Page 4 of No Place in Time

Thomas hesitated. “He says the hall should be prepared for a betrothal dinner.”

Fourteen days.

Her parents were stalling. But Lord Veyron was not.

And she had just fourteen days to figure out how to escape him.

2

CECILY

1239

Cecily crossed the stable yard in the gray before dawn, her bootsteps soft against the stones. The yard lay quiet. The air was cool and damp against her face.

Willow lifted her head at Cecily’s approach, ears flicking forward. The palfrey knew her.

“Easy,” Cecily murmured as she took the reins.

She mounted and led Willow toward the gate. Only when Malethurst Hall lay behind her did Cecily allow herself to breathe easy.

The road to Graston village was familiar—fields giving way to hedgerows, then woodland, then cottages. She urged Willow into a brisk pace, the steady rhythm of hooves striking earth grounding her thoughts. She did not know what she would say to Grandfather Anton when she arrived. Only that she could not stay still. Her grandfather had always listened.

Graston came into view just as the sun cleared the trees, smoke rising lazily from the cottage chimneys. Grandfather’s house was much smaller than her parents’ manor, but it felt warmer somehow, less formal, less imposing.

Beja, her grandmother, saw her first and came quickly, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Cecily?” Surprise flickered into concern. “What are ye doin’ here so early, dear?”

“Grandmother, I need to see Grandfather,” Cecily said.

Beja did not question her. She took Willow’s reins and gave Cecily’s hand a quick, reassuring squeeze before leading the mare away.

Inside, Anton emerged from the back room. One look at Cecily’s face and his expression changed.

“What’s happened?” he asked.

“My parents want me to marry an old man,” Cecily blurted. “A man older than my father.”

Anton went very still. He led her outside and into his workshop.

Before he could speak, movement caught Cecily’s eye. A young man straightened from a workbench, wiping his hands on a cloth.

“This is Griffin, son of—” Anton began.

“Finn,” the young man interrupted. “Just Finn.”

Anton paused, then inclined his head. “Yes, this is Finn.”

The objects spread across the table drew her attention away from the young man, metal pieces unlike any she’d seen before, wiry things threaded through them, a faint hum that raised the hair along her arms.

She turned to Anton. “Did you know about my proposed marriage, Grandfather?”

“No,” he said simply.

“My parents talk about delaying their decision,” she said, keeping her voice steady, though it had begun to quiver. “But not refusing him. They spoke of the consequences of refusal. Of the risks of provoking him.”

Then she said, “It’s Lord Alard de Veyron.”