Must Love Chainmail

by Angela Quarles

  But she did the I’m-fine nod and pasted on the I’m-feeling-even-better smile and sought to latch onto a detail, any detail to give her focus and control. “What do we have planned today?” She pulled out her mini-planner.

  “You’re kidding, right?” Traci motioned to the folders under Katy’s hand. “You tell us.”

  Katy took in the neatly stacked folders she’d prepared before leaving her apartment in Stratford East London, each with their name and today’s date meticulously printed from her favorite label maker.

  “Oh. Right.” She passed them out. The focus on details helped center her. She was in control, dammit.

  “After breakfast, we have a forty-minute drive to Castell y Bere for a self-guided tour. Then lunch at a cafe in the nearby village of Abergynolwyn, followed by some shopping in Tywyn. Tonight, we’ll—”

  The chirrup from her phone interrupted her recitation. A text from Preston:

  Need advice on the groomswear!

  Frustration lanced through her as her friends glared. “It’s from Preston.”

  Traci held out her palm and beckoned. “Come on. Pay up. I know you want to call him.”

  Katy sighed, rummaged in her purse—the back of an earring stabbing under a nail—and plopped one of five red poker chips into her friend’s waiting hand. She gave a quick suck on her wounded finger.

  Every day, they returned the confiscated chips to reuse. Phone addict that she was, this was what they’d hit upon to attempt to cure her. She didn’t want to think about how many times she’d had to use it past the five. Tonight at the hen party, she’d pay for that. Yesterday had been a disaster—she’d surrendered all five before noon, which was why she’d had to sneak outside the church. Today, she’d do better.

  She excused herself, stepped away, and called her fiancé.

  “Hiya, sweetheart. Sorry to interrupt your hen party, but I need your advice.”

  His voice. She let the cultured Oxford, but not too snooty, accent roll over her as she scanned the village street of Corwen and tried to anchor herself with him, instead of this strange dream-memory.

  “Sweetheart?”

  “Yes. What’s up?”

  “I wanted to get your thoughts on the dinner jackets for the groomsmen and myself. What should I tell the tailor?”

  “What do you mean? I thought you said you’d already made arrangements.” She worked to keep her voice calm, in control. She would not bite his head off.

  “About that. I hadn’t. But I’m at the rental place now, and I wanted to run it past you.”

  “Wait. You lied about having taken care of this? Preston, the wedding is a month and a half away. And we already agreed on what kind to get.”

  “Well, I had planned to take care of it. And I’m here now. I know we decided on the modern, but he’s asking about a slim fit kind. Should I get that?”

  She straightened her spine, some of her old cares, her old self, trickling into her. He rattled off more choices. Normally, she gorged on details—how else to ensure her life and their relationship went smoothly? But all the details of the wedding were burying her. Couldn’t he figure this out on his own? Couldn’t his mates help him? But she tamped down her instinct to pitch a hissy fit, because losing control of her emotions never ended well.

  Be calm. Be calm. Usher him through this hurdle, and everything would be okay. They’d be married soon, and everything would be okay. It would be. Preston depended on her organizing ability, her talent for making sure all ran smoothly, and she’d make sure this went smoothly too. She had to.

  “Put the fitter on the phone.” She sighed and answered the questions he peppered her with. Soon Preston was back. Since she’d already allocated a phone-time chip, she took advantage of the opportunity. “Everything else okay?”

  “Yes. Try to relax, sweetheart. It is your holiday. I have your instructions, in triplicate. I even put a copy in my car visor’s flap.”

  He knew her so well. Yes. This. His easy acceptance of her need—her obsessive need for feeling connected—threaded another hook back into her reality. This was Preston. Solid, dependable Preston, who’d never leave her. Unlike Isabelle. Unlike her father.

  But his voice didn’t calm, and that sent another ripple of doubt through her. And why was she even grasping at his voice’s threads as if she were the one being abandoned, being left behind? Being drowned by a dream?

  Really, Preston was great. The ideal husband. Sizzling passion and sappy soul connections were for romantics and romance novels. Their relationship was a partnership. Their relationship made sense. Their relationship kept her strong.

  But her pep talk did nothing to shove aside this sense of unease that constricted her chest. Or the haunting images of the man from last night’s dream.

  Verdant green and burnt umber hills dominated both sides of the road as their rental car tooled down the lonely road that meandered through the Dysanni Valley to Castell y Bere. Katy put down her window, the fresh air buffeting her skin, her hair, her thoughts.

  Catherine snagged the guidebook. On their trip, they had settled into a routine—she read the blurb of the upcoming tourist site. She opened the book to the next numbered tag Katy had placed within.

  “All right, ladies, what we have here is…” Catherine wiggled in her seat and straightened, donning her Official Tour Guide voice and demeanor. Like her brother Preston, she had strawberry blonde hair with a cowlick above her forehead, though she tried to disguise it with a loose perm. “ ‘The Welsh prince Llywelyn Fawr, or Llywelyn the Great, commissioned Castell y Bere in 1221 to secure his dominion in Merionnydd.’ ” She plopped the book into her lap. “Seriously. These Welsh words are bloody murder on the tongue.”

  Traci elbowed her. “We don’t know the difference. Keep going.”

  “Quite.” Catherine giggled. “All right, it says it was ‘the last Welsh castle to fall to the English during King Edward’s final conquest of Wales in 1283. The D-shaped towers are typical of Welsh strongholds. Today, the once proud castle lies in ruins, burnt and abandoned after a Welsh siege during Madog’s Rebellion in 1294.’ ”

  Katy let the stark scenery of the valley scroll by, undulating in greens and ochre and bursts of trees and the occasional cute puff of a sheep. A harsh landscape to make a living on but eerily beautiful.

  Catherine’s voice continued, weaving into the landscape. “The write-up prattles on about the type of stone used, blah, blah, blah.” A page turned. “Oh, listen to this. This couldn’t have made the Welsh happy. Says here the Marcher Lords who ruled the Welsh border pretty much had free rein to quell the rebellious Welsh.”

  They pulled into an empty parking lot below Castell y Bere, gravel crunching under their tires. Katy leaned across Catherine’s lap to peek at the castle, but all she could see was scraggly brush and rock and sheep.

  Katy jumped out of the rental. Higher up, the valley’s view had to be even more incredible. Maybe soaking in the beautiful scenery could burn off this dream that had settled over her like a second skin.

  Traci creaked open the metal gate in the chicken-wire fence enclosing the base of the castle’s ruins. Presumably. All she could see was that they were at the base of a green hill covered in trees. Once past the hill, the view opened up. Before her was a rocky promontory, still covered mostly in trees, but she could see the crumbling stone ruins embedded in the outcroppings, like it had been made to fit the terrain.

  They trudged up the path that disappeared around a bend.

  “God, I still can’t believe how clueless Preston was in that phone call earlier.” Lizbeth winced at Catherine. “Sorry, I know he’s your brother, but…”

  “You’ll get no argument from me.” Catherine grinned at Katy. “I think you handled it well. I would have laid into him myself.”

  Katy nodded but saw Traci’s concerned gaze. Katy looked away and trailed behind her friends, who laughed and pointed at the sheep or exclaimed in excited voices as parts of the crumbling ruins were revealed. B
ut her? Preston’s call bothered her on some cell-deep level, and she didn’t want to talk about it with them. Exploring how off-balance it left her would shatter the thin veneer of control over her life, the veneer she tacked over her as a shelter, relentlessly patrolling its perimeter to make sure it fit snug at each corner, its lines crisp and sharp.

  And it didn’t help that the dream permeated everything. Still. Despite the awe-inspiring landscape. Despite her friends’ animated banter.

  Shake it off. Shake it off. Before her well-meaning friends questioned her too closely. Especially Preston’s sister, Catherine.

  The hike up the scraggly outcrop shortened everyone’s breath, and conversation stalled. Finally, they reached the southwest entrance. Sun-bleached wooden stairs arched over a rock-and-bramble-strewn ravine and led into the castle proper. Or what was left of it.

  “Hey, guys, you go on up. I’m going to walk around.”

  Traci stepped forward. “Are you sure? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Just need to clear my head. Got a little car sick.”

  Traci’s pretty features scrunched up. Katy made a shooing motion, but her friend shook her head.

  “You’re not fooling me.” Traci side-hugged Katy, the scent of her coconut and citrus shampoo dousing Katy, and steered her to a wooden bench along the path. “You’ve been distracted this whole trip, but especially since yesterday. What gives? You’re getting hitched in a little over six weeks. Talk to me.”

  Traci’s words batted at that veneer, and in recognition, Katy’s stomach shied away and shriveled up. But that was ridiculous. Everything was okay. She just needed air. And personal space. And time to think.

  She deflected Traci with a laugh, but even she heard its I’m-faking-it tones. “There’s nothing to talk about. Preston’s a wonderful guy. I’m really lucky. He loves me to pieces. What girl wouldn’t want that?”

  Yeah, what was wrong with her? In six weeks, she’d be happy. In six weeks, she’d have secured her future. In six weeks, she’d have accomplished another long-term goal—marriage before thirty. She was rapidly and efficiently crossing off her cherished goals. Career as a French translator for an NGO established? Check. Retirement fund established? Check. Next up, kids after five years of marriage.

  They settled onto the bench, the cold of the planks seeping through her jeans. She scooched forward so only her coat-covered butt rested on the bench.

  Traci grabbed her hand, the warmth—physical and emotional—welcome. “You may be all smiles, but the cheer isn’t reaching your eyes. Your all-put-together act? It isn’t fooling me. Something’s off.”

  Katy snatched her hand away and stood. No way could she face her friend if she were that perceptive. Besides, Katy had no clue what to think herself. What was wrong with her?

  She waved in Traci’s general direction. “I love him. I do. He’s nice. He’s responsible. He has a steady career. Besides, I can’t back out now. My mom’s spent loads of money. The cost of the family’s plane tickets from the States alone…” Except for her dad. Just a Happy Engagement card from him. “Everyone’s looking forward to it. Preston…”

  “Katy. You can’t seriously be telling me you’re marrying him because you don’t want to disappoint anyone, disappoint Preston? That doesn’t sound like you.”

  A panicky, fluttery rush of blood heated her skin, like a naughty kid caught in a lie and forced to face reality.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. No. This is what I want.” She took a deep breath. “It is. This is just normal pre-wedding jitters.”

  Yes. Pre-wedding jitters. Her unease had nothing to do with the future stretched out before her, having to be constantly “on” with Preston, having to lead and direct every aspect of their lives, having to make sure she presented a put-together front. Their increased time together leading up to the wedding was already exhausting.

  Traci stood and crossed her arms, her assessing gaze a threat to any potential bullshit dispensing. “I don’t know. You need to use this trip to sort your feelings. This is the rest of your life we’re talking about. Are you doing this because you love him, or because getting married is part of your ten-year plan?”

  “Ouch.” Katy eyed her friend. Purposeful organization and planning wasn’t a fault. At least not as far as she was concerned. How else do you keep chaos at bay?

  “I call it like I see it, sister.” Traci fisted her hands on her hips. “I’ve seen you two together, and I tell myself I can’t know the full dynamic, but honestly? Katy. The relationship, at least from the outside, looks…uneven. Promise you’ll think about what I said?”

  Uneven? What the heck did that mean? “Yes,” the word drawn out as if pulled from her struggling and screaming. “But don’t say anything to Catherine.”

  “I’m not an idiot. Take time to compose yourself.” With that, Traci pivoted and headed back up to the castle ruins, the scrunch-scrunch of her hiking boots cutting through the background of rustling leaves and bleating sheep.

  Compose herself? More like find herself. Katy dragged in a shuddering breath and hiked up the rocky hill after Traci.

  Ten-Year Plan.

  So she had goals. It kept her focused. It kept her on task. It kept her safe. Oh, how she envied Traci’s ability to live spontaneously. Traci could just…just…wing it, which both terrified and fascinated Katy, as if she craved orbiting such a personality, basked in it, but was simultaneously afraid it’d be catching.

  Wind whipped around her, a slight bite on the October air. She hunched into the wind and shoved her hands into her coat pockets. Her fingers grazed the cool metal of the calling card case she’d found yesterday. Her thoughts darted to Isabelle. Isabelle who was happily married back in 1834 of all freaky “places.”

  Gah. Those letters. A month since that last batch, and still the loss of her best friend burned. Missed her, yes. Loved her dearly, yes. Tried not to feel like Isabelle had abandoned her too, yes. But understood her? No. How could Isabelle abandon the modern world for love, of all things? Isabelle had been a smart, career-driven woman.

  Baffling. The whole thing, baffling.

  “What should I do, Isabelle?” Katy whispered, her fingers rubbing the case. “I wish I knew why I’m not as happy as I should be.” Because Traci was right, dammit, something was off, she’d just been too busy to really see or admit it to herself, too busy checking off items on her must-do-before-thirty list, too busy to friggin’ question any of it because it was easier not to.

  She clasped her stomach—whoa. It felt as if she actually were car sick, her belly’s contents not at all having a fun time as it swirled and churned. A particularly strong gust of wind pushed against her back. She stumbled and slid down the rocky incline, the scenery whirling more than it should for a small slip. She flung out her arms for balance, teetered, and…

  Oof. The bottom of the rocky ravine jarred her tailbone. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Settle down there, stomach. And, world? Please stop spinning. She slitted her eyes open for a quick peek, and the ground was blessedly still. A purple iridescent beetle worked its way around a few blades of mottled-green grass.

  Katy stood on wobbling legs and dusted off her butt. She shifted to look back up the ravine’s slope, to call out to her friends that she was okay if they’d seen her fall.

  And plopped back onto said butt—panic, disbelief, and this-can’t-be-happening a pulsating and tangy taste on her tongue.

  The formerly ravaged side of the castle’s wall? Now solid. And the stone freakishly fresh.

  Chapter Three

  And the rider wore a coat of yellow satin sewn with green silk, and on his thigh was a gold-hilted sword, with a scabbard of new leather of Cordova, belted with the skin of the deer, and clasped with gold. And over this was a scarf of yellow satin wrought with green silk, the borders whereof were likewise green. And the green of the caparison of the horse, and of his rider, was as green as the leaves of the fir tree, and the yellow was as yellow as the blossom of the br
oom. So fierce was the aspect of the knight, that fear seized upon them, and they began to flee. And the knight pursued them.

  The Mabinogion, an ancient Welsh romance

  Katy slowly closed her eyes, let the cool ground soak into her hands and butt, let the uncomfortable pebbles make themselves known. She counted to three and opened her eyes.

  Intact castle wall? Still there.

  A frantic fluttering whipped through her chest and choked her throat. “No, no, no!”

  Her whole body shaking, she pushed up on a nearby rock and stood. She tugged on her coat’s zipper and yanked it up to her neck. She gazed at the castle.

  No freaking way. Intact castle walls soared skyward, not stumpy, crumbling stone courses pockmarked with bird’s nests and tufts of grass. She whipped around. No deck steps arching over the once-ruined entrance.

  She shoved her hand into her coat pocket.

  Dread curdled in her stomach.

  Shit. No case.

  Oh God. The case worked. The case transported her back in time. Just like it had with Isabelle. Sweat bloomed on her skin in the chilly air, overheating her in her winter coat.

  But she hadn’t made a wish. Had she? Then her whispered words of a moment ago came back to her: What should I do, Isabelle? I wish I knew why I’m not as happy as I should be.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. She spun around and raked her gaze along the hillside. This crazy-ass, zapped-back-in-time thing could all be fixed with a quick wish.

  But…she dared not move. Getting turned around and missing it because she was searching in the wrong spot would suck. Big time.

  She scrutinized the ravine, keeping her breathing steady. If she didn’t panic, everything would be okay. Just a little blip she could laugh about—to herself—later, and get a spike of adrenaline thinking of her narrow escape. Yep. Mm-hmm. The guy line securing the thin veneer of her control strained and creaked.

  Okay. She’d come along that path, and had, oh God, made that wish on the stupid case. Smooth, Katy. Then the queasiness. And a gust of wind. She’d started sliding down the incline and…flung out her stupid-ass hands. With the case probably sailing away.