“Thank you,” Jordon said gratefully as she accepted a piece of apple, and some cold ham and cheese from the birch platter. Cold drops of rain water still ran down her neck, chilling her. Carefully, she wrung her hair out over the basin and tried to squeeze some water out of her sweater.
Mrs Y. made an impatient sound and found her a kitchen towel. “Here, use that. You’re making a mess. And take off your clothes – I’ll fetch a blanket.”
“Th-thank you.” Mrs Y. was quick, and Jordon was soon wrapped in a quilt, her feet in borrowed bed-slippers. She watched Mrs Y. wring out all her clothes and hang them over chairs near the fire. They quickly began to steam from the heat, but Jordon knew it would be hours before they were dry. “I was wondering if you had a phone here? I’d like to call for a cab.” She bit her lip, silently questioning just what help a cab would be. She wasn’t exactly in the city here. Looking around, she began to wonder if she were even in the same century. Though that was absurd, right? Where else could she be?
The old woman looked at her with gleaming black eyes. Too large and black, really. Combined with her odd grey hair – like wet soot, with a subtle life of its own – she didn’t look either modern or normal. “I have a suspicion you’re not asking about a hansom,which you’ll not find here in any case. And unless a ‘phone’ is an odd term for a footman, I think you’ll find yourself unsatisfied.”
Jordon opened her mouth to speak and was interrupted by another angry peal of thunder. She glanced warily towards the window and had to stifle a sudden cry. A man stood there in the shadows, just behind the workbench. His chest was bare, the rest of him hidden by the bowls on the countertop. “Who are you?” Jordon demanded, trying not to take a peek at the rest of him.
Mrs Y. didn’t seem disturbed. “Oh, Lord Griffin! This is Jordon Hearst. She was caught in the rain tonight. Join us for tea?”
Griffin came closer and smiled into Jordon’s wide eyes. “We’ve met.”
Jordon looked hard at him. Surely he didn’t mean . . . but his hair was tawny and crested, more like feathers than hair. His nose was hooked, the jaw strong, but with a rather pointed chin. The eyes were dark, with glints of gold. Her heart accelerated as she recognized the voice. “Griffin?”
He cocked his head, like a hawk considering prey. She took it as affirmation – and fainted dead away.
She didn’t think she’d been unconscious long. Griffin’s feathery hair was still dripping when she came to. In fact, it was probably the drops falling on her nose that woke her.
She sat up carefully, but there didn’t seem to be any new aches. It was then that she noticed he was naked. Since he was crouched beside her, she wasn’t particularly stressed about that – it wasn’t as if he were totally on display. Oh, he was well muscled otherwise, of course. Fighting monsters must be great exercise.
She shook her head, feeling dizzy. “I think I could use some whiskey,” she muttered. With a little help from him, she climbed carefully back on the stool.
He smiled as he helped to steady her. “I’ll bring you some brandy. It’ll take the chill out better than tea.”
She watched him as he walked over to a cupboard. She numbly accepted a jam tart from Mrs Y., trying in vain not to stare at Griffin’s better parts while he poured her drink. It was difficult; there was a lot to look at. She averted her eyes when he caught her at it.
“My apologies. I’ve run with my brothers too long,” he murmured, then reached into a lower cupboard to fetch out a tablecloth. He wrapped it deftly around his waist. “Better?”
Jordon lowered her head and muttered something non-committal. In other circumstances, she’d feel obliged to correct him.
He returned to the fire and handed her the brandy snifter. “See if that helps.”
It did, actually. It even helped her to maintain her calm as he pulled up a chair and sat across from her with his own cup of tea.
He smiled at Mrs Y., then commented to Jordon, “You’re doing very well. I imagine most damsels would be in hysterics by now.”
“Yes, well, American girls are tough,” she said. “We aren’t bothered by drinking liquor with half-naked, shape-changing griffins. Though if we were back home, I’d probably be having an Irish coffee . . . with a little extra Irish thrown in.”
“Ah.” There was silence for a moment. Maybe he was organizing his questions. “You came through our gates earlier, trailing banshees and storm gremlins. I wonder what they wanted with you?”
She released a shaky breath. If she’d had lingering doubts about his identity, his words erased them. “It really was you outside.”
“Mm. My brothers were there, too.” He took a careful sip of tea, then slanted a questioning glance her way, as if judging the state of her nerves.
He was right to be concerned. Hysterics threatened again, but she stared at the ceiling until they passed. “I have a question. Where am I?” It came out pleading. She felt obliged to explain. “I’m supposed to be in America.”
He was silent for a long moment. Finally, he set aside his tea cup. “You’re in England, darling. Iamcurious to know how you missed the transition. I’m told it’s a three-month journey by ship.”
She frowned very hard to suppress her distress, though she wasn’t terribly amazed. Both he and Mrs Y. spoke with British accents. “I was struck by lightning. It . . . did things to my memory. Tell me, what year is it?”
He looked even more curious. “It’s the twelfth day of July, 1837. We have a new queen on the throne.” He frowned. “I say, you’re looking rather pale. Can I get you something?”
Her lip quivered. “Starbucks,” she whispered. “The internet. Real books.” While she enjoyedPride and Prejudice, it had nothingon modern werewolf romance. And what would she do without Stephenie Meyer? She wanted to cry.
To disguise her distress, she stared at the green fire. If she’d had somewhere to go, she’d have left that instant.
Griffin exchanged glances with Mrs Y. “Our guest is tired. Why don’t you prepare a room for her? I’ll keep her company until you return.”
