“Robin Hood.”
“I prefer Nicolas Dupuis,” he says dryly, “if we are making introductions.”
Robin Hood of the Bay. That is the legend—or what little of it I have been able to uncover, the facts lost to time. There is a town on the coast known as Hood’s Bay. While it’s been called that for centuries, the town is also connected to a young pirate—privateer—who temporarily made it his home.
In the eighteenth century, the bay was renowned for smuggling, and a young privateer embraced that while helping those who suffered under the rule of corrupt local gentry. That privateer was killed on a road now named after him—or his nickname: Hood’s Lane, where history says he was betrayed and murdered by his allies. I know better. I’ve seen him die. He might have been betrayed by an ally, but his killers were members of the Royal Navy.
“You’re going to die,” I blurt.
His brows shoot up. “I believe we all are, child, but thank you for the words of warning.”
I shake off the urge to say I’m not a child. Then I look at him. Truly study his attire. He wears form-fitting gray trousers tucked into tall, shiny boots with copper buttons. His grayish-blue vest also bears copper buttons. I have seen this exact outfit... on his ghost.
He mentioned a coat, and when I look about, I see through the open kitchen door. The same dark-blue fitted coat with tails that he wears in the echo. The same sword at his side, the weapon of a man who has learned to expect trouble. Only he did not expect it that day.
Thisday.
“You—you are meeting someone,” I say quickly. “Today, yes?”
I expect his eyes to narrow, for him to ask how I know his business so well. Instead, his face relaxes in an indulgent smile.
“Ah, you practice the art of prophecy, do you, child?”
“Please stop calling me that.”
He gives a courtly bow, one hand rising as he dips one leg. “As you wish, mademoiselle. But I must have something to call you.”
“My name is Miranda.”
That smile erupts in a grin, his eyes dancing. “Miranda, indeed. The intrepid would-be explorer, trapped on her island world and dreaming of more.”
I startle, taken aback. Oh, I’ve heard my share ofTempestquotes. I was named after that Miranda, after all, which most people realize when they hear my sisters are Rosalind and Portia.
As a girl, I’d resented the connection. Miranda seemed a milksop, a naive girl batting her eyelashes at the first handsome man she meets. Only when I grew older did I understand the fullness of her, see her yearning and the frustration and the strength, traits I share.
Trapped on our islands and dreaming of more.
The man doesn’t notice me falter. He’s too pleased with himself for the literary allusion. And I’m too busy seeing him walking down a dusty road, whistling a tune as a figure raises a musket behind him.
“And you may call me... Well, in England, they are very fond of the diminutive Nick, but where I grew up, it was Nico. As we are friends—sharing the mutual acquaintance of Lord Thorne—you may call me Nico.”
I am well aware of the irony here. The man—Nico—finding his footing as I lose mine, as I founder, my mind racing for a way to fix this.
My mind racing for a way to stop Fate in her tracks.
Prophecy.
My breath catches.
Yes, of course. Prophecy.
“You said I am practicing prophecy,” I say carefully. “Attempting to foretell your future.”
“Oui, and you ought to take care. They still burn witches in this land. Everyone loves to hear their future. Cross a palm with silver and learn what lies in the shadows ahead. I know many young women dabble in such arts, but you must take care.”
“I do not dabble,” I say, channeling Portia as I lift my chin. “I have a gift.”
“I am certain you do, and I do not mean to tease you. You are quite correct that I have a meeting.” He removes a pocket watch and checks it. “A meeting that I must rudely hurry off to attend.”