1
Ihave always found Christmas to be the most frustrating of holidays, with its overflowing cornucopia of festive delights and impossible choices. Do I arrive at the yuletide ball in a one-horse open sleigh or walk along a moonlit path, snow crunching under my boots? Or do I forgo the ball and join a caroling party with my sister and her family, traveling incognito through the village and passing out baskets brimming with treats? Or do I go dancing and caroling another night and spend this one at home, snuggled in front of the roaring fire with a book and a cup of mulled wine?
This holiday season, I am facing what may be the most impossible choice yet. Do I stand at the hotel window, staring out at the wonders of the twenty-first century... or do I stare at the bed where my lover is stretched naked, engrossed in a book? Both are marvels to behold and present an infuriating quandary.
At last, I find a spot where I might greedily devour both—gazing out the window at this strange and beautiful world while watching Nicolas’s reflection ashegreedily devours a book of twenty-first-century medicine. I suppose I could feel a pang of jealousy at the way he is so engrossed in that book when I stand here wearing nothing but a silken robe, but we have already made very good use of the bed, and it will be at least another half an hour before either of us is ready to continue that part of our holiday.
It is a much-deserved break. A “vacation,” as Bronwyn calls it. Being from this world, she arranged it for us, right down to seeing us onto the train in York and ensuring a driver met us in London. It is Nicolas’s and my first time in the twenty-first century. Not our first time passing through the stitch, though. I went through months ago, expecting to jump from my Victorian world to this one and instead ending up in Nicolas’s—in 1790.
We have spent the intervening months on the move. Twice we let the stitch send us where it may—to another time, another person in need. We also returned to 1790 to visit Nicolas’s family in Martinique. That wasnota short journey. I only wish we weren’t limited to the stitch in Thorne Manor so that we might come to this world, fly where we need to be andthenstep back in time. Getting to Martinique was a month’s journey each way, and that was on the fastest boat we could find. So Nicolas and I have not truly rested since we met. That is the purpose of this trip.
It is also about me donating the Roman gladius Nicolas gifted me shortly after we met. While the short sword is a common soldier’s weapon, it is in incredible condition, as if it had been buried before he bought it—quite inexpensively after the seller realized wealthy nobles had no interest in an “old” short sword. Having now been transported from the eighteenth century, the condition is even more incredible, and as much as I long to keep it, I understand the historical value and have agreed to the donation in a world where they will appreciate it.
There is a third purpose for this trip: finally visiting the twenty-first century. Now that I am here, it is nothing short of terrifying. I am rather tempted to stay in this hotel room and only gaze out the window.
“It is overwhelming,non?” Nicolas says as he comes up behind me, his hands going around my waist. “Or is that purely my own impression?”
“Purely yours. My word for it isterrifying.”
He kisses the side of my neck. “I believe yours may be more accurate,crécerelle.”
His chin rests on my shoulder as he gazes down at the street an impossible distance below, crammed with cars and omnibuses, the honking reaching us even up here.
“I already respected Rosalind immensely,” he says, “but seeing this, my awe for her has grown. I cannot imagine what it was like for your sister, trapped in this world.”
“Nor can I,” I say, tears prickling my eyes.
His arms tighten around me. “But she survived the ordeal, and she now returns to this world despite it. That makes her the second most remarkable Hastings sister I know.”
I nod. “Yes, Portia is quite remarkable.”
He chuckles under his breath. “You know that I meant you, but I should not set Portia in last place, even if it is a very difficult competition. While I do not know her as well as I do Rosalind, I hope to rectify that at Christmas, if I might lure Portia into conversation. She has been very quiet with me, and I am endeavoring not to take that personally.”
“Do not. Portia has been rather reserved for even me these last couple of years. She—” I wave a hand. “I will not burden you with my family troubles.”
“It is no burden if I hope to someday be part of that family myself. Perhaps a marriage license would help. Might I sneak that into your Christmas stocking?”
He says it lightly, but I know he is not entirely joking. I twist in his arms and kiss his cheek. “You may consider it for my Easter basket. As for Portia, take that medical book with you, and you shall not be able to get rid of her.”
That makes him smile. I have two sisters. Rosalind is the oldest, married with a son and a newborn daughter. Portia is next, and like Nicolas, she is trained as a doctor, though also without the formal schooling. In her case, she has been unable to obtain that formal schooling because of her sex. In his, he was supposed to obtain it in France, but the revolution put an end to that, and in my own time, as a Black man, he would find it as difficult a goal as Portia does. Still, both are—for all intents and purposes—as qualified as any medical professional, through apprenticeships, practice and study.
“Then I know what I will buy her,” he says. He looks down at the road below. “Yet we would need to locate a bookshop.”
“Which might be the one thing to tempt me out of this room.”
“We will contact Bronwyn with the device she provided.”
He means the “cell phone,” as she calls it. Rosalind says it’s a “mobile phone” here in England. As if things were not complicated enough...
The phone sits on the desk. It is a wonder among wonders, and I find myself both spellbound and daunted. Apparently, it does many things—things that make my head ache thinking about them—but for us, it is intended as a way of instantly communicating with Bronwyn or her husband, William, who are in the twenty-first century, preparing for the holidays.
I have only called Bronwyn once, to test it. I also might have been unable to resist randomly hitting numbers until someone answered... someone who spoke a language neither Nicolas nor I recognized, and we realized we might have been speaking to someone halfway around the world. My head also hurts thinking aboutthat.
“Perhaps we could walk around the block looking for a bookstore,” I say, as carefully as I might suggest swimming the Thames in my day. “If we stay on this side of the road and do not cross through traffic.” I squint down at what looks like water bugs zooming about at dizzying speeds. “And if we hold hands very tightly and do not let go.”
Nicolas smiles. “I shall hold your hand as tightly as you hold mine, and together we shall conquer the beast.”
We have been into the future before. Our second adventure took us to the 1950s, but only as far as the village near Thorne Manor. While we’d seen marvels, they’d been viewed from a distance, as we had no need to step into a motor vehicle. Since we’ve arrived in this world, we’ve been in Bronwyn’s vehicle, a train and a sleek black car with a liveried driver, all moving so fast that I lose my breath remembering it.