The weight of those expectations and demands douses my sister’s light in so many ways. She had already been losing that light when Rosalind disappeared, and that only made things so much worse, as Portia insisted on bearing responsibility for me, which I never needed her to do. Then there was what another writer might call “a disappointment in love.” I call it a damnable blessing, the hand of fate revealing her love’s true nature before she was trapped with him forever.

I never minded the young lawyer my sister had fallen in love with. Yes, he was rather dull, and I’d wanted more for Portia, particularly as I was not convinced it was “falling in love” rather than “settling for the first decent man who wooed her.” She had slid into something akin to love and agreed to marry him, and then suddenly she received a letter that he had eloped with another. He’d fallen madly in love on a business trip and hoped she understood.

The worst of it was that Portia did understand. She accepted the public humiliation as if she expected no better—as if she deserved no better.

Now I watch her, in her wonderfully ridiculous confection of a dress, staring out the window, looking just a little bit wistful, a little bit empty.

“You could come with us,” I say.

She startles and turns, blue eyes wide with something like horror. “What?”

I walk over and take her hand. “Come with us. Have an adventure.”

She pulls from my grip. “I couldn’t. I have so much to do.”

She lists off a half-dozen patients waiting for her care in London, and a lecture she is sneaking into, and so many obligations and responsibilities that I want to grab her hand and yank her into the stitch. I want to take her away from all this for a little while. I want the Portia I knew once, endlessly curious and endlessly questing, like Rosalind, like me.

“Someday?” I say.

Portia exhales as if relieved that I will not pursue it. “Yes, someday. I should love to see it someday. In the meantime, Bronwyn will bring me books from the future, and you will run off on glorious adventures with a glorious man.”

“You do like Nicolas?”

She rolls her eyes as she hugs me. “I think he is the most perfect man I could imagine for you. I could not be more delighted.” She pulls back, holding me by the forearms. “Do not second-guess, Miranda. Do not doubt yourself or him. If there is cause to doubt, you will feel it in your heart. Do not manufacture it in your mind.”

“I won’t.”

“Then off with you both, on your grand adventure.”

“I will be back. I will always be back.”

She hugs me again, holding me tight. “I know.”

Nicolas and I stand in the office. Portia has already left Thorne Manor, hiring a coach to take her to the train station, rushing back to London and her endless responsibilities.