He smiled and unpacked lunch.
One morning. One picnic that had been casually shoved in a bag instead of packed properly in a hamper. One woman and one man who had beyond all reason and in a truly cosmic piece of serendipity encountered each other in a way he suspected neither of them would have dreamed of.
One morning.
What could it hurt?
Ten
Mairead looked at the watershe held in her hand that wasn’t contained in a cup but more of a tube that made a horrible noise if she clutched it too tightly. Not only that, the jug was as clear as water slipping slowly over a rock, clear enough that she could see the innards without effort, which left her wondering if she should have examined the innards of her head and done the sensible thing and remained safely tucked into her spot near the hearth in the kitchens.
She looked at Oliver to find him watching her as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. She cleared her throat, but that didn’t accomplish anything at all.
“Future marvels?” she croaked.
He nodded carefully.
“’Tis foolish to be afraid.”
“I was very afraid of all those swords your clan was carrying.”
She could see his sword lying there on the other side of him, unsheathed, and looking fairly perilous, and suspected he wasn’t afraid of much. “You weren’t truly, were you?”
He studied the sky for a moment or two as if he considered the question seriously, then looked at her and smiled. “I have great faith in my ability to outrun people who might want me dead.”
“Have many people wanted you dead?” she asked in surprise.
“I was sent away to foster when I was very young and one learns, doesn’t one, to out-think those who are older and larger.”
And out-runwas what she would have said if she’d wanted to discuss it, which she most certainly didn’t. She crinkled her water, shivered, then nodded toward what she supposed couldbe considered foodstuffs. “What have you there in that pile of Future torments?”
“Oatcakes, apples, other things you likely shouldn’t be eating, but all safe.”
“The Duke of Birmingham had a taster, you know.”
“I’ll be yours,” he offered cheerfully. “Let’s see what we have.”
She watched him sort through what he’d brought, accepted whatever he deemed fit for her to consume, then looked at the final pile of what she hesitated to touch. He seemed to find nothing unusual about those flattened mounds of brown…
“You realize those are clumps of offal, don’t you?”
He paused with one halfway to his mouth and looked at her with wide eyes. “What?”
She repeated it in French, just to make certain he’d understood her. He smiled then and shook his head.
“Chocolate and orange jelly on top of a little cake.” He helped himself to an entire one, chewed, then smiled. “Very tasty.”
She waved him on to his delights and settled for more water, though she couldn’t help but study him a bit. Now that she understood where—ah,when—he was from, she supposed she might be allowed a few questions about why he found himself there.
“Did your friends truly abandon you here?” she asked. “And are you one of those dastardly Englishmen from beyond the lowlands?”
He brushed his hands off, then leaned back on those hands and crossed his feet over the ankle, looking perfectly at ease. She didn’t miss how he’d glanced around himself as he’d done so, as if he’d simply been arranging himself more comfortably. She understood, because she did the same thing. Easier to see trouble coming that way.
“I’ll watch behind you,” she said casually.
“And I’ll watch everywhere else.”
She smiled in spite of herself. “Who are you, in truth?”
