Page 49

“I could hardly know my own mind at four,” I scoff, and we laugh together.

His laugh brings with it the comfort and security that has seemed unobtainable for too long now. Ben steadied me in the scary world of 1901 that I fell into—helped me navigate a new lifestyle. But Quint has steadied me in my own life, more grounded than since before my parents died, and with that comes the sense of belonging to him, with him, here in this place.

“Thank you,” I say, reaching for his hand and squeezing it.

“There’s something more,” he says, his gaze soft on me and threatening every part of self-control I have to try and keep at least some distance. To keep from hurting him. To keep from hurting Ben.

From breaking my own heart in the process.

My heart hammers anyway, and the tether tying me to him grows shorter. “What?”

“This.” He turns to the album and places it in my lap, his finger pointing to a group of pictures. I recognize the scenery of The Villa and smile at the towheaded boy with a row of straight white teeth proudly on display in every picture. One with him and Mrs. Allen, sitting in the grass. Another of the family on the lake in a rowboat, the picture taken from the shore and their faces fuzzy.

“This one,” Quint says, pointing to one in the middle.

It’s grainy and the picture has been handled too frequently, with two creases running diagonally through it from left to right. It’s of the golden-haired boy with his delightful little dimples, standing next to a little girl, their hands clasped together.

I draw in a breath. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen pictures of myself this young, but the resemblance is astonishing. That it’s at least a relative, I have little doubt. That it’s me, I’m nearly sure.

“It could be a relative,” I say to Quint anyway.

“Then look at the woman.”

I hadn’t noticed the two women also in the picture. One is Mrs. Allen, sitting on a wicker chair with the lake sparkling behind her, all smiles as she gazes at the two children. There’s also another woman, sitting next to Mrs. Allen, holding the little girl’s other hand.

The image is faded, but a wave of emotion rises in my chest as I gaze at a picture of my mother. I hold my fingers to my lips, hoping to stop the tears threatening to escape. My mother looks so natural in the skirt that drapes to her ankles, belted and paired with a shirt that has pearl buttons in a neat row. Her wide-brimmed hat, guarding her complexion from the sun, no doubt, is tilted so that part of her face is hidden, but even that hat is recognizable. My mother said it had belonged to a great-grandmother so many generations back. It had been in remarkable condition, considering its age.

“It’s her, isn’t it?” Quint’s tone holds knowing even as he asks for confirmation.

I stare longer and harder and match every line of the face to my mother. The hazel eyes, though I can’t see the color in the sepia tone of the photograph. Her small nose and small lips that my father had called her fairy features.

I push the album back at Quint and stand, moving away from the picture. Questions about why they had been in the past pummel me, stirring up the fear that had first engulfed me over the strange connection to Quint. What does any of it mean, and how can I find out if I don’t return to the twenty-first century with Ben when the time comes?

Quint lays a hand on my arm, stopping me from getting too far. My nerves settle, still buzzing near the surface but not so demanding as they had been a moment before. And that makes me step away again.

I point to the picture. “More than anything, that proves that I must return. As they did then, and I will once again disappear from your life.” I take another step back, placing a hand on a nearby chair for support and gaining nothing from it. It’s a pitiful stand-in for Quint. “Why have I made it worse?” I whisper.

“What if you were born in the past? Have you considered that? That would mean you do belong here. That now you are meant to stay.” He holds out his hands, pleading with me.

I shake my head. “Even so, I can’t find that out from here. Living in 1928 will make answering those questions almost impossible. I have to know the age of mirrors and their locations in order to travel them.” I can’t imagine what kind of research it would entail, and not having a computer and the internet at hand would diminish my ability to discover the truth.

“Difficult,” Quint corrects. “Not impossible.” He reaches me again, taking my hands in his and resting his forehead against mine.

“Quint … please.”

“I love you.” His voice shoots through me like that same bolt of lightning that struck me when he kissed me.

“That’s ridiculous. You hardly know me.” But my answer is weak and hard to believe, even for myself.

“On the contrary, I’ve known you all my life.” He wraps his arms around me, holding me to him. “And the last few days only prove what those strange notions are telling me: you are strong and wonderful and passionate about things that matter. Please, Clara, don’t go,” he whispers into my hair, emotion thickening his voice. “Stay with me.”

I melt into his chest, pushing back with all my strength against the fear, confusion, and ache threatening to strangle me. I’ll hurt Quint enough when I leave. Watching me cry is unfair.

“Stay with me,” he repeats.

I can’t help it. I choke on my answer. “Heaven help me, Quint, I can’t.”

His arms tighten when he hears the ache in it. I can’t leave him. He pulls away from me only enough to press his lips against mine. The kiss is blissfully painful. I grasp at it, though I should walk away. I try to capture the sweet taste, his comforting smell, something in the power of it to take him with me and ruin every possibility that I’ll ever fall like this for someone again. The depth of my emotions is impossible and makes absolute sense at the same time. It’s goodbye and desperate pleading all rolled into one.