“You said you put it in your name, but yes, it is a lovely car.”
“I did put it in my name,” he said, “temporarily, and I’m happy you’re enjoying it, hopefully for longer than temporarily.” He looked at her wall. “Come over here and tell me about this madness there, Emma.”
She supposed there was no reason not to join him on the couch, so she did, then nodded at her drawings. “I thought if we could see it on paper, we could identify the patterns.”
“The only pattern involved is madness,” he said grimly, then he looked at her reluctantly. “I’m tired, sorry. Say on.”
“The world moves in patterns,” she said. “People move in patterns, unless they don’t, but even when they don’t, there’s generally a pattern to what they do.”
He looked at her as if he’d never seen her before. “Do you think so?”
“When you go back to the past, what do you do?”
“I check my modern sensibilities at the door and take care of business,” he said without hesitation.
“And you don’t do the same here?”
He opened his mouth, probably to deny it, then he frowned at her. “I don’t think I like this. Still.”
She imagined he didn’t, but she had to help and she couldn’t think of any other way to do so at the moment. “When you go to battle with your grandfather, what do you do?”
He took a deep breath. “I take care of business.”
“And how do you do that? In a metaphorical sense.”
“Brutally and to the point.”
She smiled. “See?”
He rubbed his hands over his face, then looked at her wearily. “Doesn’t this idea turn people into robots? Slaves to instincts they can’t control?”
“I’m not saying people don’t change or that theycan’tchange, but it’s been my experience that unless there’s a compelling reason to do things differently, people tend to act in patterns. They protect themselves and they protect what’s most important to them, but they generally do it in ways they’ve done it before simply because it’s comfortable and safe.”
“And what does that have to do with anything we’re embroiled in?”
“I think we’re trapped in some kind of something.”
“Time travel,” he said in resignation.
“Yes,” she said. “Time travel. But I think it’s more than just a random thing.” She shrugged helplessly. “I think there’s a pattern to it. Maybe even a purpose to it.”
He shook his head slowly. “You realize this sounds absolutely barking. We could be imagining it all.”
“I have a pile of clothes in a garbage can in the back that says we’re not.” She looked at him seriously. “Patrick MacLeod isn’t crazy.”
He looked at her for a moment or two in silence. “I have something you might want to see,” he said finally.
“It better not be clothes or another car.”
He smiled and heaved himself to his feet. “I wish it were, but unfortunately it isn’t.”
She decided he was a man who looked like he needed something else to settle his nerves, perhaps tea. She had fortunately become adept at not flooding the house with smoke, but that was about as far as she’d gotten with that damned Aga. She retreated to her kitchen, filled a kettle, then looked at her nemesis. She wasn’t sure if the thing needed more wood or if it would magically know just how hot it needed to be in order to cook what she wanted it to.
“Very domestic.”
She looked at Nathaniel, who was closing the door behind himself and taking off his boots.
“Yeah, well, you weren’t just transported back to the 1950s, so don’t get too excited about it.” She looked at him as he straightened. “I’m a terrible cook.”
