Page 35 of The Princes of Stone and Steel

“How does an American know how to make puddings this good?” Tom asked.

It was an innocent question, but it caused me to freeze with my fork halfway up to my mouth.

“What is it, my love?” The prince shot up from his chair situated kitty corner to mine to crouch at my side. His hand a comfort on my back, even with the concern clear in his voice.

I swallowed hard, although I still hadn’t taken that bite. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” he asked next.

“I mean, I literally don’t know. I’ve never made pudding, Yorkshire or otherwise before. I’ve never made English roast or gravy. This is not the kind of food Aunt Cynthia ate. How would I know? How could I make food that I’ve never made before—without recipes?”

He let out a relieved breath. “It’s coming back to you. That’s all. You’re remembering. This is good… No, this is great.”

“What exactly would the lass be remembering?” Old Tom asked.

Steele stood and turned to the man. Placing a hand on his shoulder and looking him directly in the eyes, his eyes which turned reflective, so I knew he was about to push some thought into Tom’s head. He pushed a thought he wouldn’t say out loud. One I could only assume was a form of the memory he said was coming back to me. Life would be so much easier if he’d just tell me already. I’d believe him. Of anybody in the world, in both worlds, I’d believe Steele.

For the rest of the day and into the night, I felt restless. Antsy. I had no tasks to do after clearing away dinner and cleaning the dishes, putting leftovers away in his meager icebox. And I meant icebox, not refrigerator. Tom, unwilling to admit he lived in the twenty-first century, used wood for his stove and oil for his lamps. No gas. No electricity. Which would be why he heated his small cottage by fireplace.

Having worked so hard that day, Steele fell asleep early while I tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable. That memory breaking free today left me with an ominous feeling. So much that I packed the clothing we’d obtained when we went to town and other items in a wool-and-leather backpack I’d found in the very back of the coat closet. It had monogrammed letters in a curly script.A. M. And I knew it belonged to the lady who used to live here. I’d seen her picture by Tom’s bed.

I sat up, close to the fire, my legs bent with my chin resting on my knees and waited. The antsy feeling that had taken hold this morning had not eased up one iota. It gave me heed to keep ready, down to my gut, keep ready to the point that I quietly got up to dress in the white and flowered blouse he’d gotten me, and the jeans that actually fit. But for what? That was the one-hundred-million-dollar question.

The second hand of the clock on the mantle ticked, ticked, ticked, grating on my nerves until it chimed midnight making me jump. The ticking from the hands grew so loud that I couldn’t muffle the sound even covering my ears. Yet Steele stayed asleep beside me. As did Tom in his bedroom.

My skin felt stretched too tight over my body as I began to sweat for some unknown reason because when I leaned away from the fire, I felt chilled. When I didn’t think I could take them any longer, those damnable ticks transformed into clomps, the sound of hooves crunching against cold ground.

What in the ever-loving world was going on?

That’s when a gust of wind pushed down through the chimney to come at me blowing with a gale force enough to push me back into the still-slumbering Steele.

“Mmmiiillliiieeee…” the wind called to me urgently.

The door burst open and the beautiful wind woman stood in the doorway. “Millicent, you must leave now. They are coming for you. No time. They are coming…”

Finally Steele sat up, squinting his eyes, confusion apparent.

“Wha-What’s going on?” More than asking a question, he seemed to be demanding an answer.

Without responding, I slipped on my shoes and grabbed the backpack, slinging it over my shoulder. Then, tugging him up by the fabric of his shirt, I answered him. “They’re coming.”

He stumbled over his feet, reaching for his shoes. But we were out the door in seconds.

“What about Tom?” I asked through my heavy panting. I definitely needed that gym membership.

“Go!” the wind form commanded. “I will try to hold them off…”

Poor Tom. I needed him to be okay. But I needed us to escape more. A lot of people or creatures seemed to be relying on me and what they hoped for me to accomplish.

Shrieks, not whinnies cut through the air. Loud. Imposing. Steele and I kept low, running for our actual lives. My hand trembled as he reached for it, that connection giving me the courage to keep going. A hard ball of panic formed in the pit of my belly, yet we kept running. Running. Running. Running.

Long hill grass tangled at my feet as if grabbing ahold, trying to impede our escape. While struggling to rip my foot free, it hit me—a pattern. Like the tree roots in the outliers, the grass carved a path for us. With the Roshambo wind at our side, pushing us to run faster toward another soggy bog, and as we made it to the water’s edge, I realized its intensions.

“We can’t go back yet,” I called into the air.

“Yooouuu muussttt…” the wind howled back. And with another great gust, it shoved me and Steele into the smelly water.

The vortex swirled around us, but not before I swallowed a mouthful of gunk. Coughing and choking up the brownish liquid as we popped out the other side, hardly able to suck in another breath before being drawn back down underwater by an immediate second swirling vortex. They’d planned this. The wind and the tree people, and whoever else wanted to keep us from falling into the hands of the Forfex king had pulled together to make our escape possible.

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