He thought of her in her bed, weeping. Was she weeping? He moved toward his door. He should try to talk to her, just to make sure she was well.
He found himself walking to the western end of the hall, where her room was. Did she still have the door barred?
When he came to it, he knocked and then tried the key. Still barred. “Have you eaten?”
“Go away.”
She spoke. That was a promising sign.
“Kestrel, open the door. I wish to speak with you.”
“And if I don’t? Will you hang me from the window?”
He closed his eyes, gathering all his patience.
“I acted too harshly. How long will you be angry with me?”
Silence. Then she asked, “How can I be angry with an ogre for being an ogre?”
“Then will you open the door and have supper with me?”
He heard her moving about inside and moving something by the door. She opened the door and stepped out.
Her hair was loose and luxuriously thick, falling over her shoulders. Her eyes were bloodshot and round looking up at him with caution.
He felt ill because of it. He didn’t want her to be afraid of him or to not trust him.
“Are you hungry?” he asked softly, not moving when she stepped closer, closing the door behind her.
“What did you have in mind?”
Her breath fell against his chin. He had the urge to put his arms around her and draw her in closer. “Some pheasant with roasted mushrooms in some kind of honeyed sauce.”
“That actually sounds very good.”
He nodded and smiled at her. He hated to step away, but he didn’t want her to think he was going to jump on her at any moment.
He walked with her and called to a passing servant. “Have our supper brought to my library.”
“The library?” she asked, looking up at him while they walked. “You really know how to charm a girl.”
“I hope to prove to you that I am not an ogre.”
“Beast, from Beauty and the Beast had a library.”
“Who?”
She smiled. “It’s a story from the eighteenth century written by Gabrielle-Suzanne Barbot de Villeneuve.” She told him about the story, and he laughed to think of himself as the beast. She was most certainly the beauty though.
He liked the library. He didn’t come here enough. Once he put some wood in the hearth and started a fire, it was cozy. There were books set neatly on shelves, opened on a chair, piled on a table. “What did you get to look at last night?”
“Monmouth of course. I was impressed to see some Christine de Pizan in your collection. She was innovative and challenged male writers of misogyny in their literary works.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I do not know about all that. I have only read The Book of Deeds of Arms and of Chivalry, so far. And for a book about warfare written by a woman, ’tis quite good.”
“Hmm.” She looked him up and down. “Maybe you’re not an ogre after all. But I cannot come to any premature conclusions.”
They ate, with Nicholas’ appetite fully restored, and drank fine wine. They gave up their chairs for blankets on the floor. Her idea, not his. They read in front of the hearth from Monmouth’s History of British Kings. There were many, according to this work, including Constantine, Vortigen, Uther, but Nicholas opened book eleven and read from chapter two.
“And even the renowned king Arthur himself was mortally wounded; and being carried thence to the isle of Avallon to be cured of his wounds, he gave up the crown of Britain to his kinsman Constantine, the son of Cador, duke of Cornwall, in the five hundred and forty-second year of our Lord’s incarnation.”
“What?” Kestrel blinked and sat up straight. “Why did you read that part? That in particular?”
“I…I don’t know.” And he didn’t. He’d never read past book six. “I just opened there by chance.”
“No. There’s no by chance. One of my roommates’ name is Constantine. I wonder if he has a part to play in this.”
“He is not here,” he pointed out woodenly.
She stared at him for a moment and then smiled behind her hand.
“What?” he insisted.
“You’re jealous.”
“Ha!” he mocked. “I do not get jealous. And besides, we hardly know each other.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she quipped. “You’re jealous, and you were jealous this afternoon with your lieutenant.”
“You have a lively imagination.”
Her smile faltered. “Nicholas, you know I’m telling the truth about how I got here.”
“Kestrel.” He moved closer to her and leaned in. “Please understand how fantastic your story is. Believable as you make it sound, ’tis impossible.”
“No. It’s not impossible because here I am. I was almost six hundred years away and then I was here in a moment, in the middle of a bloody fight. How do you think I got here, Nicholas? You were staring right at me. Where did you see me come from?”
“A trick of the light.”
She sighed. “You’re not a stupid man.”
“My thanks.”
“You’re afraid, I under—”
He laughed, but he was insulted. “What am I afraid of? The future?”
She shook her head. “That people will think you’ve aided a witch.”
He stopped laughing. “I could lose the castle, my rank, and mayhap some other people who live here.”
She covered her mouth with her hand. “I understand. I will be extra careful. I wouldn’t want to cause anyone harm.”
“Aye,” he said softly, “You seem to have a very kind heart.”
Her eyes seemed to grow rounder, bluer. “You have been very kind to me also.”
“So then you don’t mind being tossed over my shoulder?” he asked playfully—but his low, deep voice was evidence that she made him burn everywhere, especially in his belly.
“I mind it so much that if you ever do it again, I’ll run a dagger through your heart while you sleep.”
He felt his heart pumping. He heard it, loud, strong. He liked that she did this to him. His mouth hooked into a half-smile. “How will you get to me in my bed while I sleep?”
Instead of answering
