By that time, of course, Rose had been born in that other world of the unimaginable twenty-first century, on the distant continent of America. She was a toddler back in Haverford, Pennsylvania. Rosemary had hired a nanny for little Rose because of her busy real estate business.

A “Realtor” was what Rosemary’s profession was called, one who sold homes. It was hard for Nicholas to imagine a vocation like this—a woman actually working not as a servant—but apparently the money was quite good. Of course, in that odd way in which time tangled for such travelers as Rosemary, when she was gone from him it might be weeks in her world when only a few minutes had elapsed in his. But then one time the minutes stretched to hours, and the hours to days, then months and years. Nicholas knew she was gone for good.

They had not planned on conceiving a child. But she had. They were both thrilled, of course, though there was no way that she would have dared bring a child into his world. However, she kept him apprised of all the major events. When little Rose began to crawl, then walk, make her first scribblings, she had documented it all with this strange device, the camera. She even brought him one of the first pictures Rose had drawn of a person. Just the head, of course, with a big wobbly smile and a scribble of hair on top. Rosemary had written “Mama” across the top. He had tucked it away in his safe with the other mementos—more pictures of Rose. Rose on her first day of school. Rose ice-skating. Rose on her bike. He’d never seen such a contraption as a bike before. Rose in something called her Brownie uniform, and then her Girl Scout one. Rose midplunge from a rope swing over a pond. He could almost hear her scream of delight. How odd things were in that distant twenty-first century. But Rosemary helped him imagine it. He also imagined that the reason that Rosemary had never returned was that she had met someone in her own time and fallen in love. Although she swore she never would. He only hoped he was a good man who would take care of and love his little Rose, the daughter he had never met.

The image of that gold rose locket suspended from the neck of Princess Elizabeth flared in his mind again. Rosemary certainly would have taken it with her when she left. She felt it had a power through which she could control her visits. Her comings and goings. He thought it was nonsense. He asked her how she had first come to his world, and the conversation came back to him now.