Page 85 of No Place in Time

Yet sometimes she’d catch him watching her, a look of such focused want in his eyes that it felt like a touch, a reminder of the restraint that was a constant, fragile thing between them.

Last night, after they’d returned from watching the other Cecily, she’d lain beside him in the narrow bed, his arms around her, his heartbeat steady against her back. She felt safe there. Protected. Wanted. She longed to tell him she loved him but dared not. Would it frighten him? Would he leave her?

Yes, they were just playing at being a couple. But God help her, she didn’t want it to end.

Her mind kept circling back to the woman in the window. The other Cecily. The other her. Pale and sick and alone.

Eventually, she rose and dressed. The maid at the inn had cleaned and mended her dress as best as she could, but it still showed signs of wear. It had travel stains and streaks of dried mud at the hem. She looked like what she was: a woman who’d been living rough.

∞∞∞

She needed food for their breakfast. And perhaps she could find a needle and thread to mend the tear in Finn’s shirt.

The morning was bright and cool. Faversham’s market square was already busy with people buying and selling. Cecily kept her head down and moved through the crowd. She was anonymous. She felt safe.

She stopped at a baker’s stall. The bread smelled delicious, fresh from the oven. She counted out coins for the bread, a small crock of honey, a bundle of dried herbs, and a piece of smoked fish wrapped in cloth. Cecily tucked them into her satchel and turned to leave.

That was when she saw him.

Benedict.

He stood across the square, talking with a merchant. As always, he wore fine clothes. He was gesturing, negotiating over something. Then he turned his head and looked directly at her.

They both froze. A cold shock went through Cecily.

Benedict.

For a moment, she could only stare as she watched his expression shift from confusion to recognition. He started toward her, and every instinct screamed run, but her body betrayed her, rooting her to the cobblestones.

He dipped into a small bow. “Lady Cecily?” His voice was uncertain.

She didn’t answer.

He stopped a few paces away, staring. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at Veyron.”

“You’re mistaken, sir.” Her voice came out steadier than she felt.

“Mistaken?” He stepped closer, studying her face. “I know the lady of Veyron.”

He reached out and took her arm. Not roughly, but firmly—a little too firm.

Anyone watching would think he was being helpful. But Cecily felt the strength in his grip. It was firm enough to bruise her.

“How did you get here?” he asked. His voice was quiet, almost gentle. “Yesterday, you couldn’t leave your chamber.”

She tried to pull away, but he held on.

His eyes moved over her face, down to her dress. She could see him taking in the details. The simple frock. The travel stains. The way she stood, straight and strong instead of weak and trembling.

His expression shifted. Then she saw confusion become understanding.

“You’re not her,” he said slowly.

Cecily’s pulse quickened. She said nothing. She couldn’t.

She could see him struggling to connect the pieces, the flicker in his eyes, the slight furrow of his brow as an impossible idea took shape on his face. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.

“You’re… the other one.”