He shrugs, bends to the books again and takes out a copy of The Tempest, holding it up as he quotes, “Now I will believe that there are unicorns.”

I smile and finish the lines, “That in Arabia there is one tree, the phoenix’ throne; one phoenix at this hour reigning there.”

“Yes.” He glances over. “Are there unicorns? Or phoenixes?”

“Only in books. At least as far as I have seen.”

“But if one can travel through time, perhaps there is a past where they are alive, and I have always felt such possibilities are real. That is how I was raised. Believe my own eyes and still dream of more, beyond what I can see. So I accept this as what it is. A wonder.”

“It will still be something of a shock, and my blunt approach did not make it better.”

He chuckles. “I am not certain how any approach could be better. However it is said, I have discovered that you are from the next century.”

“Are you angry with me for not telling you sooner?”

He walks to me, arms going around my waist. “Non. In fact, I am glad that it happened the way it did. Otherwise, I would not have wanted to doubt you, but I would have, and that would have been most uncomfortable for me and upsetting for you. While I am still attempting to understand how such a thing is possible, I accept that it is both possible and wondrous.”

I exhale. “I am glad you think so.”

He grins. “I am in the future. How could that not be wondrous?” He looks around. “Now tell me about everything.” He grabs my hand and tugs me toward a photograph. “Let’s start with this. It is not a painting, is it?”

I smile. “It is not. It is a direct likeness. It is created by . . .”

I tell him as much as I can. Then the others arrive, and we tell Rosalind and Bronwyn everything. Well, everything except the death of Andrés, which is not suitable within the hearing of a five-year-old child. My sister may grumble about how much I do think is suitable for Edmund, but even I draw a line.

With that cut from the narrative, it is an exciting tale of derring-do, with me swooping in to warn Nicolas, being shot by his would-be killers, nursed back to the health by the pirate-physician and so on, all near-death escapes and pirate ships and masquerade balls and subterranean passages. It does make quite a thrilling tale, though from the looks Rosalind is giving me, she would prefer a story with far fewer near-death escapes. Edmund devours every word. So does Bronwyn, up until I mention the gladius and I show it and, being a historian, she spends the rest of my story enrapt in examining the short sword.

When we bring the tale to a close, I take Edmund to bed. I tuck him in, and he makes me promise Nicolas will be here tomorrow. Then I slip back downstairs and find Nicolas telling the part about Andrés.