Page 4 of Chef’s Kiss (A Knights Through Time #20)

R achel let herself be dragged across the muddy courtyard in a daze, her brain still trying to process what Sir Broody McScowlface had just told her.

“Oh no,” she whispered, stumbling over loose stones. “No, no, no, no, no.”

The cookbook. That stupid, beautiful, three-hundred-dollar cookbook she’d been so smug about winning.

A Treatise on the Mystical Art of Cookery.

She should have known something was up when YeOldeBookWyrm had stopped bidding at two-fifty.

She should have known when it smelled like roses and secrets and possibly ancient curses.

“I gloated,” she said to no one, to the universe, to whatever cosmic force had a sense of humor this twisted. “I actually gloated about getting a deal on a priceless magical artifact.”

“Cease your muttering,” Tristan growled, his grip firm but not painful on her arm.

“Save your breath for explanations that might serve you better.”

Explanations. Right. Hi everyone, I’m from the future and I think a cursed cookbook tossed me through time seemed like a great way to get burned at the stake. Did they burn witches in 1475? She was pretty sure they burned witches in 1475.

The castle loomed ahead of them, all gray stone and narrow windows that looked more like defensive slits than anything meant to let in light.

Smoke curled from the chimneys, carrying the scent of burning wood and something that might have been meat.

Or might have been something she didn’t want to think about too hard.

Her mouth fell open. It looked like at least a third of the roof was completely gone.

Was this the medieval equivalent of living in your car?

Tristan hauled her through an arched doorway and into what could only be the great hall, and her modern sensibilities immediately went into full revolt.

The smell hit her first. A combination of smoke, unwashed bodies, wet wool, and something that might generously be called “rustic cooking.” Torches flickered along the walls, casting dancing shadows that made everything look like a particularly aggressive Renaissance fair.

The floor was covered in what looked like old straw mixed with.

.. she didn’t want to know what it was mixed with.

“Welcome to the Middle Ages,” she muttered under her breath. “Where the air quality is questionable, and the hygiene is optional.”

Several people were scattered around the hall, and every single one of them stopped what they were doing to stare at her with expressions ranging from suspicion to outright horror as a few crossed themselves.

“Saints preserve us,” thundered a voice from near the massive fireplace. “What manner of creature have you brought among us, Tristan?”

The speaker was built like a tree trunk with enormous arms, a long red beard and leather clothing that looked like it had seen actual battle.

He held what appeared to be a tankard of something that definitely wasn’t coffee, and his eyes were the blue of summer skies.

Despite his intimidating size, there was something almost friendly in his expression—like a golden retriever who happened to be the size of a small house.

Rachel noticed he kept unconsciously touching his left shoulder, rolling it slightly as if testing an old injury.

“Hugo,” Tristan said by way of introduction, “meet our... guest.”

Five stars for intimidating presence, Rachel thought automatically, minus two for what appears to be a complete lack of personal grooming standards. Would recommend for mercenary work, not dinner parties.

“Guest?” A woman’s voice cut through the air like a blade through silk. “That’s no guest. That’s trouble in unholy garments.”

Rachel turned to see a tall, gaunt woman gliding across the floors, like she was an extra in a horror movie.

Her gray hair was pulled back severely under what looked like a white cloth hat, and her pale eyes didn’t miss a thing as they raked over Rachel’s appearance.

Her fingers were stained with something dark—hopefully herbs, probably something more sinister.

Around her neck hung a small pendant that looked suspiciously like a tooth.

“Mistress Caldwell,” Tristan said, and there was warning in his voice. “Our apothecary, who knows much of herbs and healing.”

“And keeper of proper humors in this godforsaken place,” she corrected sharply, absently touching that tooth pendant.

“Though ’tis clear we have concerns far beyond balanced humors this day.

” Her gaze lingered on Rachel’s jeans with the expression of someone who’d discovered a particularly offensive insect.

“Foreign influences bring naught but sorrow. I’ve seen it before. ”

Two stars for bedside manner, Rachel assessed, but probably excellent at her job if you can get past the whole ‘suspicious of everything’ vibe. The kind of server who’d remember your allergies but judge you for ordering dessert.

“What in the name of all that’s holy—” Another voice joined the chorus of disapproval, this one high and quavering with outrage.

A rotund man in brown robes emerged from the shadows, his face red with what appeared to be either exertion or righteous indignation.

His fingers were permanently stained with ink, and he kept making little tutting sounds under his breath as if he couldn’t help himself. “Those are... those are...”

“Trousers,” Rachel supplied helpfully. “Jeans, technically. Levi’s, if you want to get specific.”

Father Clement—because this had to be Father Clement, no one else could look that personally offended by her existence—made a sound like a dying goose.

His ink-stained fingers fluttered anxiously against his robes.

“Tut, tut, tut! Harlot’s garments! Abomination! She flaunts her limbs like a—like a?—”

“Like a woman who believes in practical clothing?” Rachel suggested. The priest looked like he might faint. Or call for an exorcism. Possibly both. The tutting sounds increased in frequency and volume.

One star for tolerance, Rachel decided, but clearly passionate about his work. The type of restaurant manager who’d have fourteen different rules about proper uniform standards and enforce them all.

“Ooh, what’s that shiny thing?”

A new voice piped up from somewhere near ankle level.

Rachel looked down to see what appeared to be a ten-year-old boy who’d been dragged backwards through a hedge and then possibly trampled by something large.

His hair stuck up at impossible angles, his clothes were more patches than original fabric, and his grin revealed a gap where at least one tooth used to live.

“Emmot,” Tristan said with the weary tone of someone who’d had this conversation many a time before. “Leave off, lad.”

But Emmot had already darted forward with the speed and agility of someone who’d clearly perfected the art of petty theft. His grubby fingers closed around her phone before she could react.

“No!” she shrieked, lunging for it. “Don’t touch that! It’s?—”

Her warning came too late. Emmot, startled by her volume, dropped the phone. It hit the stone floor with a sound that made Rachel’s soul cry, and before she could reach it, Hugo’s massive boot came down with a crunch that was definitely final.

“Ah, the old shoulder’s acting up again,” Hugo muttered, rolling that left shoulder as he bent to examine the damage. “Sorry, lass. Didn’t see the wee thing.”

“My phone!” Rachel dropped to her knees beside the iPhone, which had cost her a month’s worth of blog revenue and now looked like it had been run over by a semi-truck. “You killed it! You killed my phone!”

The hall fell silent except for the crackling of torches and her quiet whimpering as she touched the shattered screen.

“Sorcery,” Father Clement whispered, making the sign of the cross. His tutting had escalated to full muttering. “Tut, tut, she weeps for her demon’s talisman. Dark magic, mark my words.”

“Into the fire with it,” Mistress Caldwell commanded sharply, her fingers closing around that tooth pendant. “Foreign things bring naught but heartache. I learned this truth at great cost.”

“No, wait—” Rachel scrambled to grab the phone, but Hugo was already moving with surprising speed for such a large man.

“’Tis for the best, lass,” he said, almost gently, as he scooped up the phone and broken case. “Cursed objects bring naught but misfortune. Like that bloody French sword that gave me this.” He rolled his shoulder again meaningfully.

“Don’t you dare—” But her protest died as Hugo tossed the pieces into the great hearth. The flames hissed and sparked as metal and glass met fire, sending up acrid smoke that made her eyes water. Or maybe that was just grief for her only connection to home, literally going up in smoke.

“Witch,” someone muttered from the shadows.

“Definitely a witch,” agreed another voice.

“I’m not a witch!” Rachel shot to her feet, anger replacing despair. “I’m a food critic!”

More silence. Then Mistress Caldwell’s voice, sharp with suspicion. “She criticizes the Lord’s bounty. Just as the foreign merchants criticized our ways before they brought the fever to my village.”

“No, not like that! I review restaurants! I write about meals and service and whether the soup is worth the price!”

Rachel looked around at their blank faces and tried again. “I tell people if the food is good or bad?”

Father Clement made that dying goose sound again, his tutting reaching new heights of agitation. “Tut, tut, tut! She judges God’s gifts. She finds the Lord’s provision wanting. Pride, pure sinful pride!”

“That’s not—I don’t—” Rachel stopped. There was no way to explain reviews to people who probably thought literacy was suspicious.

“Look, I’m not criticizing God. I’m just... I write about food. For other people to read. So they know where to eat.”

“She spreads her wicked opinions through dark magic,” Mistress Caldwell pronounced with satisfaction, her fingers tightening on that pendant. “Corrupting others with her ungodly judgments. Foreign influence always begins thus.”

“I use a computer! And the internet! Technology, not magic!” Rachel’s voice was getting higher with each word. “Science! Science you don’t understand yet because it hasn’t been invented!”

The muttering started again, louder this time. Someone definitely said “demon.” Someone else mentioned something about burning, which she really hoped was a reference to cooking and not medieval justice.

She looked around the hall with fresh eyes, her grief and anger sharpening her tongue. Time to do what she did best—brutally honest reviews.

“You know what? Maybe I am judging things. Like, why is half your castle falling down? There’s literally a hole in the roof big enough to park a car through—not that you’d know what a car is. And what is that smell? When was the last time anyone here bathed? Ever?”

The hall went dead silent. Even the torches seemed to stop flickering.

“She insults our home,” Father Clement breathed, his face purpling, the tutting sounds now coming so fast they sounded like an angry woodpecker. “Blasphemes against our way of life.”

“Your way of life includes living in a ruin that smells like a medieval frat house,” Rachel shot back. “I’ve seen Renaissance fairs with better hygiene standards.”

Tristan’s jaw had gone tight as a bowstring. “You know naught of the trials we face, wench. Hold your tongue ere you speak of matters beyond your understanding.”

“Oh, I understand plenty. I understand that you people think indoor plumbing is witchcraft and personal hygiene is optional.”

Hugo raised his tankard, grinning despite the tension, his shoulder roll more pronounced now. “She’s got spirit, I’ll grant her that. Sharp as a blade and twice as cutting. Reminds me of that French lass who took my shoulder apart—fierce as winter wind, she was.”

“She’s dangerous,” Mistress Caldwell countered, those pale eyes never leaving Rachel’s face.

“Mark how her hair refuses proper binding, how her eyes bear flecks of gold like some wild creature. Foreign features, foreign ways.” Her voice dropped.

“My sister had eyes like that. The merchants praised her beauty before the fever took her.”

“I condition my hair,” Rachel said weakly. “And it’s just brown. Very normal brown hair that I’ve never managed to tame, but it’s not supernatural, it’s just genetics and Kansas humidity.”

More blank stares. Right. Genetics. Not invented yet either.

The smell of unwashed bodies and smoke was making her dizzy, or maybe that was the shock of realizing she was actually, genuinely, completely screwed.

No phone. No internet. No modern plumbing, or coffee, or chocolate, or any of the things that made life worth living.

Just suspicious medieval people who thought her jeans were instruments of the devil and her hair was cursed.

She caught Tristan watching her with those pale blue eyes, his expression unreadable. There was something almost gentle in his gaze, which was probably pity. Great. Even the growly medieval knight felt sorry for her.

“She needs proper garments,” he said finally.

“And food. And...” His gaze flicked to a piece of her butter stick phone case still lying amongst the rushes.

It looked like a stick of butter though right now all she could see was the B.

“Perhaps it would be best to dispose of the cursed object entirely.”

“Already done, mate,” Hugo said cheerfully, rolling that shoulder again. “Into the flames where it belongs. Like that cursed French blade.” He leaned down and picked up the last piece of the phone case, tossing into the fire with a grin.

“No!” She stared into the fire. “It’s not cursed, it’s just broken! And it’s all I had left of—” Her voice cracked. Of home. Of her real life. Of a world where she understood the rules and could order coffee and people didn’t think her clothes were an abomination unto the Lord.

The hall had gone quiet again, everyone watching her with expressions that ranged from suspicious to curious to downright hostile. The torchlight flickered across their faces, making them look like something out of a fever dream.

One star overall, Rachel thought desperately, for the most dysfunctional restaurant staff in history. Would not recommend for dinner or emotional support.

She swallowed hard, tasting smoke and fear and the bitter realization that she was completely, utterly alone in a world that might as well be an alien planet.

“I want to go home,” she whispered.