I do dare trespass, entering the house through the kitchen door, which never closes properly. Halfway to the stairs, a movement makes me jump, but it is only a calico cat.

“Pandora?” I say, peering at it. “Or Enigma?”

The cat fixes me with a baleful look, and I smile. “Hello, Pandora.”

She ignores me as I head up to the locked room. I open the door easily and walk into what is clearly an office. When I glimpse an open notebook on the desk, I must steel against the temptation to read it. I have a purpose, and it is—for once—more exciting than reading.

I look about for this “time stitch,” but I see nothing.

My gaze turns to a stuffed bookcase, and I smile. What are books, if not doors into other worlds? That must be the source of this stitch. Open the right book, and I’ll step into the future.

Heading for the bookcase, I veer past an awkwardly placed chest and—

I smack into the foot of a bed . . . where there had not been a bed moments ago.

I take a deep breath. Then heart tripping, I pivot to take in the wonders of the future and . . .

Well, that’s disappointing.

Oh, I have passed through time. That is certain. I am standing in a bedroom instead of an office. And yet . . . is this truly the future? It looks like a bedroom in my own time. A rather dull guest chamber with a bed, a dresser, a night table and a wardrobe.

My gaze fixes on the wardrobe. Yes, the room may seem little different, but that is only because furniture may not change overmuch. Fashion is where I shall behold the first wonders of this new world.

I stride over, pull open the door and see . . .

Bed linens. The wardrobe is filled with very regular linens, ones that feel coarser than my own and are a nondescript beige color. I’m reaching to take out one when a clatter sounds from below, followed by an oath.

It is a male voice but definitely not William Thorne’s. In my time, the Thornes employ a very small staff for their social station, but they do have a housekeeper. Perhaps their twenty-first-century one is male. I should like to think such a thing is possible—the dream of a world where a housekeeper can be a man and I would not need to write adventure tales under a man’s name.

I close the wardrobe and tiptoe from the room. As I am leaving the time-stitch room, I note there is no lock on the door. That seems most odd. Would the Thornes not wish to lock the portal at both ends?

Another clatter from below pulls me from my thoughts. I continue to the stairs, which I descend with care, all the while tracking the noises, which seem to emanate from the kitchen. I crouch and slip into the parlor. Then I position myself behind the sofa and adjust until I am on an angle to see through the open kitchen door and—