That is not the housekeeper.

A man sits at the kitchen table, a cup at his elbow as he writes. His curly dark hair is cut very short. His sleeves are rolled up to show lean-muscled dark-skinned forearms, and he has a perfectly sculpted jawline. I am very fond of jawlines, being fonder only of eyes, and from what I can see, his are the richest brown.

Something about his countenance seems familiar. As I am thinking, I glimpse his footwear: a remarkable pair of boots, with gleaming copper buckles.

Those boots . . .

Where have I seen—

The man shoves back the stool with a squeak. He stands, showing himself to be tall and well built, but my gaze falls to what looks like a sword hanging at his side.

I give my head a shake. That must be some modern implement. Even in my day, one hardly sees swords outside of a gymnasium, as I well know, having been training in the art for several years, lessons which I consider important for my writing . . . and great fun.

I lift my head just as the man reaches for something on the table. It’s a bone-handled knife, tip wedged into the cutting-block tabletop. He grabs the knife and flips it, nimble and confident. One last twirl, and then he drops it into a sheath at his side.

Is this a guest of the Thornes, invited to use the house in their absence? Would they dare such a thing in a house with a time portal, where a guest might walk into another century while simply looking for more blankets?

That’s when I remember the open kitchen door. Is it still broken in the future? Could this be an intruder? He does not look like a thief. Also, I rather doubt a thief would write at the table before absconding with the silver.

I consider the matter. Then I take my pocketknife from my boot and slide it where it belongs—in a pocket. I design all my own clothing so that I might have pockets, and I have even converted my sister Portia to the wonders of pocketed skirts, though she insists on using hers for so-called practical items, such as pocket watches and pocket money. What is a pocketknife if not practical? Sometimes I despair of ever understanding my older sisters.

The man has moved to a spot I cannot see. There’s a clattering of dishes that covers the sound of my journey from couch to doorway. Then a sigh and a struck match, as if he’s settling in with a pipe or cheroot.

All goes quiet as he presumably smokes, and I contemplate my options. If he is a guest, I should leave, but I am not yet ready to venture into the wider world of the future. I must borrow some of Bronwyn Thorne’s clothing first. Can I slip upstairs and—?

The cold tip of a knife digs into my neck.

“Do not move,” a voice growls behind me. “I have no wish to harm you but—”