“I did.”
“Good.”
“I believe I am missing some context for this conversation,” Nicolas says. “May I presume this is your nephew, Edmund?”
“Yes. Edmund, this is—”
The door flies open, Rosalind racing in. Lady Thorne—Bronwyn—hurries after her. They both stop on seeing us. Rosalind’s hand goes to Edmund’s shoulder, pulling him back from the man with a sword, and Nicolas quickly sheathes his weapon.
Rosalind seems about to speak. Then she stares at Nicolas, taking in the whole of him before looking at me and murmuring under her voice. “Your pirate ghost, Miranda?”
Nicolas hears and smiles. “Not a ghost, or so I am told, though I am concerned that I keep being confused for one. It is rather troubling.”
“Because you died,” Edmund says. “We have seen you, Aunt Miranda and me. On Hood’s Lane. Mama was afraid I would see you die, but I only saw you walking, and then the two men came out to kill you.”
“I... see.” He turns to me. “Perhaps a fuller explanation is in order?”
“This is the nineteenth century,” I say.
He blinks and looks around.
“You didn’t get to that part yet, huh?” Bronwyn says.
“We were being pursued, and I ran through the stitch with Nicolas.”
“And youbothcame through?” Bronwyn says. “From thepast? Okay, that isdefinitelynot how it works for the rest of us.”
“You are... American?” Nicolas asks. “Your accent seems to be.”
“She is Canadian,” I say. “And it is not simply the accent. She is from the twenty-first century, so her language is different, which I have not heard myself, as they have been pretending she is from my time—the nineteenth century.”
“I see.” Nicolas shakes his head. “No, that is a lie. I do not see at all.”
“Because my sister is not explaining this properly,” Rosalind says. “I am Rosalind Courtenay, Miranda’s eldest sister. This is Bronwyn Dale Thorne, wife to William Thorne. Miranda has brought you through what we call the time stitch and arrived into the nineteenth century.”
She points at the spot. “It is there, by the chest, so be careful not to stumble into it.”
“I have stepped through time,” Nicolas says slowly.
“Yes,” everyone says in unison.
“Ten years into the future.”
“More like fifty,” I say.
“This is the home of Lord William Thorne, but not the Lord William Thorne I know.”
Bronwyn sighs. “They do like their Williams. I’m guessing yours would be my husband’s grandfather. Or even father, depending on his age. Yes, the current Lord Thorne is also a William. He is not at home. We were in London with Rosalind when Portia—Miranda’s other sister—sounded the alarm.”
“I thought Portia was in Oxford for a medical lecture?” I say.
“There was some issue, and she returned home to find you gone. Rosalind feared you had learned of the stitch and used it.”
“To help you,” Edmund says to Nicolas, having been following the conversation in silence.
“Er, no,” I say. “I would love to claim that was my goal, but as far as I knew, the stitch only worked between our time and Bronwyn’s.”
“As far asanyof us knew,” Bronwyn says.