Chapter 1
Fay Driscoll jumped aside to keep from being consumed by the sixteen foot long feather and velvet train as Lady Vetiver whisked past her. Grabbing a champagne flute from a harassed looking waiter, Fay stopped to take a breath amidst the backstage bustle. She caught a glimpse of her uncle surrounded by his army of socialites and smiled.
Being bossed around and nearly trampled by rich people in fancy dress wasn’t exactly her cup of tea, and she could tell even Uncle Randolph was getting fed up with his volunteers. He herded them along as they squabbled over what order they’d go out in the first annual charity fashion show he’d dreamed up to try and save his most beloved lost cause: Grancourt Castle. It was a giant, medieval mess of crumbling stone, but he loved it and, because of that, so did Fay.
She’d gladly give up her vacation to shiver and fight a constant runny nose in the north of England to help him. They were all each other had since Aunt Terrie had passed away the year before. She was happy to see him so invigorated and cheerful again, though a bit harried as the ladies kept squawking and pecking at him.
There were dozens more people waiting in the gussied up ruins of the great hall, eager to see the beautiful, historical gowns that had been donated from collections and museums all over England for the event. Each dress had also been reimagined for modern wear by important designers, and there had been a huge kerfuffle over who got to model the original garment and who would wear the exciting new replica.
“Where’s Adelaide?” Fay called out, receiving no answer. “Come on, people, we’re missing someone important.” Still, no one bothered to glance her way.
Consulting her clipboard, then trying to pinpoint who was wearing what, she was positive someone was missing from the fray. Everyone was supposed to be lining up at this point, but no one wanted to stop showing off and chatting with each other. She felt bad for the designers who were used to professional models, not these ladies who all imagined themselves to be in charge.
Fay ran to tear a few of them away from Randolph, earning a grateful wink. Between keeping the pampered women from sitting down in their priceless gowns, wrapping them in yards of tissue so they wouldn’t spill their champagne down the fronts, and giving the nervous ones pep talks, she kept plenty busy until the music started pounding from the great hall. Everyone backstage shrieked with excitement, and the ones who had done charity fashion shows before finally lined up with smug know-it-all faces, rolling their eyes at the newbies.
“Where’s our wedding gown?” one of the designers howled. He added a few choice swear words and ran down the line of ladies twice. “I’ve got my modern dress, but where’s the bloody original gown?”
“Adelaide had too much to drink,” a young lady swathed in acres of violet lace spoke up meekly. “She went to lie down a bit ago. Er, I don’t think she ever put it on.”
More swearing from the designer as his rage-filled eyes swept the room. Fay shrugged when he settled on her, then got nervous when he stomped over and grappled at her waist. “You might just do,” he said.
Lady Stella Astor-Finley came tottering over from the front of the line. She was in a magnificent and extremely racy interpretation of a nun’s costume. It clung to her ample curves and was sure to bring a small fortune in the auction. “I’ll wear the wedding gown,” she offered, much to Fay’s relief. “I wanted it from the first.” Her cheeks turned red when she recalled the person she was speaking to had designed her dress. “This one’s gorgeous of course. I can do both since I’m at the front of the line. I can change in no time flat. I’ve done loads of these shows.”
The designer scowled at her but, knowing how much money she had, Fay could tell he was loath to say anything. “And you’d look divine in it, darling, but whoever that gown was made for all those years ago must have been practically malnourished, and the museum would set me on fire if I let any of the seams split. What with it being so old and all.” He finally stopped stammering out his explanation, then turned back to Fay.
She felt slightly indignant at his assessment of her figure, which wasn’t anywhere near malnourished. But she apparently didn’t rate any kind of ego stroking because he only hustled her toward the tower stairs.
“It ought to be up in the changing room then. Try and find someone to help you into it, but hurry. Ten minutes and I want you in this line or the show is destroyed.”
Fay caught Uncle Randolph’s pleading look. Instead of tearing the designer a new one, she smiled through gritted teeth and started for the stairway. Randolph caught up with her at the heavy wooden door and pulled it open for her.
“It’s a lovely dress,” he said apologetically. “I know you only wanted to help out behind the scenes, but it’s the wedding gown, the showstopper, I guess you’d say. We really hope to get a lot for the reproduction.”
She stood on her toes and kissed his papery cheek. “I certainly don’t want all your hard work to be destroyed,” she said.
“Oh, thank you, dear,” he sighed, starting to show the stress he’d been under putting everything together.
He and Aunt Terrie had raised her since she was three, after her parents died in an accident. She barely remembered what her mom and dad looked like, but Uncle Randolph featured in all her childhood memories. She’d come home from school to find him splashing paint onto a canvas or leaning over his loom, creating the most detailed weavings she’d ever seen. Her tiny apartment in London was the envy of all her friends thanks to all the beautiful portraits and tapestries he’d given her over the years.
He’d always volunteered at various museums, but when Aunt Terrie fell ill, they’d moved way up north to the tiny village of Cambrey and he’d devoted all his time to caring for her. Fay had worried he’d fall apart after his one and only love left him, but he’d rallied, finding new purpose in bringing this old castle back to life. His genuine smile and the vibrancy in his eyes was enough to wipe away any small irritation she’d had at the rude designer.
“Are you kidding me?” she asked. “This is perfect. I only pretended I didn’t want to be in the show because I thought all the spots were for the big donors.”
She herself had donated what she could to the cause, but it was a pathetic amount compared to what most of the ladies in the show and out in the great hall would give. She had a feeling the final prices on the dresses up for auction would be staggering. It hadn’t even started and already she could tell what a huge success the fashion show was going to be, and it was all because of her dear Uncle Randolph. She knew how much keeping history alive meant to him, and felt bad for not taking more interest in his passion for the past. She was strictly an up-to-the-minute sort of girl and had no use for old things. Unless it meant helping her uncle, then she was all in.
She shooed him away, knowing her ten minutes were ticking away and didn’t want to face the wrath of the designer for stalling the show.
“I’ll send Erica up to help you,” he said, searching the crowd of makeup artists and volunteers. “This particular gown is so old, we didn’t even have a fitting for Adelaide, just hoped it would work based on measurements. I pray it doesn’t crumble when we pick it up.”
“Never mind,” she told him. “I’m pretty sure I can figure it out by myself and I’ll be careful.” She wasn’t a spoiled socialite who had a crew to help her wake up every morning, roll her hair and bring her tea. Randolph gave her a worried look, but nodded, hurrying off to help get the lineup in order.
She made her way up the crumbly stairs, lit by weak and flickering electric lights that had been tacked up at intervals, their long, black cords snaking dangerously across some of the steps. She concentrated on not tripping and ran her hand along the bumpy stone wall, trying to feel something for the place. Any inkling that people might have lived here so long ago. According to her uncle, hadn’t it been empty for some six hundred years? It had once been a bustling and powerful place, then … nothing. No one knew what happened. All records just stopped in the late fourteenth century.
It should have fascinated her, as she did love mysteries. But it was so long ago, she couldn’t work up a single bit of interest. When she got to the top of the stairs, only one of the doors was propped open, so she peeked in. An old wooden bedframe sat in the middle of the large, otherwise empty room. The windows were only narrow openings in the walls, letting in the weak winter light of late afternoon and also gusts of wind, making the room chilly.
She hugged her arms to herself and looked around. A few pairs of tights and a tank top lay on the floor from when everyone else had been up here changing. But now it was just her and there was no sign of the showstopping wedding dress. A wire rack with wheels had been pushed into the corner of the room but, except for a few padded hangers, it was devoid of anything wearable.
“Oh dear,” she said as she began searching the room.
Nothing under the bedframe except a nose full of dust, nothing in the empty closet except a boarded up floor. Another door led to a tiny room that adjoined the big chamber, but it was empty as well. She was fairly sure she was about out of her ten minutes and fully expected to start hearing shouts from below any second. Just as she was about to check the other closed up rooms, she noticed a trunk behind the rolling rack. She blinked at it several times, almost positive it hadn’t been there when she first entered the room. It was covered in more discarded underthings and, with a shrug, she decided she was more nervous about walking the runway in a six hundred-year-old dress than she wanted to admit and had overlooked it.
Prying open the trunk proved to be a chore and she regretted not taking Uncle Randolph up on his offer to send her help. When it finally burst open, she choked on the overpowering gust of lavender that wafted up at her. The gown was neatly folded between thin layers of crisp linen and the dried lavender smelled as strong as if it had just been placed there.
“Why the hell didn’t they have this aired out already?” she wondered, shaking out the rich, heavy fabrics and trying to make heads or tails of the pieces.
She knew from looking at the other medieval era dresses that one was an undergarment and one was laced on top. Her heart thudding away with anxiety about how late she was and her hands shaking from irritation that she hadn’t accepted the offer for help, she finally made it into the first layer of fine ivory wool and quickly tossed the gorgeously embroidered top layer over her head.
It fit her like a glove. The sleeves slid down her arms in a flowing river of jade green silk. All she had to do now was lace up the gold cords at the sides. She wished there was a mirror, wished she had time to get her hair done up and have her face powdered like the other ladies. She wished she could do justice to the absolutely most beautiful dress she had ever seen.
How many minutes had she already wasted? She needed to get downstairs. With a gasp, she took a step toward the door but felt dizzy and couldn’t see straight all of a sudden. The door seemed a mile away, wavering in and out of focus, and her legs refused to move. Her chest felt heavy and she clutched at the richly brocaded bodice. She crumpled to her knees, but didn’t feel anything as she hit the floor. As she tried to call out for help, no sound crossed her lips and she focused on the wooden door, getting farther and farther away. It was only a pinpoint in her vision when everything went black.
Fay woke up with her arms crossed under her head, sitting at a small writing desk. She blinked a few times to clear her muddy vision and realized with a start that she was still in the tower room at Grancourt Castle. Or was she?
“Uncle Randolph?” she called weakly.
Why would she be sitting at this desk and not lying down if she’d truly passed out like she thought she must have. She remembered the dress constricting her, feeling dizzy and finding it difficult to breathe. Even now, the dress was too tight and she tugged at the ties to loosen it. She looked at the closed door, but felt too weak to get up and try to open it. Someone would look in on her soon. She felt bad about ruining the show and hoped people would still bid generously on the reproduction of the wedding dress that was now making her itch.
In front of her, all neatly displayed in a row was a tightly rolled scroll tied with a ribbon and a cloth-bound book that lay open almost to the end, pressed flat with a stone to keep it to its page. The book was pressed up against her folded arms, so close her hair was strewn over its pages. Across the page that was propped open in front of her, she could clearly see the words that were written in reddish-black ink.
If you’re reading this, you’re dead.