Page 43 of No Place in Time

“My lady, the cook asks whether the trout should be served with the green sauce or plain.”

“Lemon and herbs,” Cecily said without breaking stride. “Nothing heavy.”

“Yes, my lady.” The girl smiled and hurried off.

Cecily walked on. When she first arrived, such a question would have left her floundering. Now the answer was simple. This was not the life she had imagined, but it was a life, and it was hers.

∞∞∞

That evening, she dressed with care. The gown laid out for her was pale yellow silk, light enough for the season, the sleeves fitted smoothly to her arms, delicate embroidery at the cuffs. The color suited her, and she knew it.

As her maid fastened the final ties, her thoughts drifted.

Finn.

More than a year, and still no word. If he were alive, surely he would have found a way. Their time together, their struggles, that kiss—it all had the quality of a story she had once been told, not lived. Leaving her chamber, she pushed the idea away.

The carriage rolled south as the sun dipped lower. When Veyron Hall came into view, she steadied her breathing.

She had fled her own time before ever having to step inside as Lord Alard’s wife. Now, nearly sixty years later, she was approaching these walls as a guest, as a young woman with her own name and her own place at her uncle’s side. The Veyrons no longer owned her future. And yet the name still made something tighten beneath her ribs. Would she ever truly be free of it?

The carriage slowed. Torches were being lit along the drive. Cecily stepped down onto the gravel and looked up at the estate she had once feared, and felt something she hadn’t expected: not dread, but a cool, quiet steadiness.

The great hall at Veyron was already full, bustling with noise and activity when Cecily entered. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meat and honeyed fruit. Eyes turned toward her as she entered. She kept her pace easy beside her uncle.

“Are you Cecily de Malet?”

Cecily turned. A young woman near her own age, dark-haired with round eyes, had approached her.

“I am,” Cecily said with a light curtsy.

The girl’s face brightened. “I thought so. I’m Isabel, Lord Julian’s sister. My brother has been hoping to meet you and claim a dance.”

Cecily followed Isabel’s glance across the hall and found Julian de Veyron watching them openly. He did not look away when their eyes met. He smiled with an air of playful confidence, flashing two disarming dimples.

As Julian moved through the hall, laughing with the young ladies in his path, his gaze kept finding Cecily’s, a playful confidence in his smile each time.

When the musicians cleared space for dancing, she rose with the others.

The first dance with a young visiting nobleman was familiar enough, but the second dance was new. She caught on quickly, and by the third dance, her cheeks were warm and flushed.

When the musicians paused, Julian suddenly appeared beside her.

“You’ve been very patient,” she said, dipping into a curtsy, surprised at her own boldness.

He laughed, unoffended. “I was enjoying the view.”

“You speak plainly, my lord.”

“I find honesty saves time,” he said. “May I?”

He was bold, she thought. Bolder than any young man she’d met. And her uncle was right; he was well formed, indeed, with a broad smile, dimples that played in his cheeks, and a sturdy build. He offered his hand.

The dance that followed was another new one. Julian guided her smoothly. Left hand to right, she counted to herself. Then turn, and left hand again.

“There, you danced it well,” he said. “You’re learning quickly.”

“Am I?” she laughed. “I fear I’ve got all the grace of a knight in full armor.”