Page 1 of No Place in Time

Part One

The Impasse

“As fish are caught in a cruel net, or birds are taken in a snare, so people are trapped by evil times that fall unexpectedly upon them.”

Ecclesiastes 9:12 (NIV)

Prologue

She was sitting in the branches of an oak tree, hidden by leaves, when she saw herself dying.

Below her, through the window of the manor, she watched a woman move slowly across the room. She wore fine clothes befitting her station, blue silk with gold threads at the cuffs. Her hair was pale beneath a veil. She moved listlessly, as though each step stole something from her. One hand trailed along the wall for support.

The woman crossed to the window and sank into the chair beneath it. She turned her face toward the window.

The face that looked toward the gardens was her own.

Not a passing resemblance, but hers—the same eyes, mouth, and jaw. But this version of her had gone quiet in the face. Not grief-stricken, not frightened, just absent, as though whatever had once animated her features had long since vanished. The hands reaching for the embroidery frame trembled.

In the tree, she pressed her palm over her mouth to stop the scream that wanted to erupt.

The woman leaned her head back, her unfocused gaze sweeping past the oak, over the leaves, through the very spot where she sat hidden. The woman saw nothing at all.

This is what I become, she thought.

Then, with a fierceness that surprised even herself:

Not if I can help it.

She didn’t know how she would keep that promise. She knew only that the gaunt woman in the window was running out of time.

And so—somewhere, some when—was she.

1

CECILY

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Bile rose in Cecily de Malet’s throat the moment she saw the man her parents wanted her to marry.

He was older than Father. What little hair he had left lay thin and gray against his scalp, combed carefully as though grooming might disguise what he lacked. Deep grooves curved around his mouth, the kind, she decided, that came from years of frowning rather than age alone.

Then he did smile at her, but it was almost more repulsive than his frown. It was practiced and hollow.

Cecily gripped the edge of the table, forcing her breathing to slow. Beside her, Mother’s hand clamped around her wrist in a silent warning.

She understood the look in his eyes immediately. He wasn’t looking at her the way a suitor looked at a woman. His gaze swept over her the way her father appraised a horse—measuring her hips, her posture, the set of her jaw. His eyes flicked briefly to her father, then back to her, as though the matter was settled between them, and she was merely a formality.

“This is my daughter, Cecily,” Father said to the man, Lord Alard de Veyron.

Alard inclined his head. “Indeed. She will do very well… at Veyron Hall.”

Cecily shrank into her silk sleeves. She felt pinned in place by careful posture and good breeding. Her future was unfolding in front of her without her consent, and she was expected to receive it silently, with gratitude.

This cannot be happening, she thought. This cannot be my future.

But standing in the stillness of the hall, Mother’s fingers still digging into her wrist and Father smiling politely, Cecily understood something she hadn’t wanted to face. She would have to marry this man, and worse—he would be allowed to touch her.