Nicolas deftly changes the subject to the menu, asking whether I remember any of these pastries from the shop’s first incarnation. The menu has been obviously altered for a “Christmas tea,” and there are indeed a few items I recall Rosalind serving at the holidays, including little crescents filled with nuts, and sugary fried dough filled with jam. They had been part of our holiday celebrations growing up, and it is only now that Rosalind and I realize our grandmother had made them not for Christmas, but for Hanukkah. Nicolas and I are discussing that when the tea tray arrives, along with a note from “the gentleman who made the reservation.”
Once Suravi has left, I open the note and shake my head. “It seems we have not yet finished our treasure hunt. The next portion is this evening, and we are told to ‘dress warmly.’ At least they are giving us time to return to the hotel and ‘rest’.”
“That is very kind,” Nicolas says. “We do require a great deal of rest.”
I smile at him. “We do indeed.”
“Now, tell me what else belongs to Rosalind’s bakery,” he says, gesturing at the festive tray. “And we shall fortify ourselves for both our rest and this evening’s mystery adventure.”
3
As we eat, talk turns to our post-holiday plans. Nicolas would like to return to the twenty-first century and spend a few months absorbing the medical expertise available here. He is debating whether to study in England or France—possibly even the Americas, as we can more easily travel there in this time.
He hopes Bronwyn can help us choose a location, preferably near a medical university, where he may attend lectures and make use of their libraries. I will leave the choice to him. It is his education, after all, and I can pursue my career anywhere.
As for how we will fund such a sojourn, while we are both financially comfortable, that money will not take us far in the twenty-first century. The Thornes have offered to “sponsor” us, but there is a second solution, which we both prefer: find objects in our own times that are more valuable in this one and bring them through. Of course, we will need the Thornes’ help selling them, but that is preferable to accepting their kind offer of sponsorship.
We eat, and we sip our “bubbly,” and we drink far too much tea, and soon Nicolas has to excuse himself to use the water closet, which I presume is the destination of the arrowed sign discreetly marked “Toilet.”
When Nicolas returns, he reaches for my hand, his dark eyes dancing as he whispers, “Come, there is something you must see.”
“If it is in the water closet, I’d best not,” I say. “Unless you are suggesting we use it for another purpose.”
“I fear it is far too small for that.”
“Oh, I am certain we could make it work.”
His smile grows. “I am certain we could,crécerelle, but I believe this is something you will find even more enticing.”
“I hardly think that’s possible,” I say. “But lead away.”
He takes me toward the back hallway. Instead of turning down it, he tugs me to a glass display.
“Do you recognize this?” he says, gesturing to a book under the glass.
I move up to the case and lean as close as I dare. Beneath the glass there is an open book, one yellowed with age. A skim of the text has me gasping.
It is... Well, it is the book I am currently writing, which is disorienting indeed. I’m looking at words I wrote a month ago, on the beach in Martinique while Nicolas spent time with his family. Yet these are not my exact words, which means they are the ones I will have when I edit the book... months from now.
I’m looking at the finished version of a book I’ve not yet finished writing.
The floor seems to tip under my feet, but a thrill also ignites deep in my chest.
This is the book I am writing. Iwillfinish it. Iwillpublish it. Over a hundred and fifty years later, a copy of it will sit under a glass case in my sister’s former bakery.
Wait.
Why is there a copy of my book in Rosalind’s bakery? I write under a pseudonym. Randall Hastings has no known connection to Rosalind Courtenay.
As if anticipating my question, Nicolas’s forefinger hovers over the glass beside my book. Under it is a printed note, like the ones that adorn Rosalind’s objects on the shelves.
I read that note, and I have to reach for Nicolas’s hand to steady myself as tears well again.
“I hope those are tears of happiness,” he murmurs against my ear.
I nod, and he hands me a handkerchief. That makes me laugh. Of all the items one could bring to this world, that would not have been my choice, but Nicolas is wonderfully practical.
I press the silk to my eyes to stop the tears.