The Veil Between Worlds

The Veil Between Worlds The Ladies of the LabyrinthBook 1 Hope Carolle © Copyright 2023 by Hope Carolle Text by Hope Carolle Cover by Dar Albert Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc. P.O. Box 23 Moreno Valley, CA 92556 [email protected] Produced in the United States of America First Edition January 2023 Kindle Edition Reproduction of any kind except where it pertains to short quotes in relation to advertising or promotion is strictly prohibited. All Rights Reserved. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author. License Notes: This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook, once purchased, may not be re-sold. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. 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CEO, Dragonblade Publishing Additional Dragonblade books by Author Hope Carolle The Ladies of the Labyrinth Series The Veil Between Worlds (Book 1) The Veil of Time (Book 2) The Season of the Veil (Book 3) Table of Contents Title Page Copyright Page Publisher’s Note Additional Dragonblade books by Author Hope Carolle Part I Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Part II Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Part III Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Part IV Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Excerpt from The Veil of Time Acknowledgements About the Author Part I Chapter One How should I be merry or glad For fair promises men to me make, But when I have most need, they me forsake? Everyman [Anonymous], 1485. “He’s going to kill me,” I said, frozen, too scared to move. The sour expression on his loose lips and creepy devil eyes indicated that I was not at all a welcome presence on his field. I didn’t know sheep could have horns, but this one sure as hell did. Extra-long, potentially lethal. Drops of rain dripped off its bedraggled wool, its hollowed-out ears pointed sideways. He growled at me in a deep “baa,” grass clinging to his chin. Multi-tasking. Sheep always looked so small from the side of the road. In nursery rhyme books. On mobiles, fluttering over cribs, playing a melody. Harmless. Fluffy creatures. This one was huge. Over two-hundred pounds. It could take me down. Or toss me up in the air and spike me on top of the nearby fence post. “He’s not going to kill you, Ellie,” Jane said. My best friend was laughing at me. Friends do that—at least mine do. That’s normal, right? “He’s just a sheep. They have brains the size of peas.” “So did the dinosaurs,” I argued. “You don’t have to be smart to kill somebody. History’s shown that time and again.” “Walk around him,” Jane ordered. I shook my head, staying firmly planted in the frosty grass. “If I move, he’s going to charge. This whole ‘gentle sheep’ thing is a myth. They’re plotting an insurrection. I’ll be their first victory in a sheep takeover. We’re outnumbered.” Jane sighed as she walked over to me, took my elbow, and escorted me past the sheep, commenting, “You, my dear, are a true wimp. I guess you never got out to the countryside much when we were at King’s.” My kids were so busy jumping in the puddles they had no idea of the brush with death their mommy nearly had. “Why would anyone leave the theater, museums, and libraries of London for muddy fields?” Culture always won out over nature in my book. Jane had corralled us into going on this “scenic walk,” on the way to her local pub for lunch that morning. But we’d been walking for what seemed like miles in a cold, wet wind, and I didn’t think that wet, murderous sheep ranked that high on a scenic scale from 1-10. My feet were cold, my boots and the bottom of my jeans were covered in mud, my cheeks were raw, and my children had run out of snacks to keep them going. No doubt when she tired of trying to impress Leila, the nanny for Jane’s girls, I’d have to carry Sophie when her energy ran out. At five years old and forty pounds, her weight would grow heavier with every step. Come to England for January break, Jane said. It’ll be fun, she said. Don’t go to that wretched, tacky Florida. You see your parents all the time! I need girl-time with you. Guy will be away, and it would be just us girls. Being on sabbatical is so