I still hesitate, but when I do, panic seeps in. The panic of wondering why we did not go home. What if I cannot go home and Nicolas cannot, either? What if we are endlessly bounced through time? Part of me wants to investigate, but a stronger part wants to be sure we can go home.

Nicolas must feel that, too. He takes my hand, and I yank my attention from the window. Yet even as we are leaping into the stitch, it pulls at me.

Why did we end up here?

What were we supposed to see?

Then the room disappears, and it is William and Bronwyn’s nineteenth-century office again. That other world is gone, and a voice sounds from below, the distinct tones of my sister and nephew. I hike my skirts in one hand, entwine Nicolas’s fingers in the other and go to meet them.

Portia comes from London to help tend to Nicolas’s injured arm, and Bronwyn brings medical supplies from the twenty-first century, including a miracle called “antibiotics.” Of course, having twenty-first-century medicine—and an eighteenth-century pirate—in the house meant telling Portia about the stitch. My sister takes it as she takes everything. She assimilates the information and then plows past it to do what needs to be done.

August, William and the Thornes’ two little girls come up to the manor, but only briefly, before Bronwyn and Rosalind declare it is all too much and bustle both families off to Courtenay Hall, leaving Nicolas to recover with Portia and me in attendance.

A week has now passed, and I am restless. Nicolas is, too. We have returned to the eighteenth century to ensure Emily is well. She is, and she is negotiating with her uncle like a seasoned professional.

We have visited High Thornesbury and even hired a coach to go to York for the day, but these amusements have started to feel like distractions.

Bronwyn also brought “birth control” from the twenty-first century, and that is one amusement that would not feel like a distraction, but we have decided we will continue to take our time in that regard. Also, it is not necessary to be in Thorne Manor to enjoy it. Not even necessary to be in this time, as Bronwyn ensured we have plenty to take with us, wherever we might go.

Wherever we might go . . .

It is the eighth night in Thorne Manor, and I have slipped from Nicolas’s side to creep into the office, where I stand across the room, staring past the stitch to the window. When warm arms go around me, I only give the slightest start before letting myself relax into Nicolas’s hold.

He nuzzles my neck and whispers in French, and he has been teaching me enough that I understand the gist of it. He is telling me I am a marvel, a wonder, words that bring a blush to my cheeks and tears to my eyes. Tears of joy, of my own marvel and wonder that I have found such a man.