I do not pretend to understand it all. Nor does Nicolas. He may have spent time on the high seas, but he wasn’t engaged in what one might consider legitimate shipping. However, the business William Thorne shares with August does exactly that, and so Rosalind and Bronwyn pore over the papers and find proof that Norrington is trying to force out fishermen and small competitors.

William and August may be able to find even more, along with suggesting strategies for stopping Norrington. Rosalind will send August a telegram in the morning. Bronwyn mutters that she wishes she could just “text them,” and I have no idea what that means, but Rosalind heartily agrees. I really do need to visit the twenty-first century at some point.

For now, my concerns are in the eighteenth, with helping Nicolas stop Norrington and free Andrés’s ghost. We will return there on the morrow to see what else we might do while awaiting August and William’s response.

There is nothing more to be done tonight, and it is quite late, so we retire. Thorne Manor—not being Courtenay Hall—has only two guest rooms. I suspect Bronwyn wouldn’t blink if I took one with Nicolas. Rosalind would blink, but only momentarily. It is Nicolas who separates us, saying that he will take the small one if I do not mind sharing my sister’s. I do mind, quite a bit, actually, but it seems the alternative would see me alone in the second guest room while he sleeps in the hayloft.

We head off to our rooms. As I shut the door to ours, I whisper to Rosalind that I need to speak to Nicolas.

“Speak to him?” she says. “Or sneak into his room?”

“Sneak into his room.”

She sighs. “At least you are honest. I thought it might be like that between you.”

“You object?”

She walks over to embrace me. “Nicolas seems like exactly the sort of man I should want for you, Miranda. I cannot say he is that man on such short acquaintance, but if he is as he appears, then I do not object at all to the forming of a romantic attachment. If I do object to anything, it is a more practical concern.”

“I would expect nothing less.”

She raps my knuckles. “Do not mock me. Practicality is a fine trait. It allows me to urge caution where you might be too caught up in a romance to do the same.”

“You wish to warn me against falling too hard for him when he is not from my world.”

“Actually, no. Is that your concern?”

When I don’t answer, she says, “Silly question. You may have had lovers, but you have never been in love. Do not look so surprised. You don’t need to confide such things in me for me to see them. In that regard, I might actually urge less caution. Follow your heart. Nicolas does not seem the sort of man to abuse it.”

“He is not.”