“Well and happy,” he says. “Wherever we go, we will always come back to those we love.”
He adjusts a satchel over his arm, and I catch a glimpse of a book in it. When I pluck it out, he grabs it back.
“That’s mine,” I say.
“No, I believe it is Lady Thorne’s. Well, no, first it was August’s and then Rosalind’s, and after they read it, the Thornes did.” He gives a mock frown. “They seem to think they know the authoress.”
I groan. “The Thornes have read it, too?”
“Everyone has. It seems it is quite a popular novel, this tale of a young pirate woman and her adventures with swords ofbothvarieties.” He tucks the book back into his satchel. “I cannot wait to finish reading it. I am told there is another volume in the making.”
He glances at me. “There is another in the making, is there not?”
“That depends on whether the authoress is too busy having her own adventures to write them for others.”
“Oh, I do not think she shall ever be that busy. In fact, I shall make certain she is not.”
He readjusts the strap and takes my hands. Then we turn to the stitch.
“Ready?” he says.
We look at each other and grin. Then we run, hand in hand, and at the last second, we jump, leaping into the stitch, to whatever awaits on the other side.