she not see the statue, but she didn’t see Carys, either.

Bowen seemed to be realizing the same thing as he stood up, dusting off the back of his tuxedo pants and frowning up at the

empty, dark sky.

“Rain’s stopped,” he observed, and now Tamsyn frowned, patting the grass around her.

“And the ground is dry,” she said.

Bowen grunted.

Tamsyn went to stand, but her knees were still a little wobbly. Luckily Bowen was right there, a firm hand under her elbow

as she staggered in her high heels, her stomach sinking.

Something was... wrong.

Bad wrong.

Magically wrong.

Bowen felt it, too. She could tell by the Advanced Level Three Frown he was currently wearing, the one that made him look like an old-timey sea captain scanning the horizon for land.

It was possible she’d incorporated that look into a fantasy or three, but now was not the time for Captain Bowen and the Pirate

Queen. Now she needed to figure out just what the hell had happened.

And where the hell was Carys?

Furthermore, where the hell was YSeren?

There was no moon tonight, but Tamsyn still searched the lawn for the telltale sparkle of the brooch.

As she crouched near one hedge, there was a sudden flash of movement just to her right, and she shot up, moving toward it

as fast as her ridiculous shoes would allow, but Bowen beat her to it.

He reached into the hedge with one arm and yanked.

Tamsyn wasn’t sure exactly what she’d expected to see him holding, but it was not a very small child in a kilt, frantically

kicking his little brogue-clad feet in the air.

“I wasn’t spying! I heard a noise, and people aren’t meant to be in the garden, they’re supposed to be having sherry in the

drawing room. That’s what Mother said, everyone to the drawing room for sherry! So if you’re in the garden, you’re not where

you’re supposed to be, and that’s naughty . You are both terribly naughty !” the child went on, his voice nearly a shriek, his white-blond hair practically glowing even as he screwed his little face

up in an expression of pure fury.

Bowen blinked at the child still dangling from his grasp, dodging as the little boy tried to land a ferocious kick in the general direction of Bowen’s crotch.

Tamsyn stepped closer, narrowing her eyes as she studied the child with his wild platinum curls, his little purple face with

its round cheeks and almost bulbous blue eyes, and thought, impossibly—

“Madoc!”

A woman’s voice rang out, and Tamsyn heard more footsteps, the rustle of material, and saw several bobbing lights heading

in their direction. The child took their momentary distraction to swing another kick at Bowen, and while this one might not

have found its exact mark, it did glance off his hip, making Bowen mutter something in Welsh before setting the kid back down.

“I am not a Cath Palug,” the boy said, hands on his hips. “I am the master of this house. Or I will be once my father dies,

not that I want that to happen soon, but when it does, I’m going to open up the oubliette in the house, and then ruffians

like you will be sorry.”

He paused, wiped at his nose.

“I’m also going to get a dog,” he announced, and then there was a bright light as the most elegant woman Tamsyn had ever seen

suddenly appeared out of the hedges, massive flashlight in hand.

“Oh, Madoc, for heaven’s sake, are you threatening people with flaying again?”

“No, just an oubliette,” Tamsyn supplied, even as her mind felt like it was sliding through Jell-O. “And a dog.”

The woman rolled her eyes, reaching up with her free hand to pat at her elaborate blond updo. Despite the cold, she was wearing an off-the-shoulder taffeta dress that appeared to be deep green, a tartan belt nipping in her trim waist.

And there, pinned to her dress right over her heart, was YSeren.

Tamsyn felt dizzy all of a sudden, that slippery, sliding feeling even stronger, because this small child still glaring up

at Bowen was named Madoc, and Tamsyn could see the traces of the old man she’d met just this afternoon in this little boy.

And looking at the woman in front of her, Tamsyn somehow knew this was Lady Angharad Meredith—Annie—but a much younger version.

She looked at the group of people standing around in the hedge maze, all looking at her and Bowen with open curiosity, and

she didn’t recognize a single face except...

“Rhys,” Bowen murmured, and it was that—seeing Bowen go pale and stagger back a step— that was when Tamsyn started to truly and thoroughly freak out.

Because one of the men in the group did look an awful lot like Bowen’s youngest brother. Same dark hair and blue eyes, same slim build and striking height, but he

was wearing glasses, and there was none of Rhys Penhallow’s sparkle about him. If anything, the guy looked like he’d just been sentenced to life in an oubliette.

The man must not have heard Bowen, because he didn’t reply, but Lady Meredith stepped forward. “Might I ask what you’re doing

here in our garden?”

Her voice was pleasant, but her eyes were steely, and Tamsyn reminded herself that even a nonagenarian Lady Meredith had been pretty formidable. In her prime? She was the kind of woman men probably went to war over.

Hell, Tamsyn was pretty sure she’d invade France if this lady asked her to.

“I’m Bowen Penhallow,” Bowen said, and Tamsyn turned to him, eyebrows practically levitating in the air somewhere above her

face, because did he really think just saying his name was enough to get them out of whatever weird thing this—

“Ah!” Lady Meredith clapped her hands together, smiling. “A Penhallow. Then you’re here for the wedding.”

If Tamsyn had been disoriented before, now she felt straight-up insane, and she looked at Bowen with a sound that was, unfortunately,

a cross between a “Huh?” and a “What?” and somehow came out “Whuh-ugh?”

“I’ve told everyone not to use magic for travel when it comes to Tywyll because it’s always such a mess, so no wonder you

ended up in the garden, but never mind, here now, and not a moment too soon, eh, Harri?”

She looked back at the man who looked so much like Bowen’s brother, but he only scowled, pushing his dark hair off his forehead

with an impatient gesture. “I don’t think some random cousin I’ve never even met can fix this, Annie,” he said, and then looked

back to Bowen and Tamsyn. “Shame you’ve come all this way, because the wedding is off. Elspeth’s changed her mind.”

With that, he turned and stalked off, several of the other men of the party trailing him. Tamsyn heard a muttered “Steady on, lad, steady on,” while another man clapped Harri on the back so hard Harri nearly tripped.

“It’s jitters, mate, nothing more. She’ll come around, you’ll see.”

Lady Meredith watched them walk off, then sighed. “Oh, it’s a good thing you’re here, indeed, Mr. Penhallow. I’m afraid poor

Harri is going to need all the help he can get. We all are. Now come along, Madoc, and stop digging in the dirt, you’re ruining your clothes.”

“Mrs. Beasley says no one can dig to the center of the earth, but if you have enough time and patience, I think you can,”

Madoc said, even as he dusted off his hands and went to his mother. “Of course, once you get close to the core, you’ll need

a space suit, but I can get one of those.”

He turned and squinted at Tamsyn. “You sounded American. Do you have a space suit?”

Tamsyn actually did—an old job at Cape Kennedy, nothing she ever wanted to repeat—but she was saved from answering as Madoc placed a muddy hand in his mother’s and said, “Perhaps I should

build my own space suit. If I’m going to be the first Welshman to dig to the center of the earth, I shouldn’t rely on foreign

help.”

“Too right, my love, too right,” Lady Meredith said kindly, then looked back over her shoulder at Tamsyn and Bowen. “You and your wife are welcome at Tywyll, Mr. Penhallow. Wedding or no. I’ll have a room prepared for you both, and”—her eyes drifted over Tamsyn’s jumpsuit—“perhaps you’d like to change into something... warmer, and... less modern.”

The group made its way back to the house, a line of flashlights and murmuring voices, and endless chatter from Madoc.

Tamsyn stood there next to Bowen, freezing, probably in shock, and not entirely sure she wasn’t having some kind of psychotic

break.

And yet her next words to Bowen were still “Did she call me your wife?”

“She did,” he confirmed, but that didn’t seem to rattle him nearly as much as it did Tamsyn.

And Lady Meredith was putting them in the same room.

A room that probably had only one bed.

A bed they’d share.

Bitch, you have apparently gone back in time. Maybe prioritize better when it comes to which thing should be freaking you

out the most.

Crossing the few steps that separated them, Tamsyn stood in front of Bowen. “So we, um... we time traveled?”

“Seems like,” he replied, still staring in the direction the party had gone.

“And that’s little baby Sir Madoc. Only he’s not a sir yet, obviously. And Annie! Oh my god, Annie was— is —a dish, good for her. And it’s not raining! And YSeren is here! And... okay, yeah, that’s all I’ve got for ‘Things About This

That Are Good, Actually.’ You?”

“I’ve heard of these kinds of spells,” Bowen mused, stroking his beard idly. “Temporal displacement. It’s hard as hell, though. Literally in some cases. Really dark magic to alter the course of time, and obviously a real fucking mess if you do anything wrong.”

“Right, so I asked for things that were good about this situation, and you’re just giving me things that are bad, and honestly that’s less than ideal, Bo.”

“Well, here’s another bad thing,” he replied with a sigh, then jerked his chin in the direction of the house. “That fellow.

The one who looks like Rhys.”

“The one who’s a Penhallow,” Tamsyn said with a nod. “A distant cousin?”

“My grandda,” Bowen said darkly, and Tamsyn sucked in a breath.

“And your grandmother is...?” she asked, but she already knew before Bowen said it.

“Elspeth,” he confirmed. “The woman who just called off their wedding.”