Technically you still have to become a prince before she brings you back.”

He folded his arms. “Then exactly how are you going to help me?”

“Well, I brought things from home.” I let go of my skirt, waved my fingers to show him my rings, then went and knelt by my backpack. “Besides all the jewelry, I also have spices, perfume . . . I took a bunch of my mom’s sterling silverware—the women here are all about the silverware—but I also brought things they’ll think are magical. Flashlights. Matches. I figure with all this stuff we can just buy some land and call you a prince. Voila, you can come home.” His arms remained folded. “Even if I buy land, it’s still land in someone else’s kingdom. They go by the feudal system here and every blade of grass on the continent already has a lord, baron, and king reigning over it.

What’s your second plan?”

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I didn’t say anything. Really, I’d never thought of Tristan as an intimidating person before, but he seemed to have aged so thoroughly in the time he’d spent here.

He wasn’t shy Tristan from the track club; he was a competent and assertive adult.

He raised an eyebrow. “You did have a backup plan, didn’t you?”

When I still didn’t answer, he grunted and looked at the ceiling again.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve just never been very . . .

smart.”

Instead of looking apologetic for insulting me, or at least sympathetic, his gaze shot back to me with exasperation. “Don’t give me that. I’ve known you long enough to know how smart you are.” Then, as if to prove his point, he pointed to the backpack. “You knew what to pack to bring to the Middle Ages.”

“That’s because I lived here for several memorable, if not enjoyable, weeks.” As soon as I said this, I remembered something that might help. I reached into one of the side pockets and handed Tristan my contract with Chrissy. I told him about it, adding that I’d brought it along to study for possible loopholes—or if worse came to worst, to use for kindling. Tristan might find something I’d overlooked.

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He sat down on the corner of the bed and read it.

After a couple of minutes he stopped reading and held the paper down to look at me. “You wanted to be Cinderella? You actually wished for that?”

“No. That was another matter of misinterpretation.” I stood up and held out my hand for the contract. “You know, maybe it’s not such a good idea to have you read that after all . . .”

He ignored my request. The contract went back up, then in another moment it came back down. “You wanted to be Snow White too?” He shook his head. “I take back everything I said about you being smart.” I grabbed for the paper but he held me away with one arm. He was strong. I looked down at his arm and noticed not only his muscles, but some bruises and pale scars crisscrossing over his arm. Those hadn’t been there before, had they?

Still reading he said, “And I suppose this is where I come in. You wanted a princely guy from your own day.”

“I’m sorry.” My words came out sounding more defi-ant than apologetic, but he wasn’t listening to me anyway.

“I have to take you to prom too? Oh, this just keeps getting better all the time.”

I tried to grab the paper away from him again, but he held me away effortlessly. “You couldn’t have wished for 176/431

something normal like money or fame. You wanted,” and here his voice took on a particularly disdainful tone,

“a prince?”

“Well, if you have a prince then money and fame naturally follow, don’t they?” I said, just because I didn’t like the way he was speaking to me. “It’s killing two birds with one stone.”

Tristan slapped the contract down on the bed and looked at me scornfully. “Women.”

“Well, hey, when your girlfriend dumps you for your brother you can tell me what you’d wish for.” His eyes softened and the room fell silent for a moment. “Oh yeah, Hunter and Jane. I’d completely forgotten about them.” His attention returned to me. “I guess it wasn’t that long ago for you though, was it?” I didn’t answer, but he didn’t seem to expect me to.

Instead he handed the contract back to me. “I don’t see any way out of this except the way I was already working on.” He stood up, hefted my backpack onto the bed like it weighed nothing, and unzipped the largest pocket. “I don’t suppose you brought anything suitable for captur-ing cyclopses or killing dragons?” Probably not. “Why do you need to do that?” He told his story while he took everything out of the backpack for inspection. His voice was casual, with just enough cynicism to let me know he didn’t think any of it 177/431

was casual at all. “Your fairy godmother showed up in my bedroom one night, dropped me into this lovely village, and told me I had to become a prince in order to come back home. There’s not a lot of chance of that happening, by the way, if you don’t have an army at your command.

“I told people I’d come from a distant land to earn my fortune. Which, coincidentally, there was also not a lot of chance of happening. Even if I’d had a specialized skill—which I didn’t—everything here is controlled by guilds. You can’t just set up shop somewhere. I only kept from starving by working as a jongleur.” He must have seen the blank expression on my face because he added,

“That’s a storyteller. I had plenty of stories.” Here he gave me a crooked smile. “And Mom always told me that watching TV was a waste of my time. I tell you what, the people here are big Battlestar Galactica fans.” He picked up the first-aid kit from the backpack and smiled. I was glad that at least I’d brought something that made him happy. But he didn’t comment on it, just set it aside from the other things. “I even told stories for the royal court— for King Roderick up on the hill. He liked me enough to let me become a page. Mostly because I’m a fast runner. When the king sends a message to someone in the palace or out in the courtyard he wants it done quickly. That was the only reason I even 178/431

heard about the quest.” He found my package of chocolate chips and held it in front of him reverently. A nearly silent “ohhh” escaped his lips.

“You can have some,” I said.

He ripped open the package, popped a few in his mouth, and shut his eyes.

“Have as many as you want,” I said.

He closed the bag and shook his head. “I’ve been living on pottage and bread for so long that if I eat too many it will make me sick.”

“So what is this quest thing all about?” He let out a sigh. “Maybe just a few more.” Then he opened the bag and put another small handful in his mouth.

“The quest?” I prompted.

“Right. His highness, King Roderick, has been troubled with three things: a dragon that comes around on a monthly basis to fly off with cattle or unfortunate village folk; a cave cyclops that goes marauding at night, stealing goods and killing anyone who gets in his way; and the Black Knight.” Tristan put the chocolate chips down and surveyed my supplies again. He picked up a knife I’d taken from my kitchen and gingerly felt the blade. I couldn’t tell whether he was happy with it or not. He simply set it down and unzipped the backpack’s side pockets.

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“Who is the Black Knight?”

“No one knows. That’s part of the problem. The only thing we know about him is that he wears black armor, carries no colors on his shield, and he’s immensely good. He keeps challenging Prince Edmond, the heir to the throne, to send his best knight or come out and fight the Black Knight himself—”

The name caught me by surprise and I interrupted Tristan. “Prince Edmond? The Prince Edmond who has a younger brother Hugh and a younger sister Margaret?”

Tristan looked at me in surprise. “You’ve heard of him?”

I nodded. “I met his family when I was Cinderella.” Tristan’s voice took on a mocking tone. “Ahh. A prom date rival. Did you go to a ball with him?”