“It is much-deserved recognition,crécerelle,” he says.
Again, I can only nod. Then I read the note again.
This novel was written by Rosalind’s youngest sister, Miranda, under the pen name Randall Hastings. It is one of many novels Miranda wrote under that name and, later, her own, and she is recognized as one of Britain’s first female adventure novelists. The works were very popular in their time, and reprints can be found online. Ask your server for a list of Miranda Hastings’s works, which are available in ebook, print and audio editions.
“I do not even know what an ebook or audio editionis,” I say.
Nicolas chuckles. “Nor do I. I do know one thing, though,crécerelle. Even today, people can read your stories.”
I press the handkerchief against my eyes as his arm goes around my waist.
“One of the first female adventure novelists,” he says. “That is truly an accomplishment. And one day, you will be able to write as yourself. That will be something, will it not?”
I nod. I’m about to say more when Suravi stops short as she’s walking past us.
“You found...” Her eyes round. “Miranda Hastings. I didn’t make the connection. She’s your namesake. Have you heard of her?”
“We have,” Nicolas says when I can’t form words. “This display is truly a wonderful surprise.”
Suravi beams. “It was my summer project. I’d heard of Miranda Hastings, and when I came to work here, I wondered if there was a connection. I did some digging and found she was Rosalind’s sister. They must have been quite the family.”
Nicolas’s arm tightens around me. “They were.”
“I’m sorry the note is so brief. I did originally have a longer one, with more biographical details, but then a patron went looking for more herself, and the information she found contradicted what I had. When I looked it up and found something different again”—she throws up her hands—“I decided that, clearly, Miranda didn’t want us doxing her. Apparently, her ghost is peppering the internet with fake stories.”
I only understand about half of that, but I get the gist of it and have to smile. “She was a writer. She would wantallthe stories, even about herself.”
“What you have here is perfect,” Nicolas says. “It invokes an air of mystery for a woman who earned it.”
“True enough,” Suravi says. “That will be my new explanation, then. It’s intentionally vague to allow Ms. Hasting her cloak of mystery.”
A table of patrons summons Suravi, and she hurries off. I look down at the note again.
“Do you think that’s how it works, then?” I say. “The time travel? Because we are still writing our stories, the records keep changing?”
“As they should,” he says, kissing my forehead. “Our stories should not yet be written, regardless of what time we are in. Now, let us finish our tea and move to our next chapter.”
4
“Ido not think we require that,” Nicolas says once we are outside. He takes the directions to the bakery and wads them up.
When I don’t even squawk, he glances over, brow rising.
“I noted,” I say, “that while you have made a show of balling up those directions, you did not also toss them into that rubbish bin, which means you intend to attempt to navigate us back to the hotel without them, but you are not reckless enough to actually toss them away.”
He chuckles under his breath. “Perhaps. Or perhaps now that you have pointed that out, I shall feel obliged to return to that bin and discard the directions, lest I display an unmanly lack of confidence in my navigational abilities.”
“Lacking confidence in your ability to remember directions you followed only once, through a foreign city in a foreign time? You are mistaking a lack of confidence for a surfeit of common sense.”
“Mais non, I am not. Which is why I have retained the instructions. However, having perhaps a surfeit of confidence in my manly ability to navigate, I am going to send us this way.”
He loops his arm through mine and steers us across at the corner.
I hurry past the stopped traffic and then stop. “You are already off track, Nico. We did not cross any roads.”
“I know. That was, presumably, for our own safety. However, I would like to see a new street, and as I know the general direction we must travel, I believe we can manage a change of route.”
I glance back as the motor vehicles resume their course. “How did you know they would stop for us?”