My mother was clever, no doubt. But she’d also put her trust in the wrong person, and it had almost killed her.
For eight long months, she had been trapped in the twelfth century. Tricked, then abandoned in medieval England by a woman who’d once been her very best friend. Celia Alvarez had sold her out, and the abuse my mother had endured at the hands of the brutal man she was forced to marry was unimaginable. Alone and heavily pregnant, by the time Collum, Phoebe, and I arrived in that distant era to save her, my strong, brilliant mother had been so badly broken, I’d barely recognized her.
Lucinda helped Mom to her feet, gently pried my squalling sister from her arms, and handed the squirming bundle off to Moira.
My heart twisted itself into a hard, pulsing knot when I saw blood smeared across the tiny ducks on Ellie’s onesie. Moira laid my sister on the bed and gave her a quick, practiced once-over.
“The babe isn’t hurt,” Moira whispered. “Only scared and likely hungry.”
Lucinda’s broad shoulders sagged just a bit as she gave Moira a brisk nod. Mom flung her arms around her sister’s neck, clinging as she trembled and muttered to herself.
When I saw the large shard of crystal jutting from my mother’s clenched fist, all the breath left me in a whoosh. Blood poured down her wrist to stain the back of Lucinda’s peach bathrobe as my mother held on.
“Aunt Lucinda.” My voice vibrated. “Her hand—”
“I’m aware,” she said, without moving. “Moira? The child?”
“I’ll take her downstairs,” Moira said. “If you’ve got this?”
“She’s coming for us,” my mother whispered in a voice that felt like spiders marching down my spine. “Celia’s coming. She swore it, Lu. She came to me and said she’d take us all back there if it was the last thing she ever did. I had to protect my daughters.”
A silence fell, as if the name had poisoned the very air around us.
The back of Lucinda’s neck flushed. Cheek pressed against my mom’s lank, sweaty hair, she said quietly, “Moira, please fetch the first aid kit before you go. Hope and I will tend to Sarah.”
As Moira bustled out, Lucinda slowly eased my mother’s arms from around her neck.
“Hope, a clean cloth, if you please.” Though she aimed to speak in her normal, stolid manner I could hear my aunt’s voice quaver as I snatched a cloth diaper from a nearby laundered stack. Holding on to my mom’s other side, I helped Lucinda ease her down into the wooden rocker next to the bed.
“Sarah.” Lucinda knelt before the chair. “Remember what Greta told you. They are only nightmares. Dreams. Nothing more. You know we have eyes on Celia. She cannot hurt any of us.”
I flinched, knowing full well who was keeping an eye on Celia. Who supposedly reported her dealings to my aunt, commander general of the Viators. I shoved away thoughts of Bran, refusing to dwell on how much danger he was in, or what would happen if Celia ever found out he was spying for us.
As Lucinda gently opened my mother’s fist, I swallowed hard at the damage. Only one person was to blame for this.
One day I would make her pay.
Tutting, Lucinda carefully withdrew the vicious shard. I took it from her outstretched fingers, then dropped it into the nearby metal waste bin with a heavy plink as my aunt pressed the cloth into the jagged wound.
“Oh, Sarah,” she said under her breath. “What have you done?”
My aunt snatched up a thick, folded sheaf of papers from the floor beside the bed and passed them to me. “Take this away, please.”
Nodding, I turned my back and unfolded the pages.
The stark, black words at the top read: DIVORCE DECREE: Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.
I closed my eyes as rage flared inside me.
I shouldn’t have been surprised. When Dad had arrived weeks earlier, responding to my aunt’s urgent summons, he hadn’t taken the news well. Not only was his wife back from the dead . . . he also had a newborn daughter. A scientist, my adoptive father refused to accept the truth, even after my aunt, Mac, and I had explained everything. That his wife had been trapped in the past. That she’d been tricked by an evil woman. That—after being told for years it was impossible—the baby she bore was his.
He’d begged me to go with him. As if I would even consider leaving my mom alone.
“This is my home now,” I told him, realizing the truth of the words even as they left my lips.
Later, of course, we learned that he and Stella had become engaged on their vacation. That while we were fighting for our lives in the brutal medieval world, my father had been kneeling on a beach in Mexico, proposing to a nice librarian.
I’d hated him for it at first. His cowardice. His disloyalty. But Mom convinced me that in the long run, it was best for everyone. My dad’s world was algae and test tubes. Fourth of July parades and iced tea on front porch swings. She’d said she’d known that about him, and had thought it was the life she wanted as well. It was why she’d never told him the truth about who she really was. About who I am, and where I came from. For years, she’d tried to stuff herself—and me—into a world that was always going to be too small for people like us.
Apparently, Dad had made his decision. And it was just one more thing to pile on. One more punch to the gut, along with everything else Mom had suffered. Well, maybe I couldn’t protect her from this, but I sure as hell would protect her from Celia Alvarez.
I crumpled the pages in my fist as I turned back around.
“Mom?” I said, my voice fierce and low as she raised her bloodshot eyes to mine. “I—I love you, Mom.”
Chapter 3
“BLADE!”
By the time I managed to snatch my dagger from its hidden sheath in my boot and bring it up, it was far too late. My attacker’s sword whipped down, so close I felt the breeze on my cheek and heard the weapon slice the air next to my ear. A few dark curls floated to the muddy ground and disappeared into the muck.
Heart slamming, I tried to dance away. But the tight waist of the practice gown had long ago stolen what little breath I had. The full skirts tripped me up, and I went down hard. In seconds the cold, boggy ground seeped through the thick layers of wool and muslin.
I scuttled back on my butt, boot heels making divots in the mud.
“Stop. Can’t brea—” The sword tip nudged my throat. Cold, sharp, stinging.
Ignoring the raindrops that pattered my cheeks and eyelashes, I glowered up at the grin spreading across my opponent’s broad, freckled face.
“Better.” Collum MacPherson sheathed the short gladiator sword that had once belonged to his father. “You drew quick enough that time.” He offered me a hand up. All pride gone, I took it.
“But you paused,” Collum went on. “And you can’t hesitate, Hope. Not for an instant. Not when you’re under attack.”
“But,” I said, my voice just south of a whine. “I could’ve cut you.”
Collum’s blond eyebrows quirked puppy-like over his eyes, though he was kind enough to hide the smile. “Unlikely.”
That was true enough, though it irked me to no end that he had to look so damn smug about it. Despite weeks of endless training, I was still clunky and awkward with any and every type of weapon. Besides, I’d never seen anyone faster with a sword than Collum MacPherson.