Evermore (Knight Everlasting Book 3)

by Cassidy Cayman

  That was where she’d woken up, slumped over the desk with a scroll in her hand and a book nearby. And Fay had made a point to tell her to read. She looked with distaste from the dress that lay in a heap on the floor to the desk. She still couldn’t quite believe that she’d not only found the cursed gown that she’d read about but, like Fay had scornfully said, put it on.

  “Is this a dream or a nightmare?” she asked aloud, sidling over to the desk. She slid into the straight-back chair, admiring the woven seat. She’d never seen a completely intact cane seat from this time. All of them had rotted away, leaving only their wooden frames. “It’s a dream,” she murmured, running her hand over the smoothly polished and carved wood of the desk. Everything she loved was here in front of her, in all its glory. Not restored to near glory, not shabby or in tatters. Beautiful, brand new, exquisite medieval handiwork.

  She sighed and unrolled the scroll. It wasn’t new. In fact, she feared it would crumble as she unrolled it, but it had been in her hand when she awoke to this world, so it must be the first thing she was supposed to see.

  The words were written in flowery handwriting, almost unreadable. She squinted and adjusted her mind to the old English way of spelling and finally made out the words on the parchment.

  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.

  She read it over several times, saying it once out loud. Hearing the words about lying in her grave ring out in the large chamber made her flinch. She looked again at the dress on the floor and noticed a corner of the chest Fay had ruthlessly kicked under the bed.

  “Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t put the nasty thing back in its box,” she muttered.

  Could she die in this time? That was a dumb question to ask herself, but everything still seemed so unreal. Apparently, she’d die if she returned the gown. Or if she couldn’t prove true love wasn’t a lie. Cold fingers of fear ran down her spine as she recalled the story about Fay’s demise from their own time.

  Fay had gone upstairs to this very chamber to put on the wedding gown for a fashion show to raise money for the castle renovation. She never came back down, and was found dead in her knickers. A massive, freak heart attack at age twenty-three. The gown was never seen again, and no one could agree on exactly what it had looked like. A few of the designers said they had pictures of it, but no one could ever produce any. Funds poured in to restore the supposedly haunted castle. The story had circulated all the way to her small college in Louisiana where she’d fought for grant money and the opportunity to get to work in England.

  Fay’s Uncle Randolph had been beside himself with grief, but eventually went back to work overseeing the restoration. He didn’t want the place turned into a sideshow, but wanted the historical integrity maintained. Sophie had agreed wholeheartedly with the dear old man, and they’d become friends. When she first found the battered missive that had been signed by none other than his deceased niece, it had taken her a while to decide to show it to him. When she finally had, he’d burst into joyful tears and redoubled his efforts to bring the crumbling old ruin back to its former state. He was doing it for Fay, believing she was alive and well in another time. Sophie herself had gone back and forth on believing it. After all, it was so far-fetched, thinking someone who was absolutely known to be dead had written it. And from the year 1398 of all things. They’d had the book tested and it wasn’t a hoax, at least not one that was carried out any time later than six hundred years before.

  She believed it just fine now. She was here. The dress was real. She peeked behind her and there it was, lying benignly on the floor. It gave her the creeps thinking it might be looking back at her and she raced to stuff it in the wardrobe. She wadded it up as far back in the corner as she could get it and covered it with a pile of scarves from the top shelf.

  “Well, that poem didn’t do too much in the way of explaining things,” she sighed, settling back in at the desk.

  She picked up the book, a handmade affair with a rough cover and sewn in pages. She flipped through it, finding places where pages had been carefully torn away, and wondered if that was what Fay had used to write her own book. This one looked like a diary, and what caught her eye was that it wasn’t in the scrolly old English. It was written in simple modern handwriting, albeit a bit splotchy in places. Her head hurt and she realized she was hungry. Ravenous, in fact.

  She wished she hadn’t let Fay make her chicken out of going down to greet whatever guests had everyone so worked up. They were probably tucking into a nice roasted pig right now. She should march down to the main hall and brazen her way through this little adventure she’d gotten herself into. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know the castle backwards and forwards. So a few—well, quite a few—of the walls were just piles of stones in her time. She still knew the lay of the land. Batty had known her name and Fay had called her sister. The curse must have made her belong here, wedged in a place for her as it had for Fay.

  Sophie tossed the book onto the desk, her head pounding too much all of a sudden to be able to make heads or tails out of it at the moment. She needed food before she could figure anything out. The book landed open to a page that had a single line of writing on it, large enough that she didn’t have to squint or lean over to see it. It was like a billboard, blazing up at her.

  If you’re reading this, you’re dead.

  Well, that certainly stole her appetite clean away. Even though it was as plain as day, she pulled the book toward her and read the words again. Still the same. Her headache pounded against the backs of her eyes. Was she dying right this moment? Was she already a corpse in the twenty-first century and about to become one here? She hadn’t even explored the castle yet. With shaking hands, she flipped a page and held the book up to read what was on it. It all seemed incredibly important now. Imperative that she read every word. On the page before the ominous warning was an apology of sorts. Whoever had written it couldn’t bear to go on. Disconcertingly, the author suggested whoever was reading it should give up as well before their heart was broken. Not encouraging at all.

  She flipped around a bit more, finding a list of names. People she was supposed to know in this time, she supposed. People she was related to even! She slowly began to understand that Fay wasn’t the first person to be pulled to this time by the dress. It seemed every time someone failed the objective, someone else got roped in to try again.

  How long had it been going on? Sophie pinched the bridge of her nose to drive back her headache. It was chilly in the room and yet too stuffy at the same time. She longed for a deep breath of fresh air. She scanned a few of the pertinent pages again. The gist of it seemed to be someone tried, someone failed, the cursed gown brought a new player in to try again. And again. She got that much, but what she didn’t understand was how Fay was still around. If Fay was alive and hadn’t been the one to return the gown to its chest, how had Sophie found it?

  “Of course Fay’s alive, nitwit,” she said to herself. “And it’s clear she didn’t return the dress.” Fay had looked at the gown as if it were her mortal enemy. And she’d muttered about how she’d broken something. “She must have meant she broke the curse,” Sophie surmised, now pacing and pressing on her eyes. The pain was almost unbearable. “Or thought she did. She obviously didn’t, though.”

  Sophie made it to the bed and lay down. Her act from before was now completely true. She felt horrible. Her stomach roiled and her brains seemed ready to burst out of her skull. Whoever Uncle Edgar was, she wished he’d come and help her. She balled herself up, yanking on the bedding to cover herself against the cold. As she lay alone and shivering, she didn’t know if night crept in or if her headache blinded her, but utter darkness surrounded her as she finally passed out.

  Chapter 2

  Sir Leo Zane stopped at the crest of the hill that looked down over his
home. He hadn’t seen it in almost ten years now, having been out fighting and gaining riches and glory. He sighed to see the house off in the distance. It looked as crisp and tidy as ever, and the surrounding land looked well taken care of. His mother ran a tight ship. He sighed again and looked in the opposite direction, seeing the towers of Grancourt Castle high above the treetops. He’d have to pay his respects to old Sir Walter eventually.

  He closed his eyes. He’d wanted this. To come home and live a life of simplicity and peace after fighting other people’s wars for so long. But now that it was all a matter of turning his horse onto that still familiar path to home, he faltered. Perhaps he should meander over to Grancourt first instead. He chuckled softly to himself, knowing his mother would kill him if he chose their neighbors over her. Then again, she might relish some new gossip about what Sir Walter’s daughters were up to these days. He himself had barely a lick of curiosity. He could hardly remember them. The elder one was sickly, always wheezing and paler than a full moon. The younger one had her head in the clouds so that she’d trip over a shadow, and if he recalled correctly, possessed a foul temper. Spoiled from being the baby, he supposed. Just as he’d been spoiled from being the only treasured child. Guilt stabbed at him for staying away so long.

  He felt an odd wave of memories assail him, shaky and distant as if he were in a fever dream. Had there only been two daughters? The bad-tempered one wasn’t the baby, was she? Images flashed through his mind, but he wasn’t able to firmly grasp one. No, he was certain there were only two.

  He chuckled to himself and resolutely turned toward his own land. Of course he wouldn’t remember his neighbor’s children. His last visit to his mother had been cut short and he hadn’t made it to see anyone else. It had been almost twenty years since he’d been to Grancourt Castle. Sir Walter had kindly offered to take him on in his own army all those years ago, and Leo wondered what his life would have been like if he’d accepted.

  “You’re not old enough to be ruminating about the past like this,” he said. He reined in his horse at the path to the big, old house he’d grown up in. Large and square, made of stone and timber with a tightly-thatched roof. It was a rich enough house.

  “You’re not old enough to be jabbering to yourself, either,” a cranky voice said from the bramble along the path. Leo whirled in his saddle to see old Crowley—ancient Crowley now—with his hands full of pale, underdeveloped blackberries. “Your mother wants a tart,” he grumbled. “No matter it’s the middle of winter. If you had a bit of goodness in you, you’d get off that fancy steed and help me out.”

  “You think a handful of berries will make her happier to see me?”

  Crowley shrugged his bony shoulders as he inspected Leo head to toe after he jumped off his horse. “It might do, but I wouldn’t hold my breath. That leg still ailing you?”

  “It’s been better, but I’ll do,” Leo said. He must have cringed slightly when he dismounted and those clouded eyes of Crowley’s could still see just fine apparently. “How’s your health, old man?”

  Crowley snickered. “Been better, but I’ll do as well.”

  Leo sighed and thrashed through the barren bushes until he, too, found a few berries. Crowley had never been one to show much emotion, but Leo had seen a slight upturn around the old man’s lips. Someone was happy he was home, at least.

  “How upset is she with me?” Leo finally gave up after extracting ten sorry-looking berries from the dry winter branches. “You do know I came as quickly as I could? Italy isn’t the next farm over.”

  “Ah, Italy was it?” Crowley drew out the name of the country as if he were a rube who’d never been past the village. Leo rolled his eyes, knowing his mother’s elderly caretaker had seen plenty in his day. “I’m sure you got here as fast as you could. I’m sure your mum knows it as well. Whether or not she’ll act like she knows it is anyone’s guess. Hand those over and get on the rest of the way with you before she spies you out the window and thinks you’re stalling.”

  “She’ll be sick of me in a fortnight. Did she tell you I’m retiring? Home for good. Going to till the land and all that.”

  Crowley’s rheumy, yellowing eyes nearly bulged out of his wrinkled head. “She did not, lad. She said a visit. You’re sure she knows? I have to say I’ll be glad to have you. A big, strong lout like yourself, who’s clearly seen the better side of a few fights, will draw the proper respect from those damned tradesmen who’ve been trying to cheat me left and right for nigh on the last two years.”

  Leo shook his head at Crowley’s statements. “Yes, I’m quite positive she knows unless she hasn’t read the last four letters I’ve sent her. And since she answered every one, I have to believe she’s in denial.” He pulled on his horse’s bridle and grumbled, head cast down. “Maybe I ought to pay my respects to Sir Walter first, after all.”

  “He’s got enough visitors already. You know about Sir Andrew’s passing?”

  Leo’s head shot up from where he’d been kicking at the dead leaves on the path. “I did not. How unexpected. He wasn’t ill or very old, was he? And who’s got the keep? He was childless wasn’t he?”

  Crowley sighed deeply at all the questions but answered them neatly in order. “It was unexpected, but that’s the way of death a good lot of the time. Even the sick and old seem quite surprised when it comes for them. He left it to his ward. You recall young Tristan Ballard? Knighted some ten years now, and did well for himself. But he always remained loyal by Sir Andrew’s side. So, Andrew left him the keep and the land. Some don’t like it, think it should have gone to the crown and been reallocated. It’s been attacked at least once I know of. Anyway, Sir Tristan’s at Grancourt paying his dues, probably needing backup to keep his new land.”

  “Perhaps Mother hasn’t been reading my letters. Why wouldn’t she have told me of Sir Andrew’s passing? I greatly admired and respected the man.”

  “It wasn’t that long ago. You would have been on your way home already. Don’t go up to the castle until she speaks with you. She’s almost positive Sir Tristan is going to try and snag one of the girls, and she thinks you need to throw yourself in the fray as well.”

  “In the fray? You mean for one of Sir Walter’s daughters? I think not. Sir Tristan is welcome to his pick of the two of them.”

  Crowley opened his mouth to answer but blinked several times as if he were stumped by some thought. “There are three of them, lad. Where’s your mind gone?” he answered somewhat irritably. “And all of marriageable age, so why not? Could make a worse match.”

  “Three? I only recall Lady Anne and Lady Fay. And they were horrible, ill-managed brats, that’s why not.”

  Crowley creaked and whistled, his version of a hearty laugh. “Well it’s been more than half their lifetimes since you’ve seen them. They’re all fine young ladies now. Rarely leave the castle.”

  “Like catching fish in a barrel?” Leo asked, still shaking his head at the idea of marriage in general and to one of those girls in particular. He ran his hand across the side of his face, feeling the now familiar raised scar. Nor would they want any part of him.

  More creaking and whistling as Crowley slapped at his bandy leg. “Exactly like that, good Sir Farmer. Nice way to increase the crop land as well.” He waggled his brows and grinned. “Go on in now. It’s good to have you back, lad.”

  Leo clapped the old man gently on the shoulder, welling up with emotion to finally be home. “I’ll go into the forest and get us some game tomorrow,” he promised. “You’ll sit with us at supper.”

  Crowley snorted. “I’ll be happy to eat fresh meat no matter where I’m sitting. Good luck to you.”

  Leo tugged at the reins, leading his horse the rest of the way. A boy hurried forward to take the horse, but he meant to put off entering the house until the last possible moment. He was foiled in his efforts to go to the barn when his mother threw open the front door, a combination of a smile and a scowl on her face. She didn’t look a moment older tha
n when he last saw her. Her hair had gone from dark blonde to a silvery shade, but she was as trim and straight as ever. She took up most of the doorway as she waved him forward and enveloped him in a brisk hug.

  She barely winced at the scar that crossed his left eye. He recalled Crowley hadn’t even noticed it, or had at least pretended not to. “You’re alive,” his formidable mother said. “And you finally made it home after your father died.”

  Leo searched her face and voice, but couldn’t find a hint of welcome. Struggling to remember that he was thirty-five years old and master of all he surveyed, he suppressed a sigh and followed his mum into the house.

  “It’s wonderful to see you,” he said. “And I recall being home when my father passed away. But, of course, I would still come home after your third husband passed on.”

  He regretted the churlish retort. His own father had left this world when he was ten, and Leo had left to seek his fortune five or six years after that. He’d been home since for the occasional visit, usually one of his mother’s weddings. It seemed she might be retiring from the marriage game just as he was retiring from the world of war. The question was, who would go mad first?

  “Well, there won’t be a fourth.” She confirmed his suspicion and smiled at him a little more warmly as they settled down for refreshments. “I’m far too old for any man to look cross-eyed at me anymore. So, how long will you be staying this time?”

  He looked down at his bread and cold pork so she wouldn’t see him roll his eyes. “I mean to stay,” he said firmly. “Take over running of the place.” He did not add that it was his, after all. It sounded petulant even in his mind. He surreptitiously ran his fingers over the scar that had stolen most of the sight from his left eye and tried to recall the horrors and drudgery that had made him want to retire to a peaceful farm life. He looked hard at his mother, the woman who had driven him to always do his absolute best. “I’ve spoken to Crowley and he says the tradesmen have been giving him trouble. That will stop, and you can have more time to relax.” She scowled and he added, “In your advanced years, that is.”