Page 26 of No Place in Time

“Many times,” Cecily said. “She sometimes had several a day.”

“It has been said,” Lord Hawthorne went on, “that you spoke words over her. That you touched her when she lay helpless. That you knew when the illness would come.”

“No, my lord. That is not true,” Cecily said, her voice shaking. “I brought water. I helped her sit. I stayed because she asked me to. I comforted her. But I did not know… I could not know when her sickness would come.”

Lord Hawthorne turned to Finn.

“You are no kin of this house. You speak with odd precision for a laborer. You were heard laughing after her death.”

Finn’s mouth fell open. “No, my lord. Cecily, my sister, and I are deeply saddened by Lady Hawthorne’s death. She was a kind mistress.”

Silence fell. Then Lord Hawthorne stepped closer to them.

He said to Cecily, “Some said they heard you chanting words over her as she lay gasping for air.”

Cecily gasped, her eyes wide. “Who has said such a thing? My lord, never! I prayed—”

“Enough,” Lord Hawthorne said, raising a hand. “The church will advise me. Until then, you will be kept apart. And secure.”

Guards moved forward and seized them.

“Cecily!” Finn cried as she was dragged away.

She twisted toward him, his name on her lips.

They dragged her down several hallways, then forced her into a small, windowless room. The door slammed. Then the iron bar scraped and fell into place, locking her in.

16

FINN

1296

Finn woke in the dark. The house was quiet around him. He lay still, listening. A beam creaked above. Somewhere, a man coughed in his sleep. Nothing else moved.

How had this happened so fast? He pictured Sybil’s watchful eyes, her pious whispers. She had twisted their friendship into something sinister. He cursed himself. They had been careless, laughing together while jealous eyes watched from the shadows.

Finn’s cell was small and cold, the air damp. There was straw on the floor. The wooden door, banded with iron, was locked from the outside. There was no window.

He got up and tested the door. Solid.

He went to the door and knocked, a quick, urgent rhythm. He waited, then knocked again, harder this time. Then he added a groan.

“What is it?” a man muttered from the other side.

“My gut,” Finn gasped, doubling over as footsteps approached. “The stew… I need the privy. Now.”

The bar slid back with a scrape. The door opened only a crack. “Ye can wait.”

Finn retched, a convincing, hacking sound. “Not unless you want to clean it up.”

With a curse, the guard opened the door fully. Finn saw the knife at the man’s belt.

“Be quick,” the man said.

Finn stepped out, shoulders slumped, eyes down. They walked the short passage toward the latrine.

When the guard turned, Finn moved. All the hours of training he’d received under the tutelage of his father’s master-at-arms came back in a rush. He drove his shoulder into the man’s chest, wrenched the knife from his belt as he stumbled, and brought the blade up under his jaw.