1
Imagine that a locked door stands between you and the greatest adventure imaginable. It is not the sort of lock one might find on a safe containing such treasure but a mere interior door lock, easily opened with a hairpin.
What lies on the other side? A passage from the nineteenth century to the twenty-first.
Is any lock supposed to keep me fromthat?
The “time stitch”—as I have heard my eldest sister, Rosalind, call it—is located in Thorne Manor, home to William and Bronwyn Thorne, friends of Rosalind and her husband. From what I understand, Bronwyn is from the twenty-first century, where my sister was trapped for four years, having only returned to us last year. All this, of course, I learned only from listening to conversations I was not supposed to hear, as I endeavored to discover the secret of that locked door.
When I first figured out what lay behind it, it took all my willpower not to run to the house, burst in on the Thornes and dash through the passage right in front of them. I impatiently bided my time until they were in London, with Thorne Manor left empty. Then I set off.
I reach my destination around midday. Thorne Manor sits atop a hill overlooking the Yorkshire moors. Or, I should say, it perches there, a massive stone block of a house looking down on the village of High Thornesbury. Such a stern and forbidding abode should look as if it is watching the town with a judgmental eye, but the dark rectangles of windows seem more to watch over it, glaring into the moors at any who dare trespass.
I do dare trespass, entering the house through the kitchen door, which never closes properly. Halfway to the stairs, a movement makes me jump, but it is only a calico cat.
“Pandora?” I say, peering at it. “Or Enigma?”
The cat fixes me with a baleful look, and I smile. “Hello, Pandora.”
She ignores me as I head up to the locked room. I open the door easily and walk into what is clearly an office. When I glimpse an open notebook on the desk, I must steel against the temptation to read it. I have a purpose, and it is—for once—more exciting than reading.
I look about for this “time stitch,” but I see nothing.
My gaze turns to a stuffed bookcase, and I smile. What are books, if not doors into other worlds? That must be the source of this stitch. Open the right book, and I’ll step into the future.
Heading for the bookcase, I veer past an awkwardly placed chest and—
I smack into the foot of a bed... where there had not been a bed moments ago.
I take a deep breath. Then heart tripping, I pivot to take in the wonders of the future and...
Well, that’s disappointing.
Oh, I have passed through time. That is certain. I am standing in a bedroom instead of an office. And yet... is this truly the future? It looks like a bedroom in my own time. A rather dull guest chamber with a bed, a dresser, a night table and a wardrobe.
My gaze fixes on the wardrobe. Yes, the room may seem little different, but that is only because furniture may not change overmuch. Fashion is where I shall behold the first wonders of this new world.
I stride over, pull open the door and see...
Bed linens. The wardrobe is filled with very regular linens, ones that feel coarser than my own and are a nondescript beige color. I’m reaching to take out one when a clatter sounds from below, followed by an oath.
It is a male voice but definitely not William Thorne’s. In my time, the Thornes employ a very small staff for their social station, but they do have a housekeeper. Perhaps their twenty-first-century one is male. I should like to think such a thing is possible—the dream of a world where a housekeeper can be a man and I would not need to write adventure tales under a man’s name.
I close the wardrobe and tiptoe from the room. As I am leaving the time-stitch room, I note there is no lock on the door. That seems most odd. Would the Thornes not wish to lock the portal at both ends?
Another clatter from below pulls me from my thoughts. I continue to the stairs, which I descend with care, all the while tracking the noises, which seem to emanate from the kitchen. I crouch and slip into the parlor. Then I position myself behind the sofa and adjust until I am on an angle to see through the open kitchen door and—
That is not the housekeeper.
A man sits at the kitchen table, a cup at his elbow as he writes. His curly dark hair is cut very short. His sleeves are rolled up to show lean-muscled dark-skinned forearms, and he has a perfectly sculpted jawline. I am very fond of jawlines, being fonder only of eyes, and from what I can see, his are the richest brown.
Something about his countenance seems familiar. As I am thinking, I glimpse his footwear: a remarkable pair of boots, with gleaming copper buckles.
Those boots...
Where have I seen—
The man shoves back the stool with a squeak. He stands, showing himself to be tall and well built, but my gaze falls to what looks like a sword hanging at his side.