“Perhaps we could walk around the block looking for a bookstore,” I say, as carefully as I might suggest swimming the Thames in my day. “If we stay on this side of the road and do not cross through traffic.” I squint down at what looks like water bugs zooming about at dizzying speeds. “And if we hold hands very tightly and do not let go.”

Nicolas smiles. “I shall hold your hand as tightly as you hold mine, and together we shall conquer the beast.”

We have been into the future before. Our second adventure took us to the 1950s, but only as far as the village near Thorne Manor. While we’d seen marvels, they’d been viewed from a distance, as we had no need to step into a motor vehicle. Since we’ve arrived in this world, we’ve been in Bronwyn’s vehicle, a train and a sleek black car with a liveried driver, all moving so fast that I lose my breath remembering it.

“We have money, non?” Nicolas says. “Sufficient funds for this excursion?”

I nod. Rosalind had given us each two hundred pounds, which seemed ridiculous. Then her husband, August, snuck Nicolas another five hundred “just in case.” In case of what? Getting trapped in this world and needing to purchase a small dwelling? Then, on the drive to the hotel, I saw giant signs advertising what looked like apartment flats for the bargain price of a quarter million pounds. Now I am half-afraid to set foot in a bookshop for fear I’ll faint when I see the prices. On the other hand, as an authoress—author, Bronwyn would correct—I do hope book prices have kept apace.

“I believe we can safely descend into the maelstrom,” Nicolas says. “Perhaps, if we work up the courage, we might even slip into a shop for a bite to eat, as it does appear to be nearing teatime.”

I am about to answer when a knock comes at the door. We both pivot to stare at it. Or, at least, to stare in the direction of it. The room is big enough to hold a family of six . . . and Bronwyn warned that it was quite small by her North American standards. It has its own water closet, with running water, a tub and a booth for showering. It also has a front hall, where the door is located.

The knock comes again.

“Hello?” I call, chastising myself for the tremor in my voice. That is not the voice of Miranda Hastings. But in this unfamiliar place, I feel as I did when I first stepped onto the shores of Martinique, uncertain and more than a little unsettled.

“Ms. Hastings?” a woman’s voice calls back. “It’s your concierge service.”

The word concierge sounds French, and while Nicolas is teaching me his mother tongue, I do not yet know this term. He whispers, “It means the caretaker of the hotel.”

He raises his voice. “We are quite fine, thank you.”