Take the coins. Indulge yourself. More will come, and you will accept those, too. That is an order.
I read the note, and I laugh. Then I cry, tears spilling over my cheeks. Not since Michael died has anyone known me like this, and I’ve forgotten what it feels like.
I allow myself to cry until Enigma wakes, alarmed by my snuffles. I pet her and cuddle her. Then I finger the gold coins, smiling, my mind already racing ahead to what they can buy. Before I go, I tuck one coin into my pocket. Then I head downstairs for breakfast.
That morning, I fulfill my fantasy of tooling to town in my convertible. Off I go, the cherry-red paint and silver chrome gleaming, the top down despite the chill morning air. I feel like a fifties movie star, oversized sunglasses on, a kerchief barely containing the tangle of hair streaming behind me.
First to the grocer for staples and baking ingredients. Then a snack from the bakery. Chocolate biscuit and steaming tea in hand, I perch on the hood of my car and take advantage of internet service decent enough to suss out the value of a mint-condition Victorian sovereign gold coin. The answer is about three hundred pounds.
I have five thousand Canadian dollars scattered across my bed. That makes me eat faster and hurry back to find a secure hiding spot for my treasure. I keep that one coin in my pocket, though. I can’t resist, occasionally taking it out and turning it over, entranced by the golden gleam and the fantasies of what it can buy.
In my imagination, my treasure has already been transformed into a refurbished parlor and a new refrigerator, the perfect mix of indulgence and practicality. Of course, perfect practicality would be using it to wipe out my remaining albatross of debt, but I have that under control. This will be for the house as William intended.
When tea time comes, that coin sits on the table, tucked under Aunt Judith’s newly polished silver tea service. Freya arrives with Del, who’s come to work on the lawn and refuses all offers of tea.
We’re barely finished slathering jam on our first scone before I pull out the coin and tell Freya all about yesterday’s visit to Victorian Thorne Manor. Underneath my calm exterior, apparently, I’m fifteen again, bursting to share proof that William exists, proof that I have indeed crossed over.
I tell her the story, and I show her the coin and the photographs on my phone. I hadn’t even remembered to check the photos until earlier this afternoon, and then I’d barely dared to peek, fearing they wouldn’t be there. I know William is real—I’ll no longer doubt and question—but I thought perhaps the slip in time would erase the photographs. Yet they’re as clear as if I’d taken them yesterday . . . which I suppose I had.
This morning, I spent at least an hour trying to understand how the time stitch works. I can carry objects over it, as I did with my cell phone. I might be able to take Enigma. I definitely can’t take a person, though—as children, I’d tried many times to grant William a peek into my world. The photographs and video remain on my phone, as clear as ever. The notes William left have aged. Yet he also said yesterday that when I removed the notes, they disappeared on his side. And that floorboard wasn’t loose until he loosened it after talking to me.
Is there a version of William Thorne who lived his entire life without meeting me, and this is an alternative timeline? Or are our times indeed stitched together at this point, and I have always been part of his world?
Yes, there’s a reason I’m not fond of time-travel stories. My historian brain crackles like fireworks at the thought of experiencing a world that now only exists in books. But the logical part of my mind runs in circles, getting forever twisted in the impossibilities and contradictions of it, looking for explanations where none can exist.
I need to stop thinking and accept. Questioning this is like turning away from a star-filled night, refusing to enjoy it before I understand the science of converting hydrogen to helium.
I tell Freya. I show her the coin. I play her the video. And she falls back into her chair, her smile gone, face unreadable.
“It’s not a trick,” I say quickly. “You can see the background in the pictures. It’s this room. The windows are there and the—”
She lifts a hand, stopping me. She says nothing, though. My heart hammers. I’ve gone too far. It is a secret, my secret, and I’ve always known that, and the one time I dared share it, I wound up in a psychiatric ward, my world and my self-confidence shattered.
Hadn’t I learned my lesson?
What on earth possessed me to tell Freya?
Hope.
Longing and need, too, the desperate desire to prove I didn’t lose my mind twenty-three years ago. Which makes little sense when Freya isn’t one of those who thought me mad in the first place. Yet logic doesn’t matter when it comes to pierced pride and shattered self-confidence.
My mother is dead, and no one else cares why I spent time in a psychiatric ward. Except me.
I care. I deeply, deeply care, however much I want to rise above that and declare it a relic of my past.
It takes everything I have not to flee. I might, too, if it wasn’t my house.
“May I see your phone again?” she asks.
I stiffly pass it over. She replays the video, and as she does, tears spring to her eyes. Then she laughs, a bubbling laugh of delight.
Her hands fly to her mouth as she shakes her head. Then she says, “I have never seen such a thing, never imagined such a thing.”
“It did happen,” I say. “I wouldn’t fake—”
“Of course you wouldn’t.” She catches my expression, and her eyes round. “Oh, lass. You thought I didn’t believe you? How couldn’t I? The proof is right here in black and white.” Another eruption of laughter. “No, in Technicolor as they used to say. You’ve captured . . .”
“A Victorian gentleman in his natural environment?” I say.
She chuckles. “It’s one thing to be told about it, and I never doubted you at that. But I expected it would remain an act of faith. How could one hope for more?” She touches the phone, and William’s voice comes as clear as if he were sitting beside us.
She smiles and looks at me. “Witchcraft, indeed.”
I say nothing. I can’t. Relief robs me of my voice, and yet there’s trepidation, too. My sanity has been affirmed, my “fantasies” validated as reality. It’s a dream I never dared voice, and now I fear if I say anything at all, it’ll evaporate. I’ll speak, and Freya will laugh again, this time in disbelief, admitting she thought I was indeed pulling her leg, and playing along, and I’m not really serious, am I?
She turns William’s photograph into the light. “He is a Thorne, that is for certain. I’ve seen portraits. If he’s unmarried at his age, it suggests he might have been the last Thorne to live here. The one who bequeathed the house to a distant cousin. There was a sister, as I recall, who flitted off for parts unknown. Not that her children could have inherited an entailed house anyway, but I believe there was an estrangement with the sister. Some scandal—”
She pulls back. “Listen to me, prattling on as if I’m a historian. As I said, there were many William Thornes, and this might very well have been any of them.”
“No,” I say. “I suspect you’re right. William did have a sister, and he hasn’t—hadn’t—seen her in years. I also overheard his friend talking about a scandal. It seems, though, that whatever it is, William is using it as an excuse to avoid London.”
Freya chuckles. “That makes sense. Some silly scandal he’s cultivated to serve his purposes.”
“It was certainly easy enough to do at the time,” I say. “Say the wrong thing, sleep with the wrong woman, choose the wrong political side . . . A million tiny transgressions for society to feast on. I eavesdropped on the discussion, so I can’t exactly ask him about it. That would be awkward, particularly when, from other things his friend said, I suspect it involved a lady.”
“That would indeed be awkward,” she says, her eyes twinkling. “He’ll tell you when he’s ready. When are you going to see him again?”
“Tonight,” I say.
We chat about that before I move on to my ghostly encounters, first in the moors and later here in the house. For my ego’s sake, there’s no hint of my wild, skidding, dripping flight down the hall.
“So, four specters,” she says. “The woman swathed in black, whom you’ve seen multiple times. The boy, who only appeared yesterday, but twice before that, you saw a flicker at the linen closet door, which may have been him. Then there’s the woman in the moors and the man with the spade.” She sucks in her bottom lip for a moment. “Have the ones in the house tried to hurt you?”
I shake my head. “I thought the woman was, the first time I saw her, but that was just me—if a ghost appears, I don’t stick around to see whether she means me harm. Not after my uncle . . .” I swallow and then press on. “The only reason I didn’t run faster last night was that I was stuck in the tub. In retrospect, though, all she’s done is move toward me. The boy reached out, but once he got my attention, he backed away.”
“All right, so we have four ghosts, though the woman in the moors seems to be more of a remnant.”
“A spectral replay of a prior event.” I pause. “Only hours before I saw her, Del mentioned young women going missing on the moors. My imagination may have conjured her.”
“Did you think that at the time? Or only later, reflecting back?”
“Later,” I admit. “At the time, she seemed real.”
“So, let’s stick with that.”
I pour fresh tea for both of us. “Have young women gone missing there?”
“Young women, old women, young men, old men. It’s always the young women who capture the imagination, though. They’re the ones who pass into folklore. The mother searching for her baby. The new bride waiting for her husband. Del’s right that people tell stories of young women who went missing out there, which makes it seem as if they disappeared in droves. I’ve never really looked into it. I don’t like bringing my work home.” She smiles as she stirs sugar into her tea. “Back to the man with the spade. He seemed to be looking at you in the window, but he then continued on to the moors, yes?”
I nod. “Which could mean that he wasn’t looking at me at all. He could be another remnant.”
“Possibly. I get the sense, though, that you aren’t eager to approach him and find out.”
I remember that stern figure, spade clutched in his hand, and I shiver. “Not really.”
“We’ll skip him, then. The woman in black and the boy in knickerbockers are the two who are clearly interacting with you and do not appear to be threats. In fact, they seem to be warning you, possibly about the man with the spade.”
“I know they told me to run. I think the woman said, ‘He’s coming,’ but I’m not completely certain. She also said a few things I didn’t catch. Something about names. She seemed to say, ‘Name me,’ which doesn’t make sense. After that, she said ‘name’ and ‘killer’ with a word missing in the middle. I guessed she was asking me to find her killer, but that’s when she got spooked by the other ghost and told me to run.”
“Huh.” Freya leans back, her eyes narrowing as she seems to consult her memory. “I’ve heard of folklore where people can’t communicate with ghosts until they name them.”
“Name them?”
“Identify them. It’s a variation on folklore that says certain creatures—like vampires—need to be invited in. Ghosts need to be identified before they can speak.”
“In other words, we haven’t been properly introduced.”
Freya chuckles. “Something like that. The woman and the boy may be able to reveal themselves properly and communicate if you name them. But you have to get it right. The lore also says if you get it wrong, the connection breaks.”
“Naturally,” I mutter.
“As for naming her killer, that’s similar lore. Name her killer, and you set her free. Ghosts on our plane are trapped by unfinished business. If you name her killer, she’s free to pass over to the afterlife. Also, the lore says that if you encounter her killer’s ghost, naming his crimes will rob him of his power.”
“So, figure out who she is. Figure out who the boy is. Solve their murders. Then I’ll have a spook-free house. No problem.”
Freya smiles. “Just remember that, as unnerving as all this is, they’ve been trapped here for a very long time. They’ll be patient. Wait and see what clues they give you before we start digging. We can’t rush in and get this wrong. Now, let me tell you how best to communicate with ghosts . . .”
14
William and I arranged for me to arrive at five in the afternoon. At 4:45, I’m in my room, picnic basket in hand, mentally opening the gate between our worlds. It might not work right away, and I’d hate to be late. Or that makes a fine excuse for my eagerness.
The transition comes as smoothly as it used to. I stand in my room, thinking of William with my eyes closed, and when I open them, I’m in his room.
Alone in his room.
I circle twice in case I’m somehow missing his very large presence in a very small bedroom. Then I check my watch. It’s 4:50. I’m early, and I can hardly expect he’ll be as eager as I am for my visit.
I plunk down on the bedcovers to wait, basket on my lap, and mentally revisit the topics I want to discuss with him. Ghosts are nowhere on that list. The house hadn’t been haunted when he lived in it, and so there’s no need to mention it, which also avoids any discomfort of admitting I see ghosts when I know William is not a believer.
I’m compiling my list when the clock downstairs strikes four.
Four?
I must have missed a gong. My watch clearly says five, as does my cell phone. Five o’clock with no sign of William. That isn’t like him.
Has he changed his mind about seeing me again?
I check his dresser for a note and find the paper he’s been using to write to me with the pen and inkstand beside it. The inkstand is ivory, painted with green birds and flowers. A brass cap covers two inkwells, an opening for the pen in each. The pen itself lies on the blotting paper. It’s a dip pen, long and slender, with a gorgeous mother-of-pearl handle and a grip that I’m certain is real gold.
Finding this on his dresser is as good a sign as any that William is a bachelor. Victorian bedrooms are not for writing in. With the mess a quill pen and inkpot can make, it was only good housekeeping to restrict it to a proper desk. I can already see splotches of ink on the gorgeous Persian carpet.
There’s no note here, and I’m about to check the floorboard when I recall those four strikes of the clock and a thought hits, one that makes me wince. I slip into the hall and listen. The house is empty, Mrs. Shaw apparently gone, but I still creep down the stairs in case I’m mistaken. I find the clock. It’s the same one that’s in my house, a massive and ornate grandfather clock too unwieldy to move.
Sure enough, the face reads four.
I fetch the basket I left upstairs and check out the bedroom window, which I probably should have done sooner. The stable doors are open. I hurry down and through the back door. I take my time crossing the yard, so I can listen for the sound of unfamiliar voices. None come, but as I draw near, the ground vibrates with the thump of galloping hooves.
I turn as William rides from the moors. He doesn’t see me at first—I’m in the shadow by the stable doors. He’s wearing a loose-fitting white shirt, snug buff riding breeches and no jacket. He’s riding hard, his head down, dark curls snapping, face all hard edges and determined lines. His eyes glint—a man on a mission, but still reveling in the excuse to push the horse faster as they fly over the ground. In passing, I notice that the coal-black stallion is a magnificent beast, particularly in motion, but my attention is far more captivated by the rider.
After a few seconds of admiring the view, I may fumble for my phone and snap a photo or two. I can’t resist. As I’m lowering my phone, William notices me. His eyes widen, and he pulls the stallion—Balios—to a stop as he yanks out his pocket watch.<
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“You aren’t late,” I call as I walk over. “I forgot about daylight savings time. Or, as they call it in England, summer time.”
His brows rise.
“We move our clocks forward every spring to take advantage of the longer days,” I say while he motions Balios forward. “It started during World War I, about seventy years from now.”
“Ah.” He runs a hand through his hair, trying to tame it. “I was riding and lost track of time. I realized the hour and hurried back in hopes of washing up and dressing before you arrived.” He swings off Balios. “If you’ll allow me a few minutes to make myself presentable, I’ll be as quick as I can.”
“You look perfectly presentable now,” I say. “If you insist on a moment to wash, I’ll grant it, but there’s no need to change.” I lift the basket. “I brought a picnic snack, and what you’re wearing is very suitable for dining out of doors.”
“All right. Just let me walk and water Balios. He needs to cool down.”
“I can do that for you.” I smile. “I still remember how.”
He agrees. The question, of course, is whether the stallion will allow it. There’s a reason most people stick to mares and geldings as riding mounts. A stallion is headstrong and difficult, accustomed to leading rather than following. Or that is the common perception. The truth, as William would be quick to point out, is that, while wild horses generally have one stallion for a group of mares, the male often serves more as a stud and guardian with a mare in charge.
This doesn’t mean a stallion is a docile creature, ready to be led by anyone. He requires a firm hand, a leader he trusts, as he would expect in a herd. Balios is very well trained, though, and when William hands him over with a few words and a pat, the stallion deigns to let me take him.
William promises the stallion a brushing after his cool down, but I recall enough of my lessons to give Balios that myself. I spend a few minutes with the curry comb and then the hard brush, cleaning the dirt and sweat from his hard ride. I’m finishing when William’s voice cuts through the quiet stables.
A Stitch in Time Page 12