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“T hey say my first wife was a witch and was burned on a stake in a square in Devon.”

Conn listened to the Duke of Devon cry into his cup in his private sitting room.

By now, he knew the story well. They had been drinking since dinner.

Conn would admit they needed the strong ale after hours of weeping and wailing from Harry Gable’s widow, Elspeth.

Mrs. Gable, Harry’s mother had sent her daughter-in-law disapproving looks after the first hour at the dinner table.

Sarah offered to bring her to a room, but Elspeth Gable wouldn’t go.

Because they were all special guests of the duke of Devon, they had all sat at the same table. No one tried to speak over Elspeth’s sobbing. The mood had been somber, which probably led Thomas Barrington to drink until his ears began to turn red.

Drinking with his friends on Friday nights had strengthened Conn’s tolerance for liquor and after three cups he had stopped drinking. Thomas had not. It was when he’d first began talking about his first wife. His second wife was thankfully not present.

“They tried to burn her twice before that,” Thomas told him again now, “but she disappeared into thin air. I do not think they burned her the third time. I think they lied to me.”

Conn yawned. How had he fallen into Crazy town? How much longer would he have to put up with hearing this before his sister found a way to send him home, or God told him he was dead and in hell. “You think she went to the future?” he asked, not really caring at this point.

“Yes! And I think that old crone, my Emma’s mother…

or grandmother…was respon…responsi…” He swooned in his seat a little and turned greenish around the edges.

Conn laughed into his hand. “Yes, the crone, Tessa Blagden’s fault.

Gray’s nurse, Harper, is also from the future. You all speak in the same manner.”

“Yes, you mentioned that al-Blagden?” Conn sat up straighter.

Mrs. B? Good friend of his family and benefactor, Hester Blagdon?

How could she have anything to do with this?

How much clearer did it have to be that this wasn’t real.

Mrs. B. was like, in her eighties in 2022. She couldn’t be here in 1795.

Why couldn’t she? He asked himself. He was here, wasn’t he?

Maybe Mrs. B. was an angel. His family had always thought so.

She paid Aria’s way through dance school and even had her tutored by the best dancers she could find.

His parents didn’t know that she paid for self-defense school.

He wasn’t supposed to know that she sometimes left money for his mother in the empty flour jar on the kitchen counter.

Conn had spied her doing it. He loved her for it.

No, there was no way he was in hell if Mrs. B. was here.

He wasn’t dead, and…Will Gable and his brother Harry’s blood had smelled.

How real could hallucinations feel? If he wasn’t dead, and he wasn’t hallucinating, then this was real and somehow his sister and Mrs. B.

were involved. He didn’t like Thomas, and he suspected his sister and Mrs. B. didn’t like him either.

“You’re drunk. I’m not from the future,” Conn told him. “I’m from Wishford. While you’re looking for a way to skip time, I sent my men back home to find my sister and explain herself. Maybe your wife is there.”

“You think it is so simple?”

“It usually is,” Conn replied, then stretched. “Where can I sleep?”

“Where is Wishford?” Thomas asked after he burped.

“I won’t tell you that until I’ve heard from my men. I don’t want you sending your army there. If your wife is there, they will inform me and I will have her brought back here.”

“And my son?”

Conn narrowed his eyes on him. “Do you care for him suddenly?”

“I always cared for him,” Thomas cried. “I never told him about his mother rumored to have been burned alive.”

Conn left Thomas to his ninth cup and was directed to a guest room by one of the chambermaids.

He smacked his hand against the walls as he walked.

The stone felt hard and cold. What would happen if he tumbled down the stone steps?

Would he wake up somewhere else? 2024? What would his life like two years into his own future?

He’d never see Sarah Gable again. So what?

He mocked himself, entering the room. Nothing special about her—except that she was happy losing the man she loved because his happiness came first. She was unselfish.

She put someone else’s feelings before her own.

Virtues that were dying rapidly in the twenty-first century.

He thanked the chambermaid and had a look around. There were two rooms, a sitting room with old looking furniture in drab colors. He just wanted a bed. When he entered the next room he was happy to see a giant bed with clean bedding and thick blankets.

Peeling off his shirt, he wondered where the shower was. He felt nasty and needed to wash it all away. But after a thorough check, he found no sign of a shower. A wave of panic and disgust swept through him as he realized showers probably weren’t invented yet. How did one stay clean?

Ruffled, he left the chambers and stepped out into the hall. He walked to one end in search of a place to get clean and finding nothing, began the trek to the other end.

A door along the wall to his right opened and Sarah appeared. She didn’t come out but remained in the archway, staring at him—at his bare chest to be more precise. Then she stepped back into the room and closed the door quickly.

A moment later, the door opened and she appeared again. This time she promised her mother, who was inside, that she wouldn’t tarry.

“Is something the matter?” She asked him in a hushed tone and shut the door behind her. “Where is your shirt?”

He looked down at himself and then smiled, glad he worked out so much. “I was looking for a shower.”

“In the castle?”

His heart sank a little again. “Yes. Have they been invented yet?”

“Invented? Showers?” She looked blank. “Showers happen out of doors when it rains. I do not know about them being invented.”

Right, rain showers. But no personal bathing showers. He sighed and shook his head. “Nevermind. Where can I wash up?”

“Oh, follow me. I am going that way. My mother wishes to wash before bed.”

“Okay, just give me a second.” He hurried to his room, snatched up his shirt and rushed back out.

“How’s your mother?” He asked her while he slipped his shirt over his head.

When he popped his head out, he caught her gazing at his tight belly. He pretended not to see her when she raised her gaze to his.

“We just left Will and he responded a bit to her voice. So she’s very hopeful.”

He smiled. “That’s good news.”

“Yes.”

“And Elspeth?”

Sarah gave him a withering sigh. “Their relationship was a difficult one. I think she would have slept with Grayson if he had wanted her. Harry was not a lovable man, Your Grace. But he was my brother and my mother’s son. He will have a good burial thanks to you.”

He shook his head as they descended the stairs. “It was Thomas. I mean…the duke’s doing.”

He liked the way she looked at him. At dinner, while everyone else was eating and sipping (or guzzling) their wine, Sarah had looked up twice to find Conn staring at her. They had shared smiles amidst the gloom.

“You’re very pretty,” he told her now as they entered the kitchen.

“You are quite bold.” She smiled but then, as if remembering something, her smile faded.

“What is it?” He asked with genuine concern marring his brow.

“I should not be smiling and laughing when my brother died today.”

Conn dipped his gaze, thinking he should feel guilty for making her do those things but not able to feel any guilt for the smile on her lips. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” She peeked up from under her long black lashes with a smile.

“It’s a New York thing.”

“What is it like?” she asked, leading him to a small, torchlit side building which housed a well.

“It’s convenient.” he told her while she lowered a bucket held by a rope into the well. “Water comes from a small faucet in the kitchen.” He demonstrated turned knobs to get water.

“That is convenient indeed.”

He helped her lift the water-filled bucket. When he pulled it in, he dipped his finger into the water and gave her a concerned look. “It’s freezing.”

“Are you afraid of cold water?”

He gave her a smile out of the corner of his mouth, his dimple filled with shadows, then he cupped his hand in the water and splashed it at her.

She jumped back but not quickly enough and got sprayed in the face. She gasped and stood still in shock for a moment. When that wore off, she hurried toward him. He did everything in his power not to laugh. Just inches from him, she stopped and stared at him.

When she reached for the bucket to clearly exact revenge, he refused to hand it over. She didn’t say another word. She simply stared at him, letting him clearly see the revenge she would have on him either now or later.

Finally, he chuckled and surrendered the bucket. He deserved what he was about to get.

She didn’t pause or hesitate but took the bucket, hauled it back and threw the water at him.

Soaked, he gasped at the cold as it snatched his breath. His shirt and pants, even his shoes were soaked.

Before he thought about what he was doing—born out his competitive nature—and his aversion to losing, he took a step forward and took her up in his dripping arms.

He laughed, feeling the water soak into her clothes.

She squealed and struggled to be free, and then she laughed with him.

“Your Grace. Mr. Darling, let me go!”

He turned to look toward the left and to the right, taking her with him. “Who?”

“Conn! Let me go!”

He wanted to. This was just his way of not losing.

Wasn’t it? He looked into her eyes. Was he falling for her?

A girl from the eighteenth century? How incredibly foolish could he be?

Nothing here was permanent. At least, he hoped it wasn’t.

Didn’t he? Looking in her eyes he wasn’t sure about anything.

He let her go, suddenly feeling awkward.

“I’m sorry. I got carried away with playing.”

“Playing?” She quietly repeated.

“I’ll walk you back.”

He waited while she dipped the bucket again and pulled up water to pour into a bowl stacked with others against the wall. He filled a bowl for himself next and muttered how was a person supposed to get clean with a bowl of water?

On the way to their rooms, they didn’t say much. They didn’t have to. Their eyes met several times on the way and they shared quiet laughter and intimate smiles. Sometimes, Conn reasoned, it was more than enough.