Page 12 of Chivalry is Not Dead

“Yes, sir,” I reply through several more giggles. “I’m sorry, no more joking. King Henry, Hundred Years’ War, go on.” I gesture.

He side-eyes me, a little bit of his tension melting away. “As I was saying, towards the end of the war there was a fairly famous battle called the Battle of Agincourt. I shall spare you the details, but the good news is that it was indeed a victory for the English. The bad news is that I was severely wounded due to a sword finding a break in my armor. Though I did not die the day of the battle—the twenty-fifth of October—I did eventually pass six days later on All Hallows’ Eve.”

“So you died on Halloween and that’s why you keep coming back each year?”

He shrugs. “I suppose so.”

I bite the end of my nail, trying to put a puzzle together when I don’t quite have all of the pieces. “Do you know around what time you died?”

“Shortly after sunset, I believe. Those last few days are quite the blur in my mind. All I remember was feeling a lot of pain and then suddenly… none.”

“Have you heard of Samhain?” I ask. “Was that a thing back then?”

His brow furrows. “There were definitely a select few that celebrated. It was mostly a Celtic and Scottish tradition with not many of us Englishmen choosing to partake. Why?”

My foot is falling asleep so I adjust myself slightly, delighted when Sanders follows suit to maintain contact. Don’t crush on a dead man, Penelope Graves. “It’s something witches still celebrate,” I reply. “It begins at sundown on Halloween and continues until November first—today. It’s said to be the day the veil between here and the afterlife is the thinnest. It makes complete sense to me that you would have passed after sundown on the thirty-first. I wonder if you were somehow caught in the veil… if a piece of your soul wasn’t ready to cross.”

He nods, leaning forward as though something about what I am saying is resonating with him. “You could be correct in that, Penelope.” His blue eyes look up at me from under dark lashes, dirty-blond hair falling roguishly across his forehead.

“Could I?” I breathe, finding myself also tilting toward him.

“Mmm,” he hums. “You remind me of someone… but there are memories missing.” He’s close enough now to take a strand of my hair between his fingers, twisting it slightly between his thumb and forefinger.

I’m so close to kissing him. So close to closing the miniscule gap between us. But he’s vulnerable, and if we are being honest, so am I. This is a lot—today has been a lot. I stand so abruptly, Sanders sways slightly before catching himself.

“We should go to bed. Hit the hay, so to speak—oh! I wonder if that comes from when you used to sleep on hay? I’ll have to google it. Anyway, give me a minute to get ready and then you can come in.” I dash to my bedroom before he can reply.

A few minutes—mostly spent trying to tame my frizzy waves—later I open the door, gesturing for Sanders to enter my bedroom. I can’t believe I’m about to share a bed with a dead knight. I don’t even know his last name. “What’s your last name, by the way?” Maybe that will make me feel better.

“Wilde,” he answers, unintentionally backing me into the door frame as he enters my room.

Nope, that definitely does not make me feel better.

7

She is the cure to my loneliness. The cure to my pain. The cure to every single thing that ails me.

Ibarely sleep. Building a pillow wall between us did not help. I haven’t ever shared a bed with a partner. Not overnight like this, anyway. There’s something about sleeping together in a bed—just sleeping—that feels infinitely more intimate than having sex.

Which is why every time I started to drift off, I startled awake, worried that I would somehow wake up straddling Sanders.

That never actually happened, but it could have. Hypothetically.

While I don’t wake up straddling Sanders, I do finally wake up the next morning with my arm slung across his chest. Slowly, I attempt to move it away before he notices, but as soon as I rotate one inch, Sanders’ hand wraps around mine, pulling me even closer into him.

Shit. He appears to still be deeply asleep, and honestly I don’t blame him after not being able to sleep for the last several hundred years. Maybe if I give it a minute and then try again, he won’t feel my movement.

Counting down from sixty, I desperately try not to enjoy the warmth of Sanders’ body. I have to start my countdown over at least three times before I finally get to zero and work up the courage to try moving again.

I shift less than half an inch before Sanders mumbles, “Penelope, stop moving.”

Oh. Oh. He is awake. And why do I like that he refuses to call me Penny?

“I need to, uhm, go to the bathroom.”

“Acceptable. But come back when you are done, please.”

I blink down at him—sleep made him bold, apparently. He doesn’t open his eyes, just curls onto his side facing me before giving me a go on gesture.