Beatrix considers how best to consolidate one hundred years of her life. “I survived the plague.”
Oliver looks horrified, but she laughs. Sometimes that was all she could do.
They are almost at the manor when he glances down at her with anamused smile. “You haven’t asked me a single question about the future. Aren’t you curious?”
The times will change. Living across four centuries has taught Beatrix that lesson well. Still, she’d rather not know exactly how. Her days already blend together without knowing what comes next. “I’d rather be surprised, like everyone else.”
“Fair enough,” Oliver says. “No spoilers from me.”
Beatrix gives him a quizzical look. “Spoilers?”
Oliver grimaces. “Forget I said that.”
They reach the manor, a four-story brick building the color of bisque, with white stone balconies and arched windows. Beatrix leads Oliver through the tiled courtyard to the servants’ entrance, but she can’t bring herself to open the door. “Thank you for the unforgettable evening.”
“The pleasure was all mine,” Oliver says.
She opens her hand and offers him his coin. His fingertips brush against her palm, and the memory crashes over her like a wave. A different coin. A different city. But the same man, one hundred years later. Impossible and real and here and now.
Her heart races. Oliver has met her twice, a century apart. Couldn’t they do it again?
“Can I meet you next time you’re around?” She hopes she doesn’t sound as desperate as she feels. “I wouldn’t be any trouble.”
Oliver smirks at her, and it eases the tension in her chest. “Says the woman who picked my pocket.”
“No more trouble than usual, then,” Beatrix says.
Oliver’s half smile falters. “I won’t be back for another six years.”
“I don’t mind waiting.” Six years is practically no time at all.
He frowns. “I only get twelve hours in the past before I’m recalled to my time. Not a second more.”
Beatrix squeezes her eyes shut. He is trying to let her down gently, and she is making a fool of herself. He has just said he’ll never have enough time to do everything he wants—that he has to be selective—and here she is, asking him to waste that time with her. She opens her eyes. “I’m sorry. You’re right. You need to use your time wisely.”
Oliver looks like she’s slapped him. “What? No, I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Then how did you mean it?” Her heart pounds against her ribs.
The look in his eyes is caught between horror and pity. “You’d really wait six years for a twelve-hour visit?”
Beatrix thought she’d be used to the constant ache of loneliness by now, that it would have dulled with time. But it is still sharp, still raw. Still hollows her out a little more each night as she lies awake in the dark, wondering how much of her will be left when another year or ten or fifty have passed.
“Yes.” The truth is she’d wait longer. She’d wait for less.
Oliver smiles. “Then I guess I’ll see you there.”
Her heart swells.
“London,” he clarifies. “The second of March. In 1717?” He says it like a question, like Beatrix might have second thoughts.
“I can’t wait,” she says, though that is precisely what she will do.
March 6, 1714London, England
Beatrix moves deftly around the chamber she has known for nearly eight years. She packs a lone leather traveling bag in the dark, afraid even a single candle flame will arouse the suspicions of the housemaids or the butler or, heaven forbid, the earl. She gathers only the most necessary belongings to keep the bag light and the travel easy.
It’s a good night for escape, the waning moon hidden by a heavy cover of low clouds, the ground still hardened by frost. She stuffs another pair of wool stockings into the bag and fastens it closed with a snap. A pang of sadness rings through her at the finality of the sound.
