The light from her room was gone, as if someone had flipped the switches. Now darkness shrouded her. Even so, she could see the outline of a canopied bed, only it wasn’t the same bed anymore. It was smaller, and the tapestries thicker, more luxurious. While she couldn’t tell what color the material was, one glance at the mattress told her it was occupied.
A breeze came in through the open windows. It was cold and curled around her legs and brought with it the damp scent of earth and woodsmoke that she’d experienced previously.
A shaft of early morning moonlight entered the room and fell across the bed. There, tangled in the covers, was the man she’d seen before, his arm draped casually across his eyes.
Her breath caught. Before she could think or move, his hand darted out and encircled her wrist in a pinching grip. The movement was so sudden and unexpected, she released a tiny yelp.
In an instant, he was out of bed standing only an inch from her, his fingers tightening like a chain. She flexed against him, amazed to find that his touch was solid, his hand warm, his calluses rough.
“Who are you?” His voice was low and harsh, but she wasn’t frightened, though she knew she ought to be.
How should she answer him? Maybe it was better if she said nothing.
This time, he was clad in white linen undershorts that looked like boxers—only with a drawstring at the waist. His upper body was once again bare. Up close, there was no mistaking the chiseled beauty of his form, and she could feel the heat radiating from his torso, see the rise and fall of his chest, and hear his ragged breaths. Although the darkness shrouded the blue of his eyes, the intensity and power of his gaze pierced to her soul as it had before.
A deep part of her quivered at the realization she was having such an encounter. But another part of her couldn’t believe he was real, and that disbelief emboldened her so that she lifted a hand to his face and grazed the stubble.
The scratchy texture felt authentic. But still, she couldn’t be touching him, could she?
She skimmed his jaw and then his cheek. Dampness made a line down his rough skin. Had he recently shed tears? If so, why?
He did nothing to stop her. In fact, he released his grip on her wrist and dropped his hands to his sides, his breathing hoarse and rapid. The tension of his body told her his sleep was haunted by unspeakable terrors, nightmares that brought silent tears to his cheeks. She didn’t know this man or what had happened to him, but she had an overwhelming need to console him.
Maybe this was why their paths kept crossing, because she was meant to see him and offer him a measure of solace. Besides, she might never see him again after tonight, so it wouldn’t hurt to make the most of this moment.
Before her rational side could urge her to use caution, she shifted her hand to his other cheek. She glided over his scruff until she felt the warmth of the lingering tears. With her fingertips, she brushed them away.
He leaned in so that she felt his breath near her forehead. But somehow she sensed his restraint, that he wanted to touch her in return but was forcing himself to hold back. Maybe he thought by moving he’d frighten her or make her disappear.
Whatever the case, his reserve again gave her a liberty she wouldn’t otherwise have taken, and she allowed herself to caress the hard line of his jaw, wishing she could somehow soothe him and take away the tension.
She willed that he’d feel her strength reaching out to him, holding him up, and alleviating his nightmares. She wanted to say something, but before she could speak, he was gone.
The bedside lamp cast its glow upon the papers still scattered over her bed. She stood at the edge, her mind spinning, trying to process what had happened. Disappointment tightened her chest. She wanted to linger with him a few moments longer, not only to comfort him but to discover more about him—at the very least learn his name.
After their encounters at Chesterfield Park, she believed the manor was his home. He likely claimed this room as his own. But what era was he from? The glimpse she’d had of the manor from the outside suggested an early time, certainly before Elizabethan or even Tudor-Jacobean times when the architecture had become more elaborate.
For several heartbeats, she waited, hoping for another glimpse of the stranger, a sound, a scent, anything. But the room remained unchanging.
As with the other times she’d crossed into the past, exhaustion swept over her, and she wanted to drop down onto the mattress. But she didn’t have time to sleep. She had too much to do to get ready if she hoped to travel back in time and attempt to rescue Dad. Even so, she had to rest. If she didn’t, she suspected she’d collapse.
With a yawn, she lowered herself to the edge of the mattress and pictured the smaller bedframe set lower and tried to imagine that she was sitting in the past again. How was it possible she kept seeing the same man in the same era?
Perhaps her dad’s crossing was creating some kind of time-space overlap, so that whatever past period he’d visited was somehow bumping into the present causing her to go there too.
But what period was it?
She guessed the late 1100s or early 1200s after the death of Thomas Becket when the miracles associated with the holy water were still being recorded.
Her attention shifted again to the papers on the bed—specifically to the sheet with the Bible references about time. What if that’s where she’d find the date, somewhere amidst all the numbers? Why else had her dad left the verses, unless they contained another clue?
Picking up the sheet, she smoothed a hand over the verses she’d written out.
Romans 13:11: Knowing the time, that now it is high time to awake out of sleep. Was this a clue telling her she needed to wake her dad from the coma?
Psalm 31:15: My times are in thy hand. Was this one indicating that Dad was relying on her?
Of course she could speculate on the meaning behind each of the ten verses. Her dad had likely specifically picked them to tell her a message. But did they also convey a time in history?
As she read the verses again, she studied the number patterns, searching in particular for a year near the time of Thomas Becket’s death in 1170, the period when the holy water contributed to all those healings the monks had recorded.
She added, subtracted, multiplied, even divided. She tried to formulate a reason for accepting one verse over another based on themes. But nothing came to mind. The only oddity was with the verse in Ecclesiastes. The first thing she’d noticed was that it had been abbreviated while the others hadn’t.
Eccl 3:82: A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace. A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted.
The second issue was that none of the chapters in Ecclesiastes had contained a verse 82. As she’d read through the chapter earlier, she’d surmised that Dad had been referring to verse 8 or verse 2 or perhaps both. So she’d written out each to be safe.
Of all the references on the list, the Ecclesiastes passage was also the only one where he’d spaced the book name closer to the numbers, almost as if everything was connected—Eccl3:82.
1382.
Her heartbeat stumbled before racing forward. That was it. He’d gone back to 1382. And he was telling her that he’d gone to pluck up what had been planted from the Tree of Life.
What had happened in 1382 to make it significant? Why hadn’t he chosen a time closer to Becket?