“You’re awake,” the woman said, one eyebrow lifting. She had a strange air about her, this woman. It bothered him for reasons he couldn’t quite put his finger on. She seemed . . .

Tricky. He would have to tread lightly.

“I am,” Ash managed to choke out, his voice thin. Very slowly, he eased himself into a sitting position, propping himself back against some pillows. Clearing his throat, he added, “Is that . . . surprising?”

The woman tilted her head, considering his question. “It seemed unlikely, for a while, that you would wake at all. If I were a betting woman, I would have put my money on a slow and painful death. It seems I was wrong.”

She said all of this as though she were commenting on the weather and not Ash’s mortality. Ash swallowed.

“Lucky for me, I suppose,” he choked out.

The woman lifted an eyebrow, as though to say, is it? But, out loud, all she said was, “I’m not often wrong.”

Yeah, Ash thought. I could have figured that out for myself.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“Seattle,” the woman told him, voice crisp. She lifted a hand, examining her cuticles for a moment before adding, “Although, if my daughter is telling me the truth, you’d probably rather know the date than the city, is that correct?”

“Daughter?” Ash said. All at once, everything made sense. “You’re Dorothy’s mother?”

That, at least, explained why she was so terrifying. Dorothy had implied that her mother was . . . intense.

“I am.” The woman blinked, slowly. “And you are Jonathan Asher. The pilot she brought back from the future.”

She said this with a tightness to her voice, making it clear what she thought about the idea of bringing someone back from the future. But Ash noticed that there was a glint to her eye. She was testing him.

“She told you about that?” he asked.

“She told me a farfetched little story, yes.” Again, that glint. She was trying to decide whether she bought it. “In any case, she would have me believe that you don’t care a whit where we are. You’re more interested in when.”

“That would be nice to know ma’am.”

The woman nodded. She folded her hands in her lap and sat back in her seat. “The date is June 10, 1913. My daughter was supposed to be married last week.”

“Right,” Ash murmured, feeling guilty for reasons he couldn’t quite explain. “She told me about that.”

“Did she?” The woman sniffed. “We can discuss your role in that whole affair in a moment. For now, I was hoping you could tell me what it is you’re after, exactly. Money?” She flashed a smile that was utterly devoid of warmth. “Because I don’t have any. Every penny we had came from my daughter’s former fiancé, Charles. For reasons that should be obvious, he’s not exactly keen to fund our lifestyle any longer.”