It took only a few minutes of note reading, however, to realize that she had no context to make sense of all these scrawled words. They certainly had nothing to do with the story. Well, the little sketch of a pirate vessel, fully rigged, could have been, she supposed. And the treasure chest. But the words made no sense at all in that context.

Some of them seemed to be almost a laundry list, though she had no idea what sort of laundry it might refer to. The items were just odd abbreviations—like cnm and svw—with tally marks beside them.

She flipped to another page, her gaze traveling over what was, at least, full words. A poem, it seemed.

What a lovely Tuesday afternoon

But it’s Wednesday, sir, I fear

No matter, that, for the sky is blue

And the waters crystal clear

How funny, given that it was Wednesday today. Smiling a bit over that, she turned another page. And frowned. Once upon a time, there was a princess. She lived on an island of rocks and bones, with no one to keep her company aside from the fairies.

Why in the world would the Other Elizabeth write a fairy tale in the margins of another book? A fairy tale that seemed to stretch on for quite a ways at that. She flipped several more pages, and all the handwritten words on them seemed to be part of the same story.

“I beg your pardon. Elizabeth?”

Libby started at the voice, smacking the book shut and turning on her rock. She didn’t know the voice. Or at least she didn’t think she knew the voice. She couldn’t. Anyone who knew her would call her Lady Elizabeth. Still, she turned before that thought could process, curiosity eclipsing the surprise.

A man probably in his thirties stood a few feet away. He looked windblown, cheerful, and utterly normal in his holiday clothes—shirt with sleeves rolled up, grey trousers, no waistcoat or jacket. Middling brown hair, brown eyes, average height. The only thing remarkable about him was his nose—prominent and a bit turned up at its tip. Well, that and the satchel pulling down his shoulder. He was entirely unfamiliar.

He didn’t seem put off by her lack of greeting though. Merely smiled and said, “What a lovely Tuesday afternoon.”

What? Did he just say . . . ? Before she could think better of it, she heard herself reciting the next line of the poem. “But it’s Wednesday, sir, I fear.”