“I do not dabble,” I say, channeling Portia as I lift my chin. “I have a gift.”

“I am certain you do, and I do not mean to tease you. You are quite correct that I have a meeting.” He removes a pocket watch and checks it. “A meeting that I must rudely hurry off to attend.”

He strides into the kitchen and takes his jacket. As he pulls it on, he picks up a rucksack from across the room. I see that rucksack, bulging with goods, and there is no doubt who he is truly going to meet: Death.

“Now, if you will return my sword?” he says as he returns to the living room, hand out.

I dance backward, and he sighs.

“You are a very fetching girl, and as much as I appreciated the diversion, I have business to attend.”

“No,” I blurt. “You cannot. You—you’re going to die.”

I flap my free hand, very aware that I look like a duckling attempting to take flight. For someone who makes her living from words, it is vexing how easily they abandon me, along with every ounce of poise I possess, leaving me squawking and flailing.

“Not someday,” I say, quickly. “Today. You are going to die today, Mr. Dupuis.”

Emotions flash over his face. Unfortunately, none of them remotely resemble fear. Confusion. Wariness. And something like disappointment, as if I am so much less than he first thought.

“I see,” he says.

“No, you don’t. Please. Allow me to speak.”

“Have I attempted to stop you yet, Miranda?” There’s reproach in his voice, however gentle.

“You haven’t, but I need you to listen without dismissing me as a child.”

He dips his chin. “All right. Go on.”

I walk over and return his sword, making him blink. It’s a gesture of good faith. I trust he will listen without me holding his weapon hostage. I trust we can behave as adults.

“You are going to meet someone,” I say. “You are taking them whatever is in that satchel. I don’t know the details. The history—the future doesn’t show me everything. I believe you are meeting a contact who will take those goods from you. Smuggled goods to be sold.”

I raise my hands against protest. “That is only a guess. Whoever it is, they arranged the meeting on a certain road. It’s not your usual route, but it’s quiet, and that makes sense, as you have a price on your head, so you didn’t question it. When you reach that road, though, you will be shot. Two men in naval jackets lie in wait. They intend to confront you, I think. Again, I only know what I see. A third man stays in the hedgerows. When you pass, he steps out behind you and shoots you in the back.”

I wait for the look of shock.

Instead, he says, “I see,” in the same tone, with that same look of wariness and an undercurrent of disappointment. I seemed an interesting young woman . . . and I have revealed myself to be nothing but a silly chit.