Page 11 of A Spark in Time (A Knights Through Time Romance #21)

T he Athenian marketplace assaulted Bebe’s senses like a Charleston performed by a drunk orchestra—loud, chaotic, and oddly thrilling. She pressed closer to her guards, the infamous silver beaded dress dragging at her shoulders.

They’d hauled it out again for today’s procession, patching the torn hem with rough linen and declaring it her sacred garb. To the Athenians, it glittered like proof of divine favor. To Bebe, it felt like a punishment—a heavy reminder of the night she’d tumbled through time into this gilded cage.

Most days, Lysias had her dressed like a goddess in silk chitons dyed in sea-green and wine-dark purple, gold combs for her hair, and bracelets that jingled like delicate chains.

But whenever the city wanted its oracle on display, out came the silver dress.

An idol in sequins. A spectacle in the streets.

Note to self: When time traveling, pack lighter.

“Make way for the Silver Siren!” Dimitri bellowed, puffed up like he was announcing Clara Bow herself. Citizens scattered, some dropping to their knees, others simply gawking. A child tugged at his mother’s peplos, pointing at Bebe’s bobbed hair—still a scandal here, apparently.

The smell hit her first—fish guts, sweat, and something that might’ve been either rotting vegetables or someone’s lunch.

She pressed her rose-oil-dabbed wrist to her nose, grateful for Lysias’s thoughtful gift that morning.

At least he understood that a girl could only endure so much eau de marketplace.

“Μ?ντι?!” The shout cracked through the murmur. Oracle.

Her stomach dropped. She didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

The crowd shifted, and there he stood—Kassander of Thessaly, bronzed muscle and arrogance wrapped in leather, sun-bleached hair tied back with careless practicality.

He moved through the throng with predatory ease, like a lion who knew nothing in this marble menagerie could stop him.

Hot socks alert. Repeat: hot socks alert.

“Oracle,” he said again, blue eyes glinting like stormlight on the Aegean. “I wanted a closer look.”

Dimitri bristled, stepping forward. “The general said?—”

“The general says many things.” Kassander’s grin curved like a blade. “Most of them boring.” His Thessalian accent rolled differently than the Athenians’, rougher, earthier—like gravel sweetened with honey.

He circled her slowly, leather armor creaking with each step, until she felt like a butterfly pinned in glass. She caught the scent of sea salt and iron—blood, bronze, or both.

“Doesn’t look like much,” he mused, stopping directly before her. A thin scar split his left eyebrow; another curved along his jaw like a violent comma. “Pretty enough. For a pampered Athenian pet.”

The crowd gasped. Dimitri’s hand flew to his sword.

And Bebe—tired of three weeks of being paraded like a priceless vase—snapped.

“Pet?” Her voice cracked through the hush like a champagne glass against marble. She stepped forward, ignoring Dimitri’s strangled protest.

“Listen here, you overgrown beach bum, I’ve been poked, prodded, and paraded around like the crown jewels.

I’ve eaten food that would make bathtub gin look appetizing.

I’ve been forced to wear this”—she gestured at her patched dress—“which is now about as comfortable as dancing the Black Bottom in a straitjacket. So if you’ve come here just to insult me, you can take your Thessalian attitude and?—”

Kassander’s laugh was low, dangerous, and amused all at once. “You speak strangely. Not like an Athenian at all.”

Crud. Crud on toast with a side of catastrophe.

She arched a brow, leaned in, and let the words roll off her tongue in his own language.

“Μ?ντι?, να?. ?λλ’ ο? σ? ε?μι.” Oracle, yes. But not yours.

That wiped the smirk from his mouth for half a heartbeat before it curved back, sharper.

“The gods speak through me in mysterious ways,” she added quickly in English, retreating into her oracle act.

“The gods.” He let the word hang, flat as a counterfeit coin. “Tell me, oracle—what do they say about Athens’ chances against Sparta?”

The marketplace froze. Even the merchants stopped hawking olives. And trust Bebe—getting a Greek merchant to shut up was like asking a flapper to give up lipstick.

“The gods say…” She faltered. Through the crowd, she spotted Lysias striding toward them, cloak snapping, jaw carved from thunderclouds.

“The gods say,” Kassander pressed, stepping closer, his voice a taunt only she could hear. His breath carried wine and wild mint. “Or perhaps you need your Athenian master to speak for you?”

“I don’t have a master,” Bebe snapped back, chin high.

“No?” His hand rose, calloused fingers tilting her face upward with surprising gentleness. “Then why do you wear his oils? Why do his κ?οντε? circle you like wolves at supper?” Dogs.

Heat flared in her chest. She tipped her chin even higher.

“Καλλ?ων κ?νε? ? ψευδ?μενοι πολεμιστα?.” Better dogs than lying warriors.

That earned her a flash of real surprise—then something that looked suspiciously like respect.

The touch burned worse than the wrong end of a curling iron. His eyes caught hers, flecked with gray like Capri skies before a squall—beautiful, dangerous, impossible to look away from.

“Kassander.” Lysias’s voice cut through the moment like steel through silk. “Remove your hand from the Silver Siren. Now.”

Kassander didn’t move. Didn’t even glance at Lysias. “Interesting. The great general reduced to a nursemaid.”

“I said?—”

“I heard you.” At last Kassander dropped his hand, though his gaze never wavered from Bebe’s. “Athens tires of its idols quickly, silver girl. When they fall, they fall hard.” His voice lowered, a whisper meant only for her.

“And your general? He’ll be the first to watch you burn. Π?ρ κα? στ?χτη.” Fire and ash.

Bebe’s pulse spiked, but she forced herself to whisper back, steady and clear.

“Τ?φρα ?στ?ν ? μο?ρα π?ντων.” Ash is the fate of all things.

For the first time, Kassander’s grin faltered.

Then, with a mocking salute, he turned and strode off. The crowd parted for him like the Red Sea for Moses—if Moses had been over six feet of bad decisions in leather.

Lysias’s hand gripped her elbow, firm but careful. “Are you harmed?”

“No, I’m just peachy,” she muttered, eyes still fixed on Kassander’s retreating figure. Her skin tingled where he’d touched her, a fact she absolutely refused to examine.

“Peachy?” Lysias frowned. “Is this another word from the gods?”

“Sure,” she said, forcing a smile. “Let’s go with that.”

He guided her away, the soldiers closing ranks around them. In a polished shield she caught her reflection—silver hair, flushed cheeks, eyes too bright.

You’re in trouble, Bebe Merriweather. The deep, dark, delicious kind.

Because Kassander’s warning echoed in her ears like a forbidden jazz riff—dangerous, intoxicating, and impossible to ignore. He was reckless music, the kind you couldn’t help dancing to even if it led you straight off a cliff.

And the worst part? After almost a month in Athens’ golden cage, she wanted to fall.