“We’ll do whatever you need to do, Rosie,” August murmurs.
“But, Papa—” Edmund begins.
“No.” August’s voice is gentler than my panicked snap, but it’s firm enough for Edmund’s small shoulders to slump.
“Yes, Papa.”
We continue up the stairs. I stride into the office and then stop, my heart suddenly in my throat.
“What if we can’t all get back?” I whisper. “What if one of us is stuck—?”
I don’t finish before August lifts me under his free arm and crosses those last steps to the stitch. One heart-stopping moment, and then we are through, and I’m scrambling against his hold until he puts me down, and I drag both of them away from the spot.
Then I can breathe.
I can finally breathe.
4
August sets Edmund on the desk chair and says, “Stay right there. Understand? You did a naughty thing, and it would be wise for you to remember that, should you feel the need to argue.”
There’s a lightness in August’s voice, rendering it mock sternness. Edmund knows that doesn’t mean his father isn’t serious, and he nods.
Then August turns to me and takes my hands in his. “We’re back, Rosie. We crossed over and returned.”
I can only nod as I recover my breath.
“So that is the twenty-first century,” August muses.
I hiccup a laugh. “A very brief glance of it. I know that must have been disappointing.” I look at Edmund. “For both of you.”
I expect—hope?—August will brush it off, saying he has no interest in seeing the modern world. I also know that would be a lie, so I am not surprised when he only murmurs, “Hmm.”
“I apologize,” I say. “I should have let you take a look around. It’s only . . .”
“You feared we might not be able to get back, and as lovely as the twenty-first century is, our home is in the nineteenth.”
I nod. Then I say, softly, “Still, I did overreact.”
“I understood.”
“We would have been fine in that world.” I wipe sweat from my forehead. “I overreacted.”
“No, Rosalind. I respect your response as it arises from the trauma you experienced.”
I glare at him. “Bronwyn bought you a book, didn’t she?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says. “But if she did, I can assure you she would not foist such a tome upon me without my clear request for it.”
I sigh and shake my head.
“May I make a suggestion?” August says. “One that has nothing to do with anything I may or may not have read.”
“Go ahead.”
“We crossed the stitch. Effortlessly. There and back. I believe, acknowledging my minimal knowledge of such things, that indicates we are free to cross back and forth, as the Thornes are.”
I open my mouth to protest.
He cuts in. “We do not know what allows people to cross or prevents them from doing so. Without that information, we can never be absolutely certain that passage is possible. Yet, once the way opened for the Thornes, it remained open, and they cross freely.”
I say nothing. He’s right. I simply do not wish to grant him the point because I suspect what is coming.
“Edmund?” August says. “Would you step out of the room, please?”
Edmund nods and leaves as August calls after him to close the door.
Once our son is gone, August lowers his voice. “I would like you to consider allowing us—the three of us—to cross over again.”
I stiffen so fast pain arcs through my bruised lower back. I wince, and August rubs my shoulders. I resist the urge to yank away. Resist the urge to snap and demand to know how he could ask such a thing of me.
Because it’s a reasonable request.
And if I’m angry at him for asking, that is unreasonable.
You reacted exactly as one might expect, given the trauma you endured.
I growl under my breath. August doesn’t comment. He keeps rubbing my shoulders as he waits with utmost patience.
“You want to see it,” I say. “Edmund wants to see it. I am denying you that.”
“No,” he says evenly. “I do not want to see it badly enough that I would ever do so without your freely given consent. Edmund is too young to understand that, but if he were older, he would say the same.”
“Still, you do want to see it.”
August sighs. “Of course I want to see it, Rosie. Someday. When you’re ready. If that is not now, then we’ll lock the door. We’ll leave the house entirely if it will make you feel better.” He shifts to face me. “But if it could be now, perhaps that is not such a bad thing. Perhaps it will help.”
I stiffen again.
He goes on. “I propose we cross over and let you take it at your pace. If that means merely allowing us to see a twenty-first-century home, that is enough. If we may also see the grounds . . . and perhaps that automated carriage William taunts me with . . .”
I sigh louder. “You want to see the car. That’s what all this is about, isn’t it?”
He grins. “Absolutely. Allow me to see that, and I will be happy. Allow me a ride in it—”
“No,” I say with a mock glower.
“All right, I will settle for seeing it in all its metallic glory. Then, perhaps, we could walk to the village. It will be decorated for the holidays. I wonder what that would be like, in such a world. With lights running on this magical electric current. I suppose it would be a wondrous thing for a man to see, just once in his life—”
“Stop,” I say as my glower deepens. “You are impossible.” I raise my voice. “Edmund? Come in here a moment, please?”
The door creaks open, and he peers through. His gaze slips to his father, and I cannot fault him for that, even if it does give me the briefest pang. For most of Edmund’s life, it has been only his father and he. I left when he was too young to remember me. I am eternally grateful for the bond between August and Edmund, and so, no, I cannot fault my son for still checking in with his father when he is uncertain. We need more time. I already have his love. I have his respect. Now I need to fully earn his trust.
“Edmund?” I say. “Can you explain what happened?”
His cheeks flush bright red.
“Edmund?” I say. “If I seem angry, I am only worried. You did a thing I very much did not want you to do. However, I never told you not to do it. So, while I think you know it was not allowed, you are not in trouble. I only need to understand what happened. That door was locked, was it not?”
He nods.
“Did you find the key?”
He shakes his head.
“You picked the lock?”
His face screws up at the word. “No, I prized it open.”
“Prized . . . ?” I slump. “Your aunt Miranda taught you to open locks.”
Horror crosses his small face. “N-no, Mama, I did not say it was Aunt Miranda.”
I fix him with a look. “Are you telling me it was not my sister? Answer carefully, Edmund, and remember that whatever Aunt Miranda said, it doesn’t mean she’d wish you to lie. You told me nothing. I guessed.”