“Edmund?” I say.

My five-year-old nephew opens the door and stands there, solemnly eying this sword-wielding stranger. Nicolas quickly lowers his weapon as Edmund steps in, wearing a long nightshirt.

“You are not a ghost?” he says to Nicolas.

“I . . . do not think so.” Nicolas glances at me. “Please tell me I am not a ghost. There are many strange explanations for what has just occurred, and I am hoping that is not the correct one.”

“It is not,” I say.

“You are alive, then?” Edmund walks in and closes the door. “That is good.”

“I have always thought so,” Nicolas says carefully.

My nephew looks up at me. “Did you help him escape the navy knaves?”

“I did.”

“Good.”

“I believe I am missing some context for this conversation,” Nicolas says. “May I presume this is your nephew, Edmund?”

“Yes. Edmund, this is—”

The door flies open, Rosalind racing in. Lady Thorne—Bronwyn—hurries after her. They both stop on seeing us. Rosalind’s hand goes to Edmund’s shoulder, pulling him back from the man with a sword, and Nicolas quickly sheathes his weapon.

Rosalind seems about to speak. Then she stares at Nicolas, taking in the whole of him before looking at me and murmuring under her voice. “Your pirate ghost, Miranda?”

Nicolas hears and smiles. “Not a ghost, or so I am told, though I am concerned that I keep being confused for one. It is rather troubling.”

“Because you died,” Edmund says. “We have seen you, Aunt Miranda and me. On Hood’s Lane. Mama was afraid I would see you die, but I only saw you walking, and then the two men came out to kill you.”

“I . . . see.” He turns to me. “Perhaps a fuller explanation is in order?”

“This is the nineteenth century,” I say.

He blinks and looks around.

“You didn’t get to that part yet, huh?” Bronwyn says.

“We were being pursued, and I ran through the stitch with Nicolas.”

“And you both came through?” Bronwyn says. “From the past? Okay, that is definitely not how it works for the rest of us.”

“You are . . . American?” Nicolas asks. “Your accent seems to be.”

“She is Canadian,” I say. “And it is not simply the accent. She is from the twenty-first century, so her language is different, which I have not heard myself, as they have been pretending she is from my time—the nineteenth century.”

“I see.” Nicolas shakes his head. “No, that is a lie. I do not see at all.”

“Because my sister is not explaining this properly,” Rosalind says. “I am Rosalind Courtenay, Miranda’s eldest sister. This is Bronwyn Dale Thorne, wife to William Thorne. Miranda has brought you through what we call the time stitch and arrived into the nineteenth century.”

She points at the spot. “It is there, by the chest, so be careful not to stumble into it.”

“I have stepped through time,” Nicolas says slowly.

“Yes,” everyone says in unison.