A Turn of the Tide
Praise for Kelley Armstrong
“Armstrong is a talented and evocative writer who knows well how to balance the elements of good, suspenseful fiction, and her stories evoke poignancy, action, humor and suspense.”
The Globe and Mail
“[A] master of crime thrillers.”
Kirkus
“Kelley Armstrong is one of the purest storytellers Canada has produced in a long while.”
National Post
“Armstrong is a talented and original writer whose inventiveness and sense of the bizarre is arresting.”
London Free Press
“Kelley Armstrong has long been a favorite of mine.”
Charlaine Harris
“Armstrong’s name is synonymous with great storytelling.”
Suspense Magazine
“Like Stephen King, who manages an under-the-covers, flashlight-in-face kind of storytelling without sounding ridiculous, Armstrong not only writes interesting page-turners, she has also achieved that unlikely goal, what all writers strive for: a genre of her own.”
The Walrus
Also by Kelley Armstrong
A Stitch in Time time-travel gothic
A Stitch in Time
Ballgowns & Butterflies (novella)
A Twist of Fate
Snowstorms & Sleigh Bells (novella)
A Rip Through Time mystery series
A Rip Through Time
The Poisoner’s Ring
Haven’s Rock (Rockton spinoff) mystery series
Murder at Haven’s Rock
Past Series
Rockton mystery series
Cursed Luck contemporary fantasy
Cainsville paranormal mystery series
Otherworld urban fantasy series
Nadia Stafford mystery trilogy
Standalone Thrillers
The Life She Had
Wherever She Goes / Every Step She Takes
Young Adult
Aftermath / Missing / The Masked Truth
Otherworld: Kate & Logan: paranormal duology
Darkest Powers/Darkness Rising paranormal trilogies
Age of Legends fantasy trilogy
Middle Grade
A Royal Guide to Monster Slaying fantasy series
The Blackwell Pages trilogy (with Melissa Marr)
A Turn of the Tide
Kelley Armstrong
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without the written permission of the Author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Lines of poetry are from “On His Lady’s Waking” by Pierre de Ronsard (1524-1585), translated by Andrew Lang (1888)
Copyright © 2022 K.L.A. Fricke Inc.
All rights reserved.
Cover Design by Cover Couture www.bookcovercouture.com
ISBN-13 (ebook): 978-1-989046-48-7
ISBN-13 (print): 978-1-989046-49-4
Contents
Author’s Note
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
More Stories….
Ghosts & Garlands
About the Author
Author’s Note
The events of A Turn of the Tide center on a fishing village in North Yorkshire called Hood’s Bay. The setting is inspired by Robin Hood’s Bay, with its rich smuggling history and rumored subterranean tunnels. However, I was uncomfortable imposing a fictional history on a real small town, so I used Hood’s Bay as the name instead, and my town and its history—and its people—are entirely fictional.
Introduction
If you’re new to my A Stitch in Time stories—or if it’s been a while since you’ve read one—here’s a little introduction to get you up to speed. Otherwise, if you’re ready to go, just skip to chapter one, and dive in!
There’s a time stitch in Thorne Manor, hereditary summer home to the Thornes of North Yorkshire. As far as we know, Bronwyn Dale was the first to pass through, traveling from the twenty-first century to the nineteenth, where she met William Thorne when they were both children. Later, as a widow, she returned to find William still there. They’re now married with two daughters. They live in Thorne Manor and divide their time between the modern world and the Victorian one.
Before Bronwyn returned to Thorne Manor, Rosalind—the wife of William’s best friend, August Courtenay—accidentally went through the time stitch into the modern world, where she was trapped for four years, separated from August and their young son, Edmund.
Rosalind returned home last fall and reunited with her family, including her youngest sister, Miranda. Miranda Hastings is secretly a novelist, a teller of adventure tales and a bit of an adventurer herself, which meant Rosalind was definitely not telling her about the time stitch.
In Rosalind’s holiday novella, Snowstorms & Sleigh Bells, Miranda discovered the locked door . . . along with a few oddities that suggested her sister was keeping a secret. In that story, we also saw the ghost of a legendary local pirate-turned-Robin-Hood. Miranda has the Second Sight, and while she can see ghosts, this particular phantom has only appeared in an echo of his death, his spirit long gone.
1
Imagine that a locked door stands between you and the greatest adventure imaginable. It is not the sort of lock one might find on a safe containing such treasure but a mere interior door lock, easily opened with a hairpin.
What lies on the other side? A passage from the nineteenth century to the twenty-first.
Is any lock supposed to keep me from that?
The “time stitch”—as I have heard my eldest sister, Rosalind, call it—is located in Thorne Manor, home to William and Bronwyn Thorne, friends of Rosalind and her husband. From what I understand, Bronwyn is from the twenty-first century, where my sister was trapped for four years, having only returned to us last year. All this, of course, I learned only from listening to conversations I was not supposed to hear, as I endeavored to discover the secret of that locked door.
When I first figured out what lay behind it, it took all my willpower not to run to the house, burst in on the Thornes and dash through the passage right in front of them. I impatiently bided my time until they were in London, with Thorne Manor left empty. Then I set off.
I reach my destination around midday. Thorne Manor sits atop a hill overlooking the Yorkshire moors. Or, I should say, it perches there, a massive stone block of a house looking down on the village of High Thornesbury. Such a stern and forbidding abode should look as if it is watching the town with a judgmental eye, but the dark rectangles of windows seem more to watch over it, glaring into the moors at any who dare trespass.
I do dare trespass, entering the house through the kitchen door, which never closes properly. Halfway to the stairs, a movement makes me jump, but it is only a calico cat.
“Pandora?” I say, peering at it. “Or Enigma?”
The cat fixes me with a baleful look, and I smile. “Hello, Pandora.”
She ignores me as I head up to the locked room. I open the door easily and walk into what is clearly an office. When I glimpse an open notebook on the desk, I must steel against the temptation to read it. I have a purpose, and it is—for once—more exciting than reading.
I look about for this “time stitch,” but I see nothing.
My gaze turns to a stuffed bookcase, and I smile. What are books, if not doors into other worlds? That must be the source of this stitch. Open the right book, and I’ll step into the future.
Heading for the bookcase, I veer past an awkwardly placed chest and—
I smack into the foot of a bed . . . where there had not been a bed moments ago.
I take a deep breath. Then heart tripping, I pivot to take in the wonders of the future and . . .
Well, that’s disappointing.
Oh, I have passed through time. That is certain. I am standing in a bedroom instead of an office. And yet . . . is this truly the future? It looks like a bedroom in my own time. A rather dull guest chamber with a bed, a dresser, a night table and a wardrobe.
My gaze fixes on the wardrobe. Yes, the room may seem little different, but that is only because furniture may not change overmuch. Fashion is where I shall behold the first wonders of this new world.
I stride over, pull open the door and see . . .
Bed linens. The wardrobe is filled with very regular linens, ones that feel coarser than my own and are a nondescript beige color. I’m reaching to take out one when a clatter sounds from below, followed by an oath.
It is a male voice but definitely not William Thorne’s. In my time, the Thornes employ a very small staff for their social station, but they do have a housekeeper. Perhaps their twenty-first-century one is male. I should like to think such a thing is possible—the dream of a world where a housekeeper can be a man and I would not need to write adventure tales under a man’s name.
I close the wardrobe and tiptoe from the room. As I am leaving the time-stitch room, I note there is no lock on the door. That seems most odd. Would the Thornes not wish to lock the portal at both ends?
Another clatter from below pulls me from my thoughts. I continue to the stairs, which I descend with care, all the while tracking the noises, which seem to emanate from the kitchen. I crouch and slip into the parlor. Then I position myself behind the sofa and adjust until I am on an angle to see through the open kitchen door and—
That is not the housekeeper.
A man sits at the kitchen table, a cup at his elbow as he writes. His curly dark hair is cut very short. His sleeves are rolled up to show lean-muscled dark-skinned forearms, and he has a perfectly sculpted jawline. I am very fond of jawlines, being fonder only of eyes, and from what I can see, his are the richest brown.
Something about his countenance seems familiar. As I am thinking, I glimpse his footwear: a remarkable pair of boots, with gleaming copper buckles.
Those boots . . .
Where have I seen—
The man shoves back the stool with a squeak. He stands, showing himself to be tall and well built, but my gaze falls to what looks like a sword hanging at his side.
I give my head a shake. That must be some modern implement. Even in my day, one hardly sees swords outside of a gymnasium, as I well know, having been training in the art for several years, lessons which I consider important for my writing . . . and great fun.
I lift my head just as the man reaches for something on the table. It’s a bone-handled knife, tip wedged into the cutting-block tabletop. He grabs the knife and flips it, nimble and confident. One last twirl, and then he drops it into a sheath at his side.
Is this a guest of the Thornes, invited to use the house in their absence? Would they dare such a thing in a house with a time portal, where a guest might walk into another century while simply looking for more blankets?
That’s when I remember the open kitchen door. Is it still broken in the future? Could this be an intruder? He does not look like a thief. Also, I rather doubt a thief would write at the table before absconding with the silver.
I consider the matter. Then I take my pocketknife from my boot and slide it where it belongs—in a pocket. I design all my own clothing so that I might have pockets, and I have even converted my sister Portia to the wonders of pocketed skirts, though she insists on using hers for so-called practical items, such as pocket watches and pocket money. What is a pocketknife if not practical? Sometimes I despair of ever understanding my older sisters.
The man has moved to a spot I cannot see. There’s a clattering of dishes that covers the sound of my journey from couch to doorway. Then a sigh and a struck match, as if he’s settling in with a pipe or cheroot.
All goes quiet as he presumably smokes, and I contemplate my options. If he is a guest, I should leave, but I am not yet ready to venture into the wider world of the future. I must borrow some of Bronwyn Thorne’s clothing first. Can I slip upstairs and—?
The cold tip of a knife digs into my neck.
“Do not move,” a voice growls behind me. “I have no wish to harm you but—”
I swing around, my own knife raised. Or that is the plan, but he’s too close for a proper “swing,” and instead, I find myself pressed against the wall with his knife at my throat.
My word, he has gorgeous eyes.
That is not what I should be thinking, and yet, it is all I am thinking as I stare up into gold-flecked brown eyes ringed with enviable lashes.
“You have the most beautiful eyes,” I say.
He blinks and pulls back. “What?”
I drop my gaze. “I am sorry, sir. That was very forward of me, but I could not help notice—”
I shove him, hard. As he staggers back, I dart to the side. He lunges to grab me, but I meet the attack with a push hard enough to send him flying backward over a footstool. His knife clatters to the floor, and I launch myself on him like a cat, landing on his chest, my own blade flying to his throat.
I tense, ready for him to throw me off. Instead, he only says, “I suppose I deserve this.”
I’d heard his voice earlier, but I’d been too worried about my predicament to really hear it. Now that I do, it’s beautiful, a light contralto with a French accent, made even more melodious by a wry lilt to the words.
“Yes, you do deserve it,” I say. “Now—”
He bucks under me, legs flying up. I brace myself and stay where I am.
“I used a distraction trick on you moments ago,” I say. “Do you really think I’d fall for one myself?”
He sighs and thumps his head back to the floor. “All right. You have bested me, fair maiden. There is a little money in my jacket pocket, which I left in the kitchen. It is yours.”
I propel myself up, my free hand wrapped around the pommel of his sword. I dance away with it in my hand.
He only sighs and shakes his head as he rises. “Put that down, child.”
“Child?” I sputter. “We are of an age.”
“Hardly,” he says. “I am six-and-twenty.”
“As am I.”
He smiles. “Does anyone actually believe such a story, child? You cannot be more than eighteen. Now put down that sword, or I shall be forced to take it from you.”
I raise the weapon, and his eyes harden.
“Do not play this game, little one,” he says as he comes toward me. “A sword is a dangerous weapon that requires years of training, and you will injure yourself if you attempt to use it.”
I execute a perfect lunge and thrust.
He stops in his tracks. “My mistake.”
“Evidently.” I lift my chin. “I am not a child. I am Miranda Hastings, friend to the gentleman who owns this house.”
“You mean Lord Thorne? The man whom I call friend? The man whose house you are burgling?”
“Burgling?” I squawk. “Do I look like a thief to you?”
He eyes my dress. “I am not certain. Your dress does seem unnecessarily ostentatious, whatever your intent.”