Page 3 of Misadventures with a Time Traveler

I blink hard. Inhale and exhale with even more force. A pressure I cannot ignore, in my head and over my heart, emanates from Kavia’s fingertips as strongly as the heat did.

“Woman,” I dictate from between locked teeth, “what are you about?”

“Keeping you alive, Maximillian. That is all I am about.” Though her grip returns to its former urgency, her lips tremble. Her chin wobbles. “You…you cannot die today, Max. You must survive this…Your Majesty.”

The mob grows louder. So does the storm that breaks free in my mind. My body goes limp. I am helpless to resist Kavia’s frantic yank, urging me down the corridor. I stumble along as if in a haze—because I am in one.

Because my mind fights to wrap around that single, stunning word.

Majesty.

“Dear God.” It is a whisper on my lips but a truth in my mind. My truth. Somehow, I have always known it but never believed it. Even now, after hearing Kavia declare it, I am not certain that I truly do.

“How…do you know…”

My words are severed by a violent clap of thunder.

Not from the sky.

From the front door.

Kavia pushes me into a shadowed bedroom. Once we’re inside, I seize her by her elbows. “Kavia. Answer me! How the hell do you know—”

“Because I was there.” Her emotional rush takes me aback. For all my righteous demand, I didn’t expect this swift confession. “The night you were born, sweet boy,” she blurts through tears that flow even harder. “The sole occasion that Louis, Dauphin of France, ever acknowledged you as his true son.”

I wait, breath held, for the joy those words are supposed to bring. Instead, I am assaulted by a thousand more questions about my birthright. But I do not have the freedom to voice even one. The mob rams the door with greater force. The very air shudders, preparing for their incursion.

“Mon Dieu.” Kavia paces the room, her skirts swishing. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God. What to do? What to do?”

She eyes the bed on its pedestal, the wash bowl on its stand, the writing desk in the corner…

And dashes to the huge wardrobe in the far corner.

Without hesitation, she swings open the chest’s heavy doors. Fabric, ribbons, and shoes tumble out. The thing is stuffed with gowns, which my mother had not yet distributed to her maids, along with the usual accessories—reticules, gloves, hats. How she loves all the extras.

Loved them.

Grief torches my soul and stiffens my body. She is gone, as is Christophe De Leon, the man who was father to me in every way but blood. Bastien too. My brother. Holy God, how I miss you already, Bas.

The admissions bring stark recognition. Kavia is right. Our family name—the only one I have ever known or claimed—is now dust. I am posturing for no reason. And here is the gypsy maid who has adored a bastard prince since the day he was born, begging him to believe in her for a few moments in return. Though moments are all I have left, I can think of no better way in which to spend them. I owe Kavia that much. The woman has kept a secret that would have had me slain long before now.

“Get in!” Kavia drags me through the sea of frippery, all but throwing me inside the wardrobe. “Hurry, my lord!” She ignores the pained grunt I emit when my forehead collides with the top of the chest. Once inside, I am swallowed by a new mound of perfumed fabrics. The layers of silk and satin barely muffle the revolutionists’ fury. I swallow hard, preparing for the agony of being their fresh target.

Until my terror is replaced by bewilderment as Kavia jumps inside the hiding space with me.

Her eyes are nearly aglow, but her fingers are shaking. She burrows in and tunnels her gaze to mine. “They are almost here,” she says. “So listen to me well.”

“No.” I wrap my hands around hers. “You listen first. My fate should not be yours and Carl’s—so I want you to get out of here. I mean it. Carl knows the way to the hunting lodge—”

“My lord!”

“I will not abide your misplaced loyalty,” I state. “At this point, it is naught but sacrificial suicide. You are both to leave here. Do not think about saving me again.”

The mob grows louder.

Kavia raises her chin. “I understand. I will not think of saving you again, my lord.”

I release a heavy breath. “Good.”