Page 16 of Chef’s Kiss (A Knights Through Time #20)
T he solar felt smaller than her tiny apartment.
Rachel sat in the worn chair across from Tristan’s desk, acutely aware of every creak of settling stone, every flicker of candlelight against the worn tapestries.
The scent of old parchment and leather mingled with Isolde’s expensive perfume, creating an atmosphere thick with secrets and unspoken revelations.
Tristan’s sister paced before the hearth like a caged tiger, her midnight blue gown rustling with each step. Even in the confines of the small chamber, she managed to look regal, dangerous, and utterly in control of whatever game they were now playing.
“Well?” His voice cut through the tense silence, jaw tight with barely contained frustration. “You’ve cleared the hall, demanded privacy, and made cryptic pronouncements about family history. Perhaps ’tis time for explanations rather than theatrical flourishes.”
“Theatrical flourishes?” Isolde turned to face him, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised in aristocratic disdain. “Brother dear, you haven’t seen theatrical yet. Though I suppose six months of brooding in this crumbling pile has dulled your appreciation for proper drama.”
Rachel cleared her throat, drawing both siblings’ attention. “Look, I appreciate the witty banter—really, it’s very entertaining—but someone just accused me of time travel in front of half your household staff. So maybe we could focus on that rather than your family dynamics?”
“Time travel,” Tristan repeated slowly, his gaze moving between his sister and Rachel with growing wariness as he scrubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw. “Isolde, surely you cannot mean to suggest?—”
“That our guest arrived here through supernatural means?” Isolde’s smile was sharp as a blade.
“That she carries knowledge from times yet to come? That she speaks words and wears garments unknown to any land in Christendom?”
She moved to stand behind Rachel’s chair, her perfumed presence suddenly overwhelming. “Oh, but I do mean to suggest exactly that.”
“You’re insane,” she said weakly, but her voice lacked conviction even to her own ears.
“Am I?” Isolde moved to the narrow window, her silhouette framed against the gray afternoon light. “Tell me, my dear, have you ever heard the name Lady Morwenna of Hallowhall?”
Rachel blinked, caught off guard by the shift. “No. Should I have?”
“She was my great-great-grandmother’s cousin. Lived about... oh, two hundred years past.” Isolde’s fingers traced the stone window frame absently.
“Family legend says she was the strangest woman anyone had ever met. Wild red hair, eyes the color of spring grass, and a habit of saying the most peculiar things.”
“What kind of things?” Rachel found herself asking despite her better judgment.
“Things like...” Isolde paused, as if searching her memory.
“‘Where I come from, we have machines that can keep milk fresh for weeks.’ Or ‘If I had my car, I could be in London by supper.’” She turned back to face Rachel, whose heart had started doing uncomfortable acrobatics in her chest. “Car. That was the word she used. Never could explain what it meant, though she claimed it was a... what did she call it... horseless carriage?”
The blood drained from Rachel’s face so quickly she felt dizzy. “That’s... That’s just coincidence. People have always dreamed of impossible things.”
“Have they?” Isolde’s dark eyes glittered with something between curiosity and triumph.
“Then perhaps you can explain why she also spoke of ‘plastic wrapping’ for food storage? Or ‘electricity’ for lighting homes? Or how she knew that childbirth fever could be prevented by washing hands with soap—a full century before anyone else considered such madness?”
Each word hit Rachel like a physical blow. Her modern vocabulary, her casual references to things that didn’t exist yet—had she been that careless? That obvious?
“I don’t understand what any of this has to do with me,” she said, but her voice came out strangled.
“Don’t you?” Isolde began moving closer, each step deliberate and predatory.
“Because Lady Morwenna had another peculiar habit. She was always talking about a cookbook. A special cookbook that she’d.
.. acquired... during a thunderstorm. A cookbook that vanished the night she first appeared at Hallowhall, babbling about lightning and strange places. ”
Rachel’s mouth went completely dry. “That’s impossible.”
“Is it?” Isolde was close enough now that Rachel could see the intelligence burning in her dark eyes, the careful way she was cataloguing every expression.
“Tell me, have you perhaps had any encounters with unusual cookbooks lately? Maybe one you purchased from a mysterious seller? One that might have been present during a recent... weather event?”
The question hung in the air like smoke from a funeral pyre. She could feel Tristan’s gaze boring into her, could see the exact moment when the pieces began clicking into place for him as well.
“How?” she whispered, abandoning all pretense along with any hope of maintaining her cover story. “How could you possibly know?”
Tristan shot to his feet so abruptly his chair scraped against the stone floor like fingernails on slate.
“Bloody hell, you cannot be serious. You truly mean to say that she—” He gestured helplessly at Rachel, his face cycling through disbelief, shock, and something that might have been wonder or terror.
“That she has traveled through time itself?”
“Sit down, brother,” Isolde said mildly, though her eyes never left Rachel’s face. “You look as though you might faint, and that would be terribly undignified for a knight of your reputation.”
“But this is madness!” Tristan remained standing, running his hands through his dark hair in agitation. “People cannot simply... step through time like walking from one chamber to the next. ’Tis not possible.”
“Isn’t it?” Rachel found her voice, though it sounded thin and strange to her own ears.
“Because I’m sitting here, aren’t I? In your solar, in 1475, wearing a borrowed gown and trying to speak Middle English from what I learned from Netflix shows.
So maybe your definition of ‘possible’ needs some updating. ”
Tristan stared at her for a long moment, searching her face as if seeing her for the first time. “Netflix,” he repeated slowly. “Another of your impossible words.”
“It’s...” She gestured helplessly. “It’s complicated. It’s from my time. My real time.”
“Which is?” Isolde prompted gently.
“Two thousand and twenty-five,” Rachel whispered, the numbers falling into the silence like stones into still water.
The solar fell utterly quiet except for the crackling of the fire and Rachel’s rapid heartbeat. She watched Tristan sink slowly back into his chair, his face pale with shock.
“Five hundred and fifty years,” he said faintly. “You have traveled five hundred and fifty years into the past.”
“Give or take,” she managed, surprised by how relief flooded through her at finally telling the truth.
“I was making dinner in my apartment in Kansas—that’s in America, which hasn’t been discovered yet—and there was this storm, and I cut myself, bled on the cookbook, and next thing I knew I was face-down in your garden. ”
“The cookbook,” Isolde said immediately, leaning forward with predatory intensity. “Where is it now?”
“Gone. It didn’t come with me. When the lightning struck, when I—” She stopped, swallowing hard against the memory of that impossible moment. “It stayed behind. In my kitchen. At least, I think it did.”
“You think?” Tristan’s voice was carefully controlled, but she could hear the undercurrent of something that might have been fear or fascination or both.
“I don’t know!” The words burst out of her with more force than she’d intended.
“One moment I was standing in my apartment, bleeding on a book I’d bought off eBay, and the next I was face-down in your garden with no clue how I got there.
I don’t understand any of this. I don’t understand why it happened or how it’s possible or what I’m supposed to do about it. ”
“eBay,” Isolde repeated thoughtfully. “Another of those impossible words. Though I suspect it’s some manner of marketplace, judging by context.”
“It’s...” Rachel gestured helplessly. “It’s complicated. People sell things. From their homes. Through... through devices that won’t be invented for centuries.”
“Fascinating.” Isolde moved closer, her dark eyes bright with scientific curiosity. “And this cookbook—you purchased it from a stranger? Someone you’d never met?”
“Someone called YeOldeBookWyrm ,” Rachel said, then immediately regretted it as both siblings’ eyebrows climbed toward their respective hairlines. “It’s... It’s not a real name. People use false names when they conduct business online—through the devices.”
“YeOldeBookWyrm,” Tristan repeated slowly, and there was something in his voice that made Rachel look at him sharply.
“You recognize that name?”
“I know those words,” he corrected, his expression growing thoughtful. “Ye olde book wyrm. ’Tis archaic phrasing, from centuries past. A book wyrm—a creature that devours written knowledge, guards ancient texts.”
“Like a dragon,” Isolde added softly. “But one that hoards books instead of gold.”
Rachel felt a chill run down her spine that had nothing to do with the draft from the narrow windows. “You think whoever sold me the cookbook knew? Knew what it would do?”
“But how is such a thing even possible?” Tristan interjected, still looking dazed. “If what you say is true, if you truly have traveled through time—why you? Why now? Why to my garden specifically?”
“I don’t know,” Rachel said again, frustration creeping into her voice.
“Do you think I haven’t been asking myself the same questions?
I’m nobody. A food blogger from Kansas, not some medieval time-travel expert.
The weirdest thing that ever happened to me before this was getting food poisoning from a sketchy taco truck. ”