“Ten years into the future.”

“More like fifty,” I say.

“This is the home of Lord William Thorne, but not the Lord William Thorne I know.”

Bronwyn sighs. “They do like their Williams. I’m guessing yours would be my husband’s grandfather. Or even father, depending on his age. Yes, the current Lord Thorne is also a William. He is not at home. We were in London with Rosalind when Portia—Miranda’s other sister—sounded the alarm.”

“I thought Portia was in Oxford for a medical lecture?” I say.

“There was some issue, and she returned home to find you gone. Rosalind feared you had learned of the stitch and used it.”

“To help you,” Edmund says to Nicolas, having been following the conversation in silence.

“Er, no,” I say. “I would love to claim that was my goal, but as far as I knew, the stitch only worked between our time and Bronwyn’s.”

“As far as any of us knew,” Bronwyn says.

“So you thought you were going to the future,” Nicolas says. “Instead, you ended up in the past, in time to warn me.”

“Exactly in time to warn you,” I say. “Which is odd, but also extremely fortuitous.”

“I think so. Particularly as it means I am not now dead and a ghost.”

“You were not truly a ghost,” Edmund says. “Aunt Miranda calls them death echoes.”

“It can happen in the case of a violent death,” I say. “Those with the Sight see a spectral replay, but the ghosts themselves have passed over.”

“So I did die. You did see my death, as you claimed. Rather than looking into the future, you were looking into the past.”

“Yes.”

“I do not suppose you brought that bottle of brandy with you? I suddenly feel in need of it.”

Bronwyn laughs. “I can imagine. Come downstairs, and we’ll find you something.”

“In exchange for telling us what you were running from,” Rosalind says. “Do not think I missed that part.”

I roll my eyes. “Yes, Rosie.”

“Now, downstairs, both of you. Edmund, since you are clearly not going back to bed anytime soon, you may join us.”

28

Rosalind and Bronwyn are in the kitchen preparing a snack, with Edmund recruited to help. I am quite certain that a late-night nibble does not require three people’s assistance, but I know they have left us alone for a few minutes of privacy.

We are in the sitting room, and I stand by the doorway, watching Nicolas prowl the room, taking everything in. When he pauses at a stack of books, bending to read the titles, I tentatively walk over.

“Are you all right?” I ask. “I know it is a shock.”

He straightens and turns to me. “It ought to be, oughtn’t it? I have stepped into another time. I should be still in that upstairs room, frozen in disbelief, and instead I feel as if I have been transported to a wondrous new place brimming with new adventures. I suspect that means I have not fully comprehended what has happened. But I also suspect . . .” He shrugs. “As you quoted when we first met, ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, . . . than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ Except that my philosophy has always been exactly that—the world contains more things than I can dream of. And so my reaction?”