Page 31 of Misadventures with a Time Traveler

The reality of Alessandra confirms that theory most of all. She is a miracle. I will follow her wherever she goes, even if all she wants is to traverse the roads of the Loire, enjoying the sublime scenery.

Or so my naïve, misguided mind has led me to think—

Until I step out the front door.

And behold all of Kavia’s dark enchantments for myself.

My home is still my home—I think.

There are the stables. Over there is the forest. The gardens, the fountain, the drive…

But it is all utterly strange to me.

Everything is physically here—but also physically impossible. The lines are sharper. The colors brighter. The road is unnaturally smooth. The enhancements are more polished.

Alessandra pulls me toward a long, sleek carriage. The shiny black coach seems less a pleasure transport than a delivery conveyance…

Or a prison wagon.

I freeze.

Very literally.

The visceral jolt turns my blood to ice, my mind to snow. I am unable to go another step.

“Wow. Nice car.” I am warmed—just a little—by Alessandra’s confidence. “Looks brand-new, actually.”

I cloak another tremor beneath the guise of pulling her close and burying my face in her hair. The action affords a moment to study the coach further. The enameling has a depth beyond anything I have ever seen. But even that is not the most awestriking aspect of the vehicle.

“Where are the horses?”

“The…horses?” She tilts a mirthful glance up at me. “Errrmmm…beneath the front hood?”

I stare over at the sloped surface at the front of the carriage. It is embedded with two round glass orbs. They gleam like angel-powered chandeliers, their beams piercing the lingering fog.

“Ma belle,” I finally chide, “there is not enough room under there for one horse, let alone an entire team.”

Her lips quirk. “Come on, you gorgeous dork.”

Once she tugs me into the conveyance, I succumb to a new scowl. The coach’s exterior had me expecting equal opulence inside. While there are leather cushions and glass windows, even those seem utilitarian. But Alessandra and her friends do not seem put-out by the crudeness, so I keep the opinion private.

The more gregarious of the women, with her bright couture and uncoifed hair, leans forward from the seat across from us. “Soooo, do we finally get an introduction to Sir Sex on a Stick?”

I flinch. Alessandra’s friends share her propensity for flagrant speech, though even the other man in the coach, scooting behind a driver’s box that defies my imagination with its lights and numbers, does not seem to care.

What is this place?

Alessandra’s light laugh stops me from further pondering the question. “All right,” she drawls. “Down, Tigger.” As she rolls her eyes, her friend giggles. “Maximillian, meet my tribe. This delicious creature is Raegan Tavish, and the goddess rocking the peacock tresses is Miss Drusilla Kidman. But call her Drue if you value your testicles.”

“Mademoiselle Raegan.” I pull her knuckles beneath my mouth. “And Mademoiselle Drue.” Since she offers only a polite nod, I do the same. “It is an honor to make your acquaintance. Thank you for gracing our valley with your beauty.”

“Oh, my,” Raegan utters.

“Well, hell,” Drue drawls.

I chuckle, sensing they have selected different ways of saying the same thing. No matter. Truthfully, I only care about what I read on Alessandra’s face. Her tender smile and glowing gaze confirm how right it was to follow my heart to her. The love she clearly bears for these women is a testament to the truth of her spirit and integrity of her heart.

Drue and Raegan shall be ideal witnesses for the moment she pledges that heart to me.