“Unnecessarily ostentatious?” I stop myself with the reminder that I am not in my world, where my dress is quite fashionable. That’s also when I get my first good look at what he’s wearing. I see him, head to toe, and my stomach clenches with recognition.

I do know him.

Dear Lord, I know where I have seen this man before.

As a ghost.

2

I have seen the ghost of this man walking along a road to his death.

Not his actual ghost, I remind myself. While I do see phantoms, his is what I call a death echo. I bear witness to the circumstances of his death, his spirit having long fled.

I have not stepped into the future.

I’ve fallen into the past.

A past where a man that I’ve watched die a dozen times is still alive.

“You are a pirate,” I whisper.

The man blanches at the word.

“I am a privateer,” he says, his face hardening. “Your English navy kidnapped me and pressed me into their service. But please, do call me a pirate. It puts me in such an excellent mood.”

His words barely register. I can’t stop seeing his ghost. Seeing his death.

“Wh-what year is it?” I manage to croak.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The year. It’s seventeen . . . ?”

“Ninety,” he says slowly. “The year is seventeen ninety.”

That explains why so little has changed. The small differences I’m seeing arise from the past, which would not have been so terribly different in a house occupied by the same family.

I look around. This wouldn’t be the home of the William Thorne I know. It would be his grandfather’s.

“You said you are friends with Lord Thorne?” I say.

“Oui.” The man’s voice is clipped with impatience now. “I am friends with Lord Thorne. He allows me to use his house when I need to take refuge.”

“Which you do now,” I say slowly, “because there is a warrant for your arrest.”

His eyes snap. “A false warrant. I have done nothing—” He stops and clears his throat. “I will not lie and say I have done nothing to deserve it, but what I have done is not to further my own gain. If the law considers me a criminal, then a criminal I shall be, for the benefit of others.”

“Robin Hood.”

“I prefer Nicolas Dupuis,” he says dryly, “if we are making introductions.”

Robin Hood of the Bay. That is the legend—or what little of it I have been able to uncover, the facts lost to time. There is a town on the coast known as Hood’s Bay. While it’s been called that for centuries, the town is also connected to a young pirate—privateer—who temporarily made it his home.

In the eighteenth century, the bay was renowned for smuggling, and a young privateer embraced that while helping those who suffered under the rule of corrupt local gentry. That privateer was killed on a road now named after him—or his nickname: Hood’s Lane, where history says he was betrayed and murdered by his allies. I know better. I’ve seen him die. He might have been betrayed by an ally, but his killers were members of the Royal Navy.