shield, the other, a sword. She touched his straight nose, the marble a cool kiss against her finger.
So. This person had lived about seven hundred years ago. His angular features were starkly masculine. Probably had women admiring them in the flesh. Had he loved?
An odd…void bloomed within, tugging at her, as if it were the absence of a feeling seeking wholeness. Evidence of past lives frozen in time always made her feel…disconnected. Disconnected and disturbed. Unable to grasp some larger meaning. Especially since Isabelle was in the past now too, instead of here as her maid of honor.
She traced along the knight’s torso, the bumps from the carved chainmail teasing her fingers.
“The tour group is getting on the bus. Hurry.” Traci’s voice came from the door.
“Coming.” One last glance at her knight. Katy ran a finger down his strong nose again. “Bye,” she whispered.
That night in the B&B, Katy sat on her bed, feet tucked under her, and caught herself staring. At the white lace curtain. Sure, it was a nice curtain, but…
She sighed. That damn knight still cluttered her thoughts. She’d been happily annotating her mini Erica Conklin date planner with notes about tomorrow, and then her memory flashed to the sight of her finger brushing down his nose, the cool feel of the stone. Thoughts strayed from there and…yeah, the curtain.
She straightened and pulled the stack of Isabelle’s letters into her lap. In the privacy of her room, she’d already taken care of any texts she needed to send, and her day tomorrow was reviewed. Washi tape lay scattered in multicolored disarray around her. Now she had time to satisfy her curiosity about Mr. Podbury. Maybe that would take her mind off that stupid knight.
“Isabelle. Why did you go back? Why did you go back and stay?” Her whispered question was drowned by the night traffic and low hum of the Welsh town of Corwen seeping through her window.
It was the why—the why—that always eluded her. So much so, she had brought the letters with her, creased and crinkled and coffee-stained from constantly scouring them for a clue to her friend’s…madness. And she scoured them again for mention of Mr. Podbury of the silver case, and bingo—he was the funny guy Isabelle had met in 1834 researching time travel at the Royal Society.
Katy couldn’t help it, she shuffled to the last letter and bit her lip, sadness curling through her. She’d received it a month ago, along with ten others in one batch. One batch that represented the rest of her best friend’s life, delivered without fanfare three months after Isabelle had abandoned Katy, abandoned her exciting career, abandoned her own time, and gone to live with this Lord Montagu.
Barclay’s Bank had called, the attendant no longer surprised she had time-dated material from the nineteenth century left in trust for her in their vaults. As with the first batch, Isabelle had planned it well, bequeathing the contents of her safety deposit box to whomever lived at a particular address at a particular time—which just happened to be Katy’s. A Time Capsule Experiment, it had been called in the papers, and she’d had to deal with some publicity, but when she’d revealed it was only letters, interest vanished. To the odd museum curator who inquired, she’d endured their blistering you’re-a-heathen stares when she said she’d destroyed them.
She fingered the wooden object that had arrived with the packet of letters, its smooth surface, its carved lines calling to her.
She read the final letter. Again. The ending she almost had memorized:
…I found the item in the accompanying box at a little curiosity shop in Wales. Go ahead and open it. Okay. Isn’t it just too cute? Phin wondered why I’d become so attached to “an old wooden bird,” but the carving, while not artistically perfect, I thought captured the essence of a small bird in flight. For some reason, the bird reminded me of you, so now you have it. The shopkeeper claims it’s from the Middle Ages, but I’ve found antiquity dealers notoriously unscrupulous.
With this gift, I’m also saying goodbye. I realized that continuing to write letters to you about my happenings here and how things go on, wouldn’t be fair to you. All at once you’d receive the whole of my life. I’d rather you keep thinking of me living my life here at the same time you’re there.
And I’ve never regretted going back in time. May you find happiness, my friend.