Page 7 of Misadventures with a Time Traveler

Emptiness.

“Kavia?”

But I can barely finish the syllables. I have begun to disintegrate…to transform.

I am a flicker of ash floating on the air.

I am a disembodied wing riding an invisible wind.

I am specks sifting through the cracks between the wardrobe doors…

Until I see Kavia again.

She is across the bedroom, crouching beneath the bed to hide. She is not there two seconds when the murderous crowd breaks into the room and, seeing me nowhere, sprint at once for the wardrobe. With triumphant roars, they yank back the chest’s doors—

But do not find me.

I am ash. Wings. Specks.

And then not even that.

I am sparks. Then light. Transparent. Transcendent.

Until I am not.

I am in darkness again. I have become darkness.

Alone. But still alive.

Chapter One

Allie

I’m in hell.

Fine. Not really. But the fairy princess castle before me, despite its soaring French grandeur, might as well be hell.

I may vlog about fancy dresses and rub shoulders with a lot of queens, but a textbook princess life is nothing I have the time, energy, or patience for. I don’t need some dashing prince to wrap his gentle arms around my dainty waist just for the honor of sharing half my fortune. I’m a twenty-five-year-old writer and vlogger who likes gourmet burgers and real dressing on her salads, and a lot of readers and viewers spread across a lot of social media platforms happen to agree about that.

I gawk up at the mansion and wonder what kinds of dating woes were experienced by the women who actually lived in this place. Back in the day, were there other Allie Fines? Did they have to explain why they liked standing at the punch bowl alone? Why they were okay without anyone in the room complimenting their hair? Had they learned, when that hair was still in pigtails, that castles could look perfect from the outside but hide trapdoors that dropped to dangerous dungeons? Sometimes, where the prince himself waited…

So, yeah. Fairy tales and me? Not a match made in heaven. Or anything close to it.

“Do. Not. Leave.” I grit it at my shuttle driver, adding with a smile, “S’il vous plait.” After slipping him enough euros to ensure he’ll comply, I raise a fresh frown at the six-story structure in front of me. Its regal construction and burgundy-roofed spires have me wondering where Rapunzel’s braid or Belle’s rose are hiding. The estate is attached to miles of gardens and forests.

“Ahhhhh! She’s here!”

Crap.

I repeat it aloud as a dervish with flying red hair and brilliant green eyes launches at me like a kitten at a laser beam. Raegan Tavish strikes again, body-slamming me to the side of the car as the smirking driver fetches my bags out of the trunk.

“You’re here! You’re here!”

“So you’ve told half the Loire Valley.” The quip is drawled by the wench who approaches from my right, twirling strands of her cobalt-streaked hair. Drue Kidman is the only person on the planet capable of rocking that look in this setting, dressed in a slouchy sweater, paisley-patterned tights, and stilettoed boots from three decades ago. She jogs a cocky chin when I give her gear an approving onceover. “Yo, wench.”

“Who you callin’ whaaat?” I finish with a grin as acerbic as hers.

“Get your ass over here and give me some sugar.”