Mrs. Brightford shook her head again.

“If he comes back, tell him I need to speak with him,” Polly said, and ran down to the dressing room. She’d change and then, if he still wasn’t back, see if anyone knew where he’d gone and go look for him.

And when and if she found him, what could she say? I’m a time traveler? I was trapped here, but now my retrieval team’s come, and I must go home? I don’t have a choice—I’ll die if I stay?

Perhaps it would be just as well if she couldn’t find him. She stepped out of her leggings and pulled on her stockings, but in her haste she snagged one of them and it ran.

It doesn’t matter, she thought, yanking her doublet off and putting on her frock. I never need to worry about runs again, or ration books, or bombs.

She buttoned her frock. “I won’t ever have to wrap another parcel,” she said, and found herself suddenly, inexplicably, in tears.

Which is ridiculous, she thought. You hate wrapping parcels. And this is a happy ending, exactly like in Trot’s fairy tales.

She pulled on her shoes, caught up her coat and hat, and went out, putting them on as she went, and then hesitated. In another six months, Mrs. Brightford or Viv would be desperate for those stockings, even with a ladder in them. She went back into the dressing room, took off her shoes, stripped off the stockings, and draped them over the makeup mirror. Then she grabbed up her bag and opened the door.

Sir Godfrey was standing there in his Hitler uniform and mustache. He took in Polly’s clothes, her coat. “There’s no need for that, the carpenter’s on his way,” he told her, and then stopped.

“You’re leaving us,” he said, and it wasn’t a question. “It’s your young man. He’s come.”

“Yes. I thought he couldn’t, that he—”

“—was dead,” Sir Godfrey said. “But he’s arrived, ‘despite all obstacles, true love triumphant.’ ”

“Yes,” she said, “but I—”

He shook his head to silence her. “The times were out of joint,” he said. “It would not have been suitable, Lady Mary.”

“No,” she said, wishing she could tell him why it wouldn’t have been, that she could tell him who she really was.

Like Viola, she thought. Sir Godfrey had named her well. She couldn’t tell him why she’d been here or why she had to leave, couldn’t tell him how he’d saved her life as much as she’d saved his, couldn’t tell him how much he meant to her.

She had to let him think she was abandoning him for a wartime romance. “I’d stay till after the pantomime if I could—” she began.

“And spoil the ending? Don’t be a fool. Half of acting is knowing when to make one’s exit. And no tears,” he said sternly. “This is a comedy, not a tragedy.”

She nodded, wiping at her cheeks.

“Good,” he said, and smiled at her. “Fair Viola—”