She considered that third blade, studied him for a moment or two, then stuck her own knife into what he assumed was a sheath loitering in the back of her belt. She took his second blade, then pointed them both at him, though she honestly didn’t look as if she would be holding onto either for very long.
“I have questions,” she said, her voice quavering badly.
He could only imagine. He took a deep breath and nodded carefully. “I’m certain you—”
“Am I in your book?”
He blinked. “My what?”
“Your book!”
He was tempted to scratch his head to see if that helped, but he had the feeling that any sudden movement might inspire her to dig answers out of his gut—with his own blades, no less. She couldn’t possibly mean his book of absurdities and torments, though it wouldn’t have surprised him to learn his mates had secretly designed a bit of time-traveling as part of the programme.
He had vague memories of his current companion having mentioned a book the day before—had it only been a single day ago?—about a duke, which at the time had only left him with the uneasy feeling that he should have watched more period pieces on telly.
“The book about the duke?” he ventured.
She looked as if he had just handed her—well, not the keys to an obscenely expensive sports car, but something era-appropriate. Or perhaps that was just the look a body wore when she’d taken her first decent breath of the day.
“You know it, then,” she said, obviously relieved.
He had no trouble producing a baffled look. “I’ve forgotten, I fear. Refresh my memory, if you would.”
Her relief turned a bit of a corner there, right into a cul-de-sac of skepticism. “You’ve forgotten your own tale?”
“Ah …”
“And your own scribe?”
“Well—”
“Mistress Buchanan will not be pleased with you, I’ll tell you that plainly.”
“I only want to make sure she’s written it down properly,” he lied, attempting to stall. He couldn’t imagine why his companion thought he had a book, though he supposed finding herself in what was indeed a different world might have led her to believe she wasina book.
She had begun to study him as if she expected him to do something villainous at any moment, but he’d seen that sort of thing before and had no trouble continuing to look as trustworthy as possible.
“’Tis the tale of the Duke of Birmingham,” she said, watching him closely, no doubt to see if that rang any literary bells for him.
“Such a fine, strapping lad,” Oliver managed, wondering ifhehad suddenly plunged face-first into the land of faeries and bogles. And books, apparently. He was torn between trying to decide where her tale might land on the literary time line and being relieved he wasn’t going to be explaining any modern offerings containing either terrible weapons or superheroes in tights.
“Of course I only have the first part of it,” she continued. “I fear the rest was lost somewhere, no doubt causing Mistress Constance Buchanan a great amount of vexation.”
“Constance Buchanan,” he repeated, nodding to keep the peace whilst rifling through his catalog of fiction to see if that name rang any bells. No tolling, unfortunately, but the beginnings of wishing he’d bypassed the Jaffa cakes and settled for something green for breakfast.
She put her hands on her hips. “Do you not know her?”
“Recent blow to the head,” he said promptly, putting his hand to the back of his head and attempting to look a bit confused. “I’ve forgotten many things.”
“She is the scribe who wrote down the duke’s tale.Yourtale, if I’m guessing aright.”
He hardly knew where to begin with that, so he simply nodded and hoped that would be enough.
“There is talk of his kitchen maid,” she continued, “who is in every particular his equal, especially in gaming, shooting, and tossing back port.”
“She sounds exceptional,” he said, hoping she wouldn’t mind if he reached for more French than usual. His Gaelic was absolutely not equal to the current conversation.
“I’ve yet to discover the maid’s name as she held it as a closely guarded secret.”
