Her mouth felt dry. She didn’t know where to begin.

She understood her mother’s rage, certainly. None of their guests had stuck around the chapel for the several hours it had taken Charles to save Ash’s life. After, Charles had suggested that they postpone their nuptials considering the . . . well, “extenuating circumstances” were the words he’d used, and Dorothy hadn’t bothered asking him to elaborate. She’d known from day one that Avery had wanted a trophy on his arm, a pretty, quiet wife who would smile at the appropriate times and laugh at his colleagues’ jokes. Now that Dorothy was . . . different, she was of no interest to him.

Which suited her just fine. She had never wanted Charles. As long as he allowed her to stay next to Ash’s side while he recovered, she was perfectly happy.

Her mother, on the other hand . . .

“How did this happen?” Loretta asked her now, her voice low and filled with fury. Her eyes flicked to Ash, still lying motionless on the bed, his skin still pale but remarkably less green than it had been. Loretta’s lips twisted in disgust. “Who is this boy? Where did you find him?”

Dorothy opened her mouth and then closed it again. Heat burned up her cheeks. She could see no way out of it. Her mother deserved an explanation for all that had happened and yet this explanation was so strange, so farfetched . . .

Loretta blinked at her daughter. “Well?” she snapped. “I’m waiting.”

Here goes nothing, Dorothy thought.

“Mother,” she said slowly. “This boy is a pilot named Jonathan Asher. He’s a time traveler from the year 2077.”

There was a beat of silence once Dorothy had finished her story. The edge of Loretta’s lip twitched. For a moment, the two women just stared at one another, saying nothing.

And then, Loretta released a low, thin breath from between her lips. “What game are you running?” she asked.

“Game?” Dorothy blinked. “Mother, this isn’t a con.”

“Don’t be smart with me, girl, I know a con when I see one.” Loretta lifted her bad hand and made quite a show of cleaning a piece of lint out from beneath one of her long, yellow fingernails. “Tell me your angle. You want out of the engagement? Fine, there’s nothing I can do to repair that relationship anyway, but if you think for a second that you’re getting money—”

“Mother, look at me.” Dorothy motioned to the wreck of her face. “How could I have faked this? You saw me moments before I disappeared, but this scar is long healed.”

Loretta looked up, her eyes settling on Dorothy’s face. Until now, she’d only cast her daughter passing glances, as though it physically pained her to look any closer, but now her eyes narrowed, studying her.