And then, in the distance, came the reward for their patience. By squinting his eyes against the velvety-dark night, Nat could make out tiny lights shining through the mist. Everyone watched, mesmerized by the phenomenon, many exclaiming with childish delight. Nat, too, felt himself relax as he watched the patterns of light grow, until several pairs of floating jewels shone out, their warm topaz glow lending a welcome heat to the cold night. As the last of the mist retreated back into the soil, the strange visitors were revealed at last.

In the stark new light of the enormous moon, with their gossamer-white fur shimmering silver and their strange topaz eyes shining like beacons, stood a company of twelve magnificent wolves. Nat watched in wonder; their resemblance to Woody was striking. One by one, they moved forward toward the king, so close to Nat that he could feel their hot breath on his leg. They bowed low, gracefully and reverently. Nat watched, breath held, as the Lionheart smiled — an enormous, triumphant grin, his teeth startlingly white in his battle-grimed face. Laughing and whooping, he punched the night sky with a victorious fist.

“Thank God and St. George!”

The Wolven pack responded by howling joyfully, threatening to burst Nat’s eardrums. The horses were jostling, the knights and foot followers were cheering, making Nat feel dizzy again. He sensed himself slithering bonelessly from Arcadia, blood pounding in his ears, heart fluttering. Feeling the hot breath of one of the Wolven on his face, he panicked, and put out his hand instinctively to push it away. He needed some air, but was surrounded by concerned furry bodies. Then he felt himself falling into a dark tunnel, until at last he was aware of nothing.

Seconds later, Nat found himself on the floor of the banquet hall, retching violently and wracked with sickness. It was at least five minutes before he was able to sit up. He was aware of the concerned voices of Iona and Woody, and gradually his head stopped buzzing.

Despite the lingering dizziness, Nat was bursting with questions about his flip back to the past: Had he actually traveled, disappeared? Had he really inhabited the body of Sir William de Gourney, or had the rose-colored drink Iona had given him contained some sort of mind-altering magic? That would definitely be illegal! He tried to get up, but his legs, still rubbery and uncooperative, let him down. Iona and Woody helped him struggle to his feet, their faces almost comically concerned.

“Welcome back,” said Iona.

“You could have warned me!” said Nat shakily. “Was it that drink or Sir Will’s chronicle that made me feel so ill?”