Chapter 3
Fay gasped at the words and pushed the book away, her hands going cold. If this was a joke, it was a poor one, and she would let whoever was in on it know in no uncertain terms when she found them. Still confused about what had happened, she finally reached out for the scroll. The parchment was crackly and she worried about it disintegrating in her hands. But holding it made her feel compelled to unroll it for some reason. Anything would be better than that ominous single line in the book. The writing was impossibly ornate, and in horrible old English to boot, but something kept making her squint and strain to make out the words, finding they were quite simple once she stared at them for a while.
True love and faithfulness are but a lie.
Prove me wrong, you must now try.
Fail, return the gown in which I was betrayed,
And in your grave you will for certain lay.
The very parchment seemed to burn her icy fingers and she tossed it aside. She was about to get a serious case of the creeps if she didn’t calm down. She needed to stop wasting time and find out where she was, let her uncle know she was all right, and, possibly, wander around the crowd so they could get a look at the dress they hadn’t gotten to see in the show.
She pushed back the chair, the legs tugging on the rough rug, and looked around, then looked down. Nothing was right, starting from the rug, a simple woven thing, but it hadn’t been there before, of that she was sure. The only things in the room were the bedframe and the rolling rack. And the chest, she reminded herself. The chest she’d found the gown in. That was still there, sitting in the corner, under a spindly-legged table with an array of bottles and jars on it. The stone walls were decorated with tapestries, their colors rich and vibrant. The very stones looked almost shiny. In all the corners lay small, neat piles of what looked like straw with herbs mixed in, almost like potpourri.
The bedframe was still there. Now it not only had a mattress on it, but was covered in bedding and layers of rich fabric hung from its canopy. Sweet, embroidered slippers were set on a wooden step near the side of it and a heavily-carved table stood next to it. Feeling dizzy all over again, Fay stood and walked to the bed, climbing the step and sitting down. The mattress was soft and she sank in enough to make her grab at the edge to keep from ending up on her back.
Now, she noticed that the metal rolling rack was gone, replaced by a double door cabinet that almost touched the ceiling. The windows were no longer just crumbling rectangular holes in the wall, but had thick panes that slightly distorted the weak rays of sun coming through them. Another table, this one round, with two more chairs around it completed her quick furniture inventory and, with utter disbelief, she pulled herself off the bed and walked the circumference of the room, touching everything. The doorway that had led to a tiny, empty room now led to a tiny, furnished room with two single, neatly made up beds and another tall cabinet crammed in. She finally came to the little closet that had the curiously boarded up floor and opened that door.
“No,” she said, slamming the door shut. “No way in hell.”
Opening the door again she was faced with what could only be a rudimentary form of toilet. A wooden bench with a hole in it was fastened across the middle of the closet. When she leaned over and peered down the hole, she saw straight down to the ground below her. A jar stuffed with dried herbs sat on one side of the bench and a pile of cloth scraps sat on the other. That little closet was now the loo.
No, none of this was right. Her uncle had given her a tour of all the habitable rooms of the castle ruins and not one of them had looked like this. The only furniture was on the ground level, and that was mostly modern, brought in for the show and the auction. There were a few tapestries that had been donated, but Uncle Randolph was still working to get the castle restored, let alone furnished, just yet.
She looked back at the table, at the open book and the scary scroll. With a pounding heart, she slowly crossed the room and sat down heavily in the chair.
If you’re reading this you’re dead.
It didn’t make any more sense than the first time she read it. With shaking hands, she picked up the book and turned it over, examining the cloth cover and the sewn in pages, all of them different sizes and varying textures, not like any paper she’d ever used, but not crackly and rough like the parchment. It reminded her of the handmade artsy journals her aunt had loved collecting, but without any of the charm.
When she set it back down, it flopped open to the same page. Once again, the cruel message made her stomach plunge. She turned the page and saw a jumble of words crammed onto it and realized with a jolt that she could easily read the writing. Though there were a few ink spatters here and there, it wasn’t the ornate, heavy-handed script of the poem. It was simple, modern handwriting.
You’re cursed. The whole castle is cursed. The moment you laced up the gown you were dead to all those who know you in your own time. As far as I can tell it’s 1398. It’s always 1398.
I’m so very sorry, but I couldn’t face doing it again. This time will be my last. I no longer judge those before me for failing. I hope, one day, you’ll no longer hate me for giving up.
I honestly thought it would be me to break the curse, just as everyone before me must have thought the same. If you’re smart, you’ll put the gown back in the chest and end it before your heart breaks too many times to count.
But you’ll try. We all did. Good luck.
Fay was to the point that she could admit to herself she was freaking out. She’d come to terms with the fact that she was in the same room of the same castle that she’d fainted in, but everything was different. What had happened to her? She stared at the letter until her eyes crossed and the words swam on the page. She ran her hands over it, wishing she had paid more attention all the times Uncle Randolph had dragged her to one museum or another. A stab that she might never see him again, that he might believe she was dead, hit her square in the chest. He would know exactly what kind of paper it was, how it was made. He would have taken one look at the chair she was sitting on and probably known what year it was made just by the shape of its legs.
“Do I believe it?” she asked aloud.
Did she now believe that she was in another year? Yes, she did. All of a sudden, at that moment, she did.
She reread the poem and the letter, deciding it was the gown that must be cursed. It not only cinched her uncomfortably in the waist and made her itchy, now it made her blood curdle with fear. She wanted the damn thing off as quickly as possible and yanked at the laces until she was able to get it over her head. She stood in her twenty-first century underwear, wondering what to do with the wretched dress.
“It can’t go back in the chest,” she muttered, not feeling the least bit crazy for continuing to talk to herself. She was far beyond crazy if she believed she was truly cursed into another time. According to the curse itself, if she put the gown back in its chest, that would mean she’d failed. “And in your grave for certain lay,” she repeated the last line of the poem. “Nope, won’t be doing that.”
She shuddered and let what she’d previously thought of as beautiful fabric slide to the floor in her horror. The person who’d written the letter had put it back. Was she dead now? Dead for real, not just in the time she’d been stolen from?
“And what did she fail at?” Fay wailed, clapping her hand over her mouth when her upraised voice echoed in the high-ceilinged room.
Panic was beginning to take hold and the only thing that kept her from sinking into a sobbing puddle on the floor was the fact that she was only wearing her knickers. For some reason, she didn’t want to be found by whoever actually belonged in this castle while she was in her granny panties and sports bra.
The wardrobe. The big cabinet had to be a wardrobe. She strode across the room, oblivious to the chill, and flung open the doors to find it packed with more dresses and capes. A neat row of slippers stood at attention at the bottom and a rack above the gowns was packed with what looked like scarves and shawls and, possibly, headwear.
The sight soothed her, making her think of when she used to be a salesperson at Finley’s, the huge department store she’d worked at since she was seventeen. Now she was up in accounts and never had to hang or fold anymore. But she’d liked doing those things back then, found it therapeutic. She realized she would have to think of her current job in the past tense as well now. It was one thing that didn’t torment her. It had been a job, not a passion. She still hadn’t found her passion yet, and was only happy to be able to pay the bills, not be a burden to her aunt and uncle. She’d even been able to help them out a little when Aunt Terrie was diagnosed.
It was a much needed respite to her terrorized mind to flip through the dresses, finally choosing a pale gray one with a blue underdress. She wished she knew the proper words for everything and, once again, missed Uncle Randolph. She shook off the sadness, feeling like she didn’t have time for it. Sooner or later, someone would discover her. What happened then, she had no idea, but the dread of it made her turn back to the desk in hopes of answers.
Sick of looking at the poem, she rolled it up and stuffed it behind the shoes in the wardrobe, then saw the cursed dress still lying on the floor. As much as she never wanted to touch it again, she couldn’t risk it ending up in the chest. If it really caused her to die and some other unlucky soul to get dragged into her place, then she could never allow that to happen. Taking a deep breath, she grabbed it and put it in the farthest corner of the big cabinet, pulling a thin coverlet off the bed and draping it over the dress. Satisfied that it was fully hidden, she returned to the book.
Vellum. She was almost positive that was what the pages were and, if she remembered correctly, that it was made out of animal skins. Well, that was the least of her worries and, after scowling at the apology note one last time, she flipped to the first page.
“Begin at the beginning,” she told herself. “There’s an answer to every question.” Before she mindlessly babbled every trite bit of advice she’d ever learned, she hunkered down over the book, but the words of the poem kept swimming in her mind.
It was fairly clear that the writer of the poem and, Fay supposed, the person who’d placed the curse, didn’t believe in true love. The second line had said she had to prove that wrong or she could give up and let another person try, but then she’d be in her grave. She took a deep breath and blew it out, forcing herself to focus and read the first page. There was a neat, bullet-pointed list of names and short descriptions, a cheat sheet to remember them by. Good, she’d know the cast of characters in this play she was forced to act in.
Me—younger daughter. They knew my name. I suppose they knew everyone else’s as well.
Sir Walter Grancourt—father, tall and portly, white hair, beard
Anne—older sister, don’t get attached
Batty—my maid, brown hair, big eyes, very sweet
There were several names that came after Batty’s that were so thoroughly crossed out, the paper had been torn and the ink was smeared as if it had gotten wet. What had happened to those people? Did she want to know? Just at that moment, the door flew open and a young woman who looked to be close to Fay’s age poked her head in. She was dressed in a simple, dark blue gown with flowing sleeves and a pale gray underdress. She had brown hair pulled back in two twisted braids with curly tendrils peeking out from under a kerchief and big eyes that almost twinkled with good cheer as she smiled.
“Are you almost ready, Lady Fay? They’ve just arrived at the outer gate and your sister is beside herself.”
“Batty?” Fay asked, her voice coming out in a hoarse croak. None of this could be real.
The young woman looked expectant. “Yes? May I help you with something? Your hair, perhaps?”
Fay swallowed hard and looked back down at the book. Her maid Batty thought her hair needed some help, it seemed. Her sister—Anne, according to this list—was beside herself and someone was at the gate. She needed more time or she needed to wake the hell up. Either one, but waking up would be better. Batty came into the room, but Fay quickly shooed her away, too alarmed to worry about hurting the apparently very sweet girl’s feelings.
“My hair’s fine. I’ll be down in a bit,” she snapped. “Go and tell Anne to have patience.”
Batty nodded and retreated. Fay returned to the list, hoping she could learn whatever names she needed in a hurry.
Roric—Father’s chamberlain
Brom—likes Batty, at least the first time
Marjorie—Anne’s maid
There wasn’t a single word to describe Marjorie. Before she could return to the cast of characters in this farce she was supposed to take part in, another girl burst through the door. Though there had been no physical description of Anne, just the cryptic “don’t get attached”, Fay knew at once that this must be her sister. The gown she wore was much finer than Batty’s had been and while her dark brown hair was in braids, it wasn’t two simple plaits, but a mass of loops and rolls with a lace veil attached with what looked like upholstery studs. It looked painful.
She was thinner than Fay, apparent even in her flowing gown, and her skin was almost translucent it was so pale. She had the tiniest bit of some kind of rouge on her cheeks which told Fay she was self-conscious about it, or a little vain. She smiled at Fay as if she hadn’t seen her sister in ages. Fay instantly liked her. Then Anne sighed and strode to her, tugging at her hair.
“Oh, Fay, why did you send Batty away if your hair wasn’t done yet?”
So it was true. They knew her name. And they didn’t seem concerned that she must look different from the last person. And she was certain people spoke the Queen’s English quite a bit differently now than they did in her time. And yet she understood them perfectly well.
The whole castle and everyone in it must be enchanted, the poor, clueless saps. As odd as it was, she was grateful she didn’t have to fake her name. It was going to be difficult enough forcing herself to fall in love with someone, and she had a sinking feeling that had to be real or else the curse wouldn’t be broken. She wasn’t exactly the sort to have a life plan, and she hadn’t figured out her perfect job yet. Getting married wasn’t even on her radar.
But that was before she put on that damned dress. Now she had to find a man, fall in love with him, make him fall in love with her, or else … die? It didn’t sound easy by any means and, no, it wasn’t in her nonexistent five year plan, but it wasn’t the worst possible thing. Dying was the worst possible thing. Why did the people before her keep giving up?
While Fay pondered futilely and wished she could be left alone to continue reading, Anne dug in and began yanking and twisting and braiding her hair, hollering out for help. Batty returned to the room along with another young woman. She was blonde with rosy cheeks and a harried look about her, and Fay guessed it must be the unannotated Marjorie.
They all attacked her head with gusto and within a few minutes she had a similarly elaborate hairstyle as Anne. She’d guessed right, it was painful, but she thought it looked amazing. It made her hold her head up straight for fear her neck would snap under the weight of the jeweled veil they’d attached to her if she relaxed. When she stood up, she felt almost regal. She also felt quite a bit calmer, until Anne grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the hall.
“It would be so shameful if we were late in greeting them,” Anne moaned, shaking her head at Fay. “Hurry. There’s no time for decorum on the stairs, dear. We must run until the great hall, then we can be ladies again.”
“Who? Who are we greeting?” Fay threw caution to the wind and asked, knowing there was no way she could fake her way through this. What if the people were relatives she was supposed to have known since birth?
The exhilaration of being rushed down the winding stairs left her as soon as they reached the ground floor landing. All that stood between her and the complete unknown was the same wooden door she’d pushed through a short time ago, to put on that damned gown. She was so screwed.
Anne shook her head, looking exasperated. “Always with your head in the clouds, never listening. Sir Tristan Ballard of Dernier Keep. He’s just inherited from Sir Andrew, remember, goose? He’s come to make his oath of fealty to Father.”
“He’s said to be fierce and as big as a giant, and so handsome ladies have swooned just at the sight of his smile,” Batty announced. “He’s not only a master of the sword, but he can send an arrow further than the eye can see and always hit its target. His fists—”
Batty’s breathless account was cut off by Marjorie, who scoffed. “He’ll be obnoxious and covered in filth as all knights are. I don’t know where you hear such romantic tales, Batilda, or why you continue to believe them.”
Fay almost clapped to find out what Batty was a nickname for.
“Hush, both of you,” Anne said. “He’s to be our honored guest, and I won’t have any of you swooning or treating him with disdain. That goes for you as well, Fay.”
“What did I say?” she asked indignantly, surprised to find she was defending herself in a sisterly argument, as if Anne were really her sister. It gave her a strange shifting feeling, as if the stones beneath her feet were moving.
Anne ignored Fay’s question and pressed her ear to the huge, heavy door. “I think we made it on time. Father is probably still in the bailey with them. Let’s make sure everything is in order.”
With that, she moved aside and Batty and Marjorie heaved open the door, making Fay gasp at what she saw.
“Oh, what is it?” Anne asked. “Did one of the lads leave a slop bucket lying around again?”
“Er, no,” Fay said, trying to recover. “It looks great.”
And, indeed, it did. The great hall as she’d known it had been decorated well enough for the fashion show, but it was still half-ruins back then. Back then, she marveled, pulling herself together, trying to take in what was now her present, her reality. More brilliant tapestries lined the walls, and torches and candles in sconces at regular intervals made the huge, open room seem almost cheery and cozy. A massive fireplace at one end roared with a fire that could have cooked two cows with room left over for a pig. Rows of trestle tables covered with crisp, tidy cloths took up half the room. Just as she’d seen in pictures, one of the tables was longer and raised higher than the others. Servant boys bustled around, setting out goblets and filling pitchers, shooing away dogs.
“It looks fine,” Anne decreed, grabbing Fay’s hand. She nodded at the two maids, who fell into step behind them. They all made their way toward the great hall entrance. “Let’s greet them in the courtyard before they enter.”
Fay thought Batty and Marjorie must not just be servants or they would have been sent to do some chores instead of greeting the guests. She wondered if they were related somehow, like ladies-in-waiting to royalty were often distant relatives. At any rate, they were on very chummy terms with Anne and, she supposed, herself. They seemed to know their place, but weren’t especially subservient.
Two boys who might have been nine or ten hurried to open the big double doors for them. A gust of wintery air nearly knocked her off her feet. Once again, Fay had to stop and stare, earning herself a hard tug on the arm by Anne as she dragged her into the courtyard. First of all, it was an actual courtyard now, surrounded by a high, forbidding wall that had been a few piles of rocks the last she saw. Instead of making it seem smaller, being enclosed by the thirty or so foot tall wall made the outdoor space seem larger and airier.
She looked around her as inconspicuously as she could, taking in the barrels and crates here and there. Chickens were making their way back to their coops now that the sun was going down. Next, she caught a glimpse of what looked like a small blacksmith station. It was all so alive. At the gate, which was raised more than halfway, what looked like a small army of men made their way through. At the lead was a tall man, slightly portly, with a glorious mane of white hair and a neatly trimmed beard.
Once again, she experienced the shifting feeling when she laid eyes on him. He waved at them and smiled straight at her. A genuine, fatherly smile. He had to be her father, Sir Walter Grancourt. Or the cursed girl’s father, anyway. Another thought struck her that she was surprised she hadn’t had before. What had become of the first girl, the one Fay and the others who’d put on the cursed dress replaced? Anne’s real sister, Walter’s real daughter? Where was she?
She didn’t have time to ponder it because, at that moment, a bevy of servants leading horses hustled past, making her lose sight of Sir Walter. Just another mystery she’d have to try and figure out later. Right now, she was in survival mode, trying not to do anything wrong.
A cloud of dust from a passel of servants leading the visitors’ horses past her obscured her vision. She grabbed Anne’s hand and stepped back to keep from getting trampled. Anne squeezed her fingers and nodded toward the gates their father had come through, an odd little smile on her face. As Fay turned, she saw Batty gaping. Even Marjorie was having a hard time keeping her sour look in place.
As the dust cleared, she saw what they were looking at, or rather, who they were looking at. For a moment, she thought she heard music playing.
“Knight in shining armor, indeed,” Fay said, having to do a double take.
Okay, so the armor was most definitely not shining. It was quite dinged up and stained, in fact. She noticed a few broken bits of chainmail as she let her eyes wander up his chest. He was as big as Batty had said, and as filthy as Marjorie had conjectured. She wondered how much of his great bulk was actually him, and how much of it was padding and metal. As she leaned forward to get a better look, she realized that the rusty stains on his armor weren’t actually rust, but looked to be dried blood. His chainmail was spattered with it, with a larger smear near a dent in his shoulder plate. Her horror at whose blood it might be fizzled away when he shook his hair behind that broad, bloodstained shoulder.
His hair was brown, as her hair was brown, and as her new sister Anne’s hair was brown. Probably the most common hair color in the world. And yet, the different hues all caught the failing daylight and made her recall her uncle’s paint palette. Umber, chocolate, chestnut. It shouldn’t have caused her to stand on her toes to get a better look at it as the wavy strands settled along his shoulders. She thought it was like a shampoo commercial and failed to keep in her disbelieving giggle.
Anne hissed at her to be quiet, her pale cheeks reddening. Fay’s cheeks felt a little hot as well and she stumbled as the man walked past them, dipping his head in acknowledgement before getting lost in the crowd of servants. She craned her neck and actually jumped to try and get another glimpse of him. She’d been so distracted by his size and ruggedness, that mane of hair, that she’d barely had a chance to register his face. Chiseled jaw, yes, she was sure she’d seen that. Strong cheekbones, aristocratic nose that might have been broken a time or two. Steely eyes that seemed to stare right into her soul—but what color were they? She ached to know.
Anne pinched her, bringing her back to reality. Yes, the reality that she was now in another time and knew absolutely nothing except that she had to somehow prove that true love existed. She had a very brief and not so clean thought about the hunk of metal-encased man who’d just strode past her, but Anne pinched her again.
“Fay, do I have to send you upstairs or can you comport yourself like you’ve been properly reared?” She sighed and apologetically rubbed the spot where she’d pinched. “Yes, he’s quite handsome, but—”
“Is he?” Fay asked, praying she sounded calm and that her cheeks would go back to their normal color. She glanced at Batty, who gave her a conspiratorial wink. “I was more concerned he might be injured and how, er, dirty he was. It must have been a long ride.”
Marjorie snorted. “They’re always dirty, always covered in blood. Soulless creatures, knights.”
Fay nodded, noting that Anne didn’t berate her maid for this bit of commentary. She only frowned and shook her head. “We must pray whatever fighting they were in doesn’t follow them here.” She glared at Batty and Marjorie. “Sir Tristan will need a bath after supper. He may be too tired for the entertainment Father’s prepared, so see that it’s ready in time.”
The two girls snapped quick curtseys and took off, leaving Fay and Anne in the courtyard. The hubbub of Sir Tristan and his entourage’s arrival had died down, with only a few servants tending horses left. Anne nodded toward the main entry where their father stood, waving them forward before turning and entering the great hall.
“How important is he?” Fay asked, not wanting to go in and be introduced as someone she wasn’t.
No matter how much she wanted to rest her eyes on Sir Tristan’s glorious countenance again, she was so overwhelmed by nerves she would have given up the chance to be back at the fashion show, getting bossed around by drunken socialites.
Anne shrugged, seemingly in no hurry to go in either. “It’s a crucial property, as well you know,” she said. “The main fortification between us and those scoundrels to the north. Sir Andrew had father’s full trust and, apparently, Sir Andrew trusted Sir Tristan enough to leave it to him. We must pray he’s worthy, for if it falls, so do we.” With a freshly stiffened spine, Anne moved toward the entrance.
“So, he’s not important at all, then,” Fay mumbled dispiritedly.
She’d been worried enough about which fork to use during supper, but now she feared she may do something so wrong as to jeopardize the safety of the entire castle and all its inhabitants. If only she’d had more time to read through that book, maybe she would have found some answers.
“Come along,” Anne called from the entryway steps. She looked tiny in the huge arched doorway and, even from the distance, Fay could see how anxious she was.
Feeling that odd shifting again, she found she wanted to do the right thing for this family who unknowingly treated her as one of their own. Set this castle full of people she’d never seen before free from their curse.
If only she had a single clue how to go about it.