“But Thames isn’t,” Geoffrey said quietly.
The stores had been Harper’s idea,they all liked to say now.
Not really my idea. Medieval people understood winter perfectly well. I’d simply recognized what prolonged instability and damaged roads would do to supply chains because I came from a century that turned logistics into religion.
“We’ll have enough until spring,” I said.
“More than enough,” the Baron corrected.
Aldwin leaned against the table beside Geoffrey, arms folded. He looked healthier than he had in months. Less exhausted. The scar along his jaw had faded from angry red into pale silver.
“You were right about Beaumont,” he said abruptly.
The hall noise seemed to dim slightly around us. A month earlier Beaumont had ridden north with several men seeking to join a border campaign.
Aldwin had intended to go with them.
I had asked him not to. Not prophecy. Not certainty. Just instinct shaped from remembered history and political patterns and one deeply unpleasant feeling I couldn’t explain.
Three weeks later Beaumont’s company had been ambushed crossing frozen ground near Durham. Very few survived.
“I was lucky,” Aldwin said.
“No,” the Baron said quietly. “You listened.”
A strange silence settled briefly over the table.
Then Geoffrey rescued us all by saying, “Harper also prevented the kitchens from poisoning half the household with spoiled fish last month.”
“I did not prevent poisoning,” I protested.
“You identified rotten barrels before anyone else.”
“Because they smelled like death.”
“The cook remains convinced this is supernatural.”
“I remain convinced your cook should stop storing fish beside the heating stones.”
The Baron made a rough sound suspiciously close to laughter before catching himself.
That startled me more than the snow had.
* * *
By evening the hall glowed gold beneath hundreds of candles.
Music filled the air. Servants carried platters of roast boar glazed in honey and mustard alongside trenchers piled high with winter vegetables, fresh bread, stewed apples, and thick slices of cheese. Someone passed cups of mulled wine heavy with cloves and cinnamon.
Cinnamon. The scent alone nearly wrecked me. Because suddenly I remembered Christmases in Boston. Storefront windows glowing against the snow. Crowded cafés. My mother humming along to old Bing Crosby songs while burning gingerbread because she always forgot the timer. For one sharp heartbeat the homesickness hit hard enough to steal my breath.
Geoffrey noticed immediately. He leaned slightly closer beside me at the high table. “What is it?”
“Nothing.” I smiled too quickly. “Just… Christmas.”
He studied me carefully. “You miss your home.”
The hall blurred slightly around the edges.