Mirror Sight by Kristen Britain Page B

the opposite corner where a small kitchen was set up with a stove, cupboards, and table. He’d since put on a white shirt and waistcoat, but he still wasn’t quite up to gentlemanly standards with his sleeves rolled up and his collarless shirt unbuttoned at his throat. He set the tray down on a low table and stepped back.
    “Shall we sit?” the professor asked. He gestured at a chair and Karigan sat, glad to get off her leg.
    “You, too, Cade.”
    The younger man’s arms were folded across his chest, and he opened his mouth as if to protest, but the professor cut him off.
    “Sit.”
    Cade sat. He did not look very happy. He continued to look unhappy while the professor served tea and poppy seed muffins. Karigan thought it an odd time for tea, as she reckoned it must be past the midnight hour, but she welcomed it nonetheless. Tea made everything better.
    The professor seemed to agree. “Nothing like tea,” he said, “when in unfamiliar or confusing circumstances, eh?”
    He did not sit behind the big desk, which, Karigan noted, was immaculate. There were no piles or stacks or mess here. Everything was neatly arranged. Instead, he sat with them around the small table and its tea service.
    “Ah, yes,” he said, “tea warms the spirit, does it not?”
    She and Cade nodded.
    “I would guess, my dear, you have many questions. But first, I need you to tell Cade your name—the name you gave me. Not the one
I
gave you.”
    Karigan narrowed her eyebrows. “Why? You believe I’m mad.”
    “It was the only rational explanation I could accept at the time.”
    “But now you believe that I am who I said I am?”
    “I believe that I do believe so,” the professor replied. “I do not know how it is possible, or why you’ve come to be here, but the evidence supports your . . . assertion. I told Cade who I believe you to be, but I’d like him to hear it from you.”
    Karigan glanced at the glowering Cade, now unsure if she wanted them to believe her, to know her true identity. Still the professor had gone to some lengths to protect her.
    “I am Karigan G’ladheon,” she said, challenging Cade with her gaze.
    “
Rider Sir
Karigan G’ladheon,” the professor added.
    Cade lowered his cup, slowly and with control, until it settled gently onto its saucer with a soft
clink,
as though he was suppressing an outburst of denial.
    “It cannot be true.” He swept his hand through his hair. “It is not possible. You can’t make me believe that a historical person is sitting in this room
now.”
It did not sound like the first time they’d had this particular discussion.
    “Like I said,” the professor replied, “I don’t know how it’s possible that someone from so long ago could be here now, living and breathing among us, but the evidence . . . from her clothing to the brooch she wore. The textiles were of a time when cloth was hand-woven.”
    Early on in this world, Karigan had noticed the extremely fine, almost perfect weave of her nightgown and bed clothes. Not even the best textiles her father traded in were so intricately woven. She had wondered how it was accomplished, and now the professor implied it was not by hand.
    “The details were right,” the professor said, his gaze settling on Karigan. “The dye of the green, the embroidered gold winged horse on coat and shirtsleeve. But Cade asks a legitimate question.
How
did you get here to this time? In our first conversation, you mentioned something about a mask bringing you forward. Can you explain this?” Both men sat there staring hard at her, waiting.
    “I—I don’t know exactly how or why it happened,” she replied. “We were in Blackveil and—”
    The professor blanched. Cade raised an eyebrow, his large hands gripping the armrests of his chair until Karigan thought he’d puncture the leather.
    “What did I say?” Karigan asked.
    “Blackveil,” the professor murmured. “It is not spoken of. We are unaccustomed to hearing it