Had Rohan been speaking? If so, very little had registered. He’d been completely absorbed by Petra’s appearance. Nothing could be accomplished if he allowed her to stay. Sighing, he cast Rohan a pained glance and left the rectory’s shadow.

She didn’t hear his approach. She seemed to be whispering while staring into the well’s depth. Perhaps she was making a wish. Her shoulders were slumped, her head bowed, her arms and hands dangled at her side. Even from behind she looked profoundly unhappy.

Emory crept from the shadows and into the moonlight. Four stone paths dissected the cloister and met at the well. Emory stayed on the grass, his gaze never leaving her.

The moon bathed her in a glow. He was close enough to know she smelled of lavender. Looking up, she caught sight of the manor’s turrets and her face cleared. Picking up her chemise by the handfuls, she started toward the manor. He trailed after her, past the rectory, past the chapel to a path through the woods to the place where the manor’s iron fence had a few missing bars. He wondered how she knew of the short cut.

Across the grounds, the small flicker of a lantern approached. Emory wondered if Petra also saw it and knew the potential danger. He had to warn her. He wouldn’t let her stumble into a disastrous meeting.

Emory ducked beneath the low branches of a pine tree, his heart racing. Through the boughs he watched the lantern flash toward where, until moments ago, Petra had walked.

Where had she gone? He held his breath as he searched. Pines, alders, wild brambles, no Petra. Never had he felt so vulnerable. The lantern passed, but Emory stayed in the shelter of the pine.

No voices, no questions. She must have passed Chambers without notice. How had he lost her? He cursed as he headed across the broad lawn toward the manor. Stone-built, the manor had turrets, annexes, towers, and wings.

It embarrassed Emory that despite the size and scope of the place, he knew exactly which window belonged to Petra. He had watched from the woods as a gatekeeper had carried Petra to the manor, as a young footman received her into his arms, as young Falstaff had directed the staff and a parade of candlelight had made its way to a window in the northwest corner. Hours later, as he stood in the shelter of the woods in the early morning light, he had seen Petra standing at the same window.

He knew where she belonged.

Upon reaching the manor, he began the long, slow scale of the wall. One foot up and then another, each hand and foothold searched for and then found in the stone. Midway, he stopped to catch his breath. From his perch he saw the rolling river that led to the village, the sharp point of the chapel’s steeple. He hoped Petra had beaten him to her room. He told himself that he only needed to be sure that she had returned safely. He did not intend to hang from a sill waiting for her.

He wondered how Rohan fared and whether they would be able to stop Chambers. If Chambers discovered Rohan’s interference, Chambers would have him killed. How many deaths had Rohan endured? Anger and another emotion he couldn’t identify flared through him. He reached Petra’s windowsill seconds later.

The room was empty. He debated only a moment and then swung over the ledge.

The fire in the grate burned orange. If Petra returned he’d have nowhere to hide and no excuse for being in her bedchamber. If she called out, if he were discovered, conventions would force an immediate marriage. Still, he stood in the center of the room, because he couldn’t leave, even though he knew he couldn’t stay.

Someone had taken the quilt off her bed and a trail of dirty, Petra sized foot prints led out the door.

He smiled because even though he did not know Petra well, he knew her well enough to know that she would give her quilt to the wounded Roma.

Petra woke the next morning when Mary arrived carrying a tray of food. Sitting up on her elbows, Petra pushed the hair out of her eyes.

“Good morning, miss,” Mary nearly sang.

Petra grumbled a sleepy reply. “Is breakfast in bed typical?” The day before she’d found it awkward to balance her tray. She hated the thought of spilling something sticky on her sheets.

“Oh, no, miss. Breakfast trays are only for when the master is away.” Mary lowered her voice to a whisper. “Lord Garret likes his lie-a-bed.” Mary winked as if Petra would find this interesting.

“And the Earl, does he like to lie-whatever too?”

Mary settled the tray beside Petra’s knees and looked calculating. “A little lie-about does no harm.”

Petra looked at her breakfast and wondered if it could cause any harm. Of course, she really hadn’t expected pop-tarts, but she did miss them. Maybe the gypsy would appreciate the hard boiled eggs, slabs of ham, and a scoop of what looked like it might be beans of an unknown variety.

“Does the Earl know I’m here?” Petra asked, sitting up slowly, careful not to jostle the tray.

“How would he know that, miss?”

Petra shrugged and thought about texting, e-mails and instant messaging, not to mention phones, cell phones, telegrams, and the pony express. “If he knew, do you think he’d mind?”

Mary mumbled something like, “Not if he got to keep your jewels,” before she went out the door.

Petra picked at a piece of bread and realized that Mary probably wouldn’t discuss the Earl, her master, for fear of endangering her job. Through the window Petra saw a tinge of pink. Birds began to call, the morning was waking, but she hoped the occupants of the manor were still asleep. Three outings in her nightie seemed like three too many, but she couldn’t wait much longer. Mary would be back for the tray soon.

Slipping out the door with the food tray, Petra tried to think of an excuse for wandering the halls half-clothed but gave up. No one asked much of a half-clothed half-wit. It was a liberating thought. She walked fast, watching the eggs tumble around the tray.

The sudden clamor of church bells almost made her drop the breakfast. Wedding bells? That reminded her that Mary did have expectations…impossible expectations. Petra passed a window and looked out over the rolling estate to the normally busy square beyond the manor’s gates. The square looked vacant. No farmers, no vendors.

It’s Sunday, she realized. They observe the Sabbath. The thought cheered her and she practically skipped. Would she be invited to attend services? Would Emory and The friar be there? She had plenty of questions for them both.

Thankfully, she didn’t pass anyone on the way to the office. Inside, she kicked the door closed with her foot and leaned against the wall, catching her breath. Moments later she was in the now familiar passageway where she couldn’t help thinking of Emory.

She flushed remembering how it felt to be in his arms. Just before the attack on the gypsy camp, she had been sure he was going to kiss her. And she had planned on kissing him back. She hadn’t wanted anything more or less than that.

And then everything went wrong. She’d thought, she was sure, he’d been killed. The sickness and horror of that moment washed over her.

And then she’d found him in the passageway.

And he wasn’t happy to see her.

That hurt. That he hadn’t been as touched and moved by seeing her as she’d been hurt. A lot. He’d been shocked to see her, but definitely not happy. The thought of never seeing him again, again, twisted in her belly. It was becoming a familiar feeling.

She turned a corner and told herself to forget Emory. She needed to talk to the man in the monk garb. He’d administered some sort of prayer or blessing on the wounded gypsy and he had found peace as quickly as if the friar had pressed a button. Petra knew that there wasn’t a button or potion that could send her home, but maybe…

But she didn’t really know that, did she? She’d arrived in Dorrington, England, in the year 1614 without a lot of pain or fanfare, so why shouldn’t she be able to return as easily? The friar had some sort of gift. She simply had to persuade him to work his magic on her.

When she turned the corner and came face to face with the empty cells, she asked herself if he had made the gypsy disappear. Where had he gone? Where was her quilt? And now what was she to do with the food? She didn’t want to feed the rats.

This was what she really hated about 1614. There were too many questions.

And rats.

Dressed in a soft gray dress with a pearl trim bodice, Petra followed Garret and Chambers into the tiny stone church. The congregation of villagers gathered in the chapel, even the flock of sheep trapped in the stained glass window, seemed to stare as she tried to sit in the back pew.

Chambers gave her a heavy frown and Garret sighed deeply when she settled her skirts around her. A family with six children stared at her–six round little mouths hanging open at the sight of a stranger in their spot.

“Oh, do you sit here?” she whispered. She apologized and hurried after Garret, feeling Chambers’ frown between her shoulder blades.

As the town’s leading citizen it seemed Garret had to sit on the front pew, directly beneath the stern gaze of the priest. Apparently, as the Falstaffs’ guest, Petra was expected to also.

The hymns blaring through the organ pipes were giving her a headache and the service hadn’t even started.

Garret sat like a statue, clasping a hymnal. Petra tried to peer around him to search for Emory or the friar. Instead she saw Anne slip into the back of the chapel and arrange her blue skirts as her flushed face struggled for calm.

Petra tightened her jaw, straightened her shoulders and fixed her eyes on the priest. She didn’t care and wasn’t curious about Anne’s relationship with Emory.

After the opening prayer, Petra kept her gaze on the pulpit, but her attention wandered. She found it hard to focus, and when she managed to tune in she found the sermon silly. Who, other than a priest with porcupine sideburns, could seriously blame a drought on scandalous behavior?

The priest began droning the Beatitudes, but his message barely scratched Petra’s thoughts. I don’t want to inherit the earth, she thought; I just want to go home. It didn’t seem an unreasonable request when the Lord was promising much greater blessings. The poor, the hungry, the mourners, the meek, the pure in heart, the peacemakers- where did she fit? What about Emory? Where was he and why had he been so mean?

During the closing hymn, Garret’s strong bass voice belted out a song Petra didn’t know. She mouthed along in monotone and cast him a glance. What if she told him her experiences, how would he react? Would he think her insane? Have her locked away? Would he protect her? Could she hide behind him? Possibly, but that wouldn’t be fair. She hadn’t a romantic interest in Garret, although she wondered why not. He looked exactly like Kyle. Tall, handsome and kind, yes, but he has the sense of humor of a toad, a small voice in the back of her head told her. Exactly like Kyle. She wondered what she ever saw in him.

Garret caught her watching him, and the corners of his lips lifted, but Petra didn’t know if it was a smile or just the necessary movement to sing chart and compass come from thee.

After the benediction, Petra looked beyond Garret’s broad back to watch the friar slipping through the broad double doors. When had he come in? No sign of Emory. Maybe since he couldn’t be harmed, he also couldn’t walk on hallowed ground, a vampire or demon sort of thing. Not that the congregation appeared so holy. She recognized a few of the parishioners--including Muffin Face, Anne, and some of the men from the cock fighting rink.

Petra didn’t believe in vampires or demons, but until a few days ago she hadn’t believed in time travel. Maybe she needed to be open minded about all sorts of things including fortunetellers, and even tarot cards. The thought weighed on her. Everything she’d known, or believed to be true, wasn’t. When everything seemed possible, then nothing was impossible.

“Absorbing sermon, wouldn’t you agree, Miss Baron?” Garret stood between her and the retreating friar as solid and immovable as Mount Sinai.

Petra nodded and tried to snake by, but he followed so close she worried he’d step on her dress.

Outside on the steps of the chapel, the late morning sun streamed through the shade of a maple tree and cast a dappled sunlight on Anne’s face as she chatted with the friar and the priest.

Petra stopped beside the priest and laid her hand on Garret’s arm. “Good morning.” She gave Anne a brief unfriendly nod that she hoped conveyed a small bit of her dislike and then turned to the priest. “Father Knightly, I so enjoyed your sermon.”

The priest had an unfortunate resemblance to Abraham Lincoln, the same build and craggy facial features, but with more hair. His eyebrows, dark, thick and long, poked from his forehead like a thorn bush and the front of his hairline had a cowlick that made his hair stand on end.

“Good morning, Miss Carl,” Garret sputtered out a greeting to Anne.

Anne lowered her eyes and bobbed a curtsey, looking humble, and yet somehow not.

Petra watched, curious. Did Anne hate Garret, when he so obviously felt differently? Petra’s attention flicked from Garret’s flushed cheeks and eager eyes to Anne’s shuttered face and ramrod-straight back, but then she saw the friar moving down the path toward the church’s gates and lost interest in Garret and Anne.

She’d seen historical movies of women running in skirts and decided that they must have been computer animated. Trying to move quickly while wearing a hundred pounds of clothing wasn’t going to happen for her. She moved past Muffin Face, navigated through a herd of children, and nearly tripped over an aged woman draped in a shawl.

Spinning around, she didn’t see the friar but she caught sight of a plaque nailed on the wooden gate.

“In loving memory of those who fell to Black Shuck, May 1557.

All down the church in midst of fire, the hellish monster flew,

and, passing onward to the quire, he many people slew. ”

Beneath the plaque, scorch marks scarred the gate.

“Tis the devil’s own fingerprints, that,” the woman said, noting Petra’s interest.