I reach inside and pull out pouches, the supplies removed from their modern packaging in case the housekeeper accidentally removes that blanket.
“Chocolate morsels,” I whisper. “Vanilla extract. Peanut butter!”
August puts his arms around my back. “Have I mentioned how much I love it when you squeal over baking ingredients?”
I twist in his arms and hold up the jar. “I am going to bake you peanut-butter cookies with chocolate chips.”
“Mmm, make that little noise again. The sigh when you first opened that box.”
I do, and he presses against me.
“Edmund seems very preoccupied upstairs,” August says. “And I believe, in our rush to vacate the estate, we missed our morning attempt to provide him with a younger sibling.”
“We have fallen off the schedule. Completely unacceptable.”
“I thought so.”
August nuzzles my neck, and he’s just begun working his way down my throat when a cat meows, loudly, in the doorway. We glance over to see two young cats watching us.
“Truly?” August says, “Both of you?”
Both are calicos. Sisters. Edmund brought Surrey with us, and Enigma is Bronwyn’s cat. Their mother, Pandora, seems to be in hiding.
“They must be hungry,” I say as I back out of August’s embrace. “In the commotion of arriving, I didn’t set out a bowl for Surrey, and it’s her dinner hour.” I kiss his cheek. “Can I get a rain check?”
“Someday, you need to tell me what that actually means.”
“It’s so much more fun watching you try to figure it out. We will definitely get back on schedule tonight, which means you’ll need a hearty dinner to build up energy.”
“Oh, I do not need energy. I plan to just lie there.”
“I don’t believe I could get you to ‘just lie there’ without ropes, August.” I tilt my head. “Although, that does sound intriguing . . .”
He grins. “Very intriguing.”
“We must feed the cats and then round up our son to go tree-cutting before it’s too dark. If you decide to check the barn later, for soft ropes, I will not argue.”
After we fill the cat bowls, I lead August toward the stairs. “Edmund did only take one box of decorations, yes?”
“He took one box from me.” August pauses. “Dare I guess he also took one from you?”
I sigh. “I do not even want to know what the nursery looks like. We may need to undo some of it. I mentioned that he ought not to use any small baubles that Amelia might put into her mouth, and he informed me she is nearly two and no longer a baby . . . and the baby will be too little to grab anything that isn’t handed to her.”
“Our son is far too clever.”
“I reminded him that Amelia, being not yet two, might helpfully hand her baby sister a bauble.”
“Our son’s mother is even more clever.”
I shake my head as I ascend the stairs. “Not clever enough to stop him from absconding with two full boxes of decorations.”
I reach the top, turn into the hall and freeze. The door into the stitch is open. Wide open.
2
“August?” I say, reaching for him, my hand groping wildly as my heart hammers.
“The office door was closed,” I say. “And locked, yes? I checked it.”
“As did I,” he says, striding past me. “It was definitely closed and locked.”
I barrel down the hall. My slippered feet slide on the hardwood, and I scramble into the room, the door banging as it slams against the wall.
I halt in the middle of the room, barely able to draw breath. It looks like a very ordinary office. A pretty one, in fact, cozy and well appointed with two desks and a chaise longue near the window.
Such a lovely little office for two, and yet even looking at it makes me want to heave my lunch onto the floor. There, in the middle of the room, is the stitch in time. It’s here that I came four years ago, following the yowls of a kitten trapped in a box. I opened the box and found the kitten that became Pandora. In doing so, I tumbled through the stitch to where she’d stumbled into it: Bronwyn’s childhood bedroom in the twenty-first century.
I have steered clear of this room, and the Thornes lock it when I am here, understanding that even seeing the closed door makes my heart race.
Do I ever consider crossing back to show August the wonders of the twenty-first century? Of course I do. But I cannot do it for fear—absolute terror—that I would cross over and he would not and I’d be trapped again, this time forever.
We don’t understand how the stitch works. At first, only Bronwyn could cross, and cross freely. Then she’d been temporarily stuck on her side, William on his, until something happened, and he could cross as freely as she. I crossed once and could not return for four years. I was able to return after the way opened for William. Does that mean I can come and go, as they do? I will not test it. I dare not.
“The door was locked,” I whisper. “I know it was locked.”
August comes up behind me and puts his arms around my waist. “Well, then, there is only one solution to this mystery. William has returned.”
“What?” I spin, my numb brain struggling to process his words. Then my eyes widen. “Yes, of course.”
I press my hands to my chest as I turn in August’s arms and give a soft laugh. “I think my heart stopped there. Yes, clearly, if the door was locked and is no longer locked, it is because Lord Thorne came home to fetch something. It isn’t as if our five-year-old son can pick locks.”
August kisses my forehead and eases me out of the office, shutting the door behind us.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I overreacted.”
“No,” he says. “You reacted exactly as one might expect, given the trauma you endured and the fact that you have not yet allowed yourself to fully come to terms with it.”
“Fully come to terms with it?” I roll my eyes. “You and Bronwyn have been talking about me, haven’t you? That is clearly twenty-first-century therapy language.”
“Well, then perhaps what you need is twenty-first-century therapy . . . in the nineteenth century.”
I slip from his grasp and grimace. “I’m fine, August. It was traumatic—while I was there and couldn’t get home. But I’m home, and things are even better than before. What more could I want?”
He doesn’t answer. Just studies my expression.
My husband presents as a simple man—the carefree, devilishly handsome youngest son of an earl, endlessly witty and charming. Yet if we must speak of trauma, he has more than his share. It makes him complicated, and I adore him for that, as I adore being one of the few people who sees how great a treasure he is. Yet there are times, such as this, when I wish my husband was a little more of the image he presents. When I wish he was a little less thoughtful, a little less introspective, a little less attuned to the emotions of others.
I want to be fine. I am fine. I just need him to stop wishing I’d admit to something I don’t—well, barely—feel.
I put my arms around his neck. “How are we doing, August?”
His face breaks into a grin, and I press my lips to his.