At last, I find a spot where I might greedily devour both—gazing out the window at this strange and beautiful world while watching Nicolas’s reflection as he greedily devours a book of twenty-first-century medicine. I suppose I could feel a pang of jealousy at the way he is so engrossed in that book when I stand here wearing nothing but a silken robe, but we have already made very good use of the bed, and it will be at least another half an hour before either of us is ready to continue that part of our holiday.

It is a much-deserved break. A “vacation,” as Bronwyn calls it. Being from this world, she arranged it for us, right down to seeing us onto the train in York and ensuring a driver met us in London. It is Nicolas’s and my first time in the twenty-first century. Not our first time passing through the stitch, though. I went through months ago, expecting to jump from my Victorian world to this one and instead ending up in Nicolas’s—in 1790.

We have spent the intervening months on the move. Twice we let the stitch send us where it may—to another time, another person in need. We also returned to 1790 to visit Nicolas’s family in Martinique. That was not a short journey. I only wish we weren’t limited to the stitch in Thorne Manor so that we might come to this world, fly where we need to be and then step back in time. Getting to Martinique was a month’s journey each way, and that was on the fastest boat we could find. So Nicolas and I have not truly rested since we met. That is the purpose of this trip.

It is also about me donating the Roman gladius Nicolas gifted me shortly after we met. While the short sword is a common soldier’s weapon, it is in incredible condition, as if it had been buried before he bought it—quite inexpensively after the seller realized wealthy nobles had no interest in an “old” short sword. Having now been transported from the eighteenth century, the condition is even more incredible, and as much as I long to keep it, I understand the historical value and have agreed to the donation in a world where they will appreciate it.

There is a third purpose for this trip: finally visiting the twenty-first century. Now that I am here, it is nothing short of terrifying. I am rather tempted to stay in this hotel room and only gaze out the window.

“It is overwhelming, non?” Nicolas says as he comes up behind me, his hands going around my waist. “Or is that purely my own impression?”

“Purely yours. My word for it is terrifying.”

He kisses the side of my neck. “I believe yours may be more accurate, crécerelle.”

His chin rests on my shoulder as he gazes down at the street an impossible distance below, crammed with cars and omnibuses, the honking reaching us even up here.