A Rip Through Time(33)

And what will happen when her tormentor returns? Because Catriona will return. I cannot—will not—acknowledge any other possibility.

Since it seems I’m not leaving any time soon, I’ll have time to teach Alice how to deal with the return of the person who owns the body I currently possess, and I’ll try not to think about that brain twister too much.

When I enter my room, the first thing I see is a book on my dresser. Records of Washing Away of Injuries, by Song Ci, translated by W. A. Harland. I crack it open and smile for the first time in hours. It’s the thirteenth-century Chinese book of forensic science that Gray had mentioned. Underneath is a folded note. I open it to see calligraphy-worthy penmanship. However messy the man may be in his personal habits, his writing is enviable.

Catriona,

This is the book I mentioned, in case you care to read it. Please do not feel obligated to do so. In fact, I would be more annoyed to discover you forced yourself to read it rather than admit you are not interested.

He signs with a flourish that makes me smile again. It is the stereotypically illegible doctor’s signature, and yet still as beautifully scripted as the rest.

Do I want to read this book? Hell, yes. I’d never even heard of it, and my heart does a little flip of joy as I take it to the bed with my biscuits. I reach for my cell phone to use the flashlight and …

I get the damned oil lamp burning and set it up beside the bed. When I open the book, I need to adjust the flame, and I’m still squinting. I’m reminded of being on a car trip with a friend, and when I tried to read in the passing streetlights his parents had warned that I’d ruin my eyesight reading in the dark. Still not sure whether that’s a thing, but I do wear contacts.

No, I did wear contacts.

I hadn’t even realized I’m no longer wearing them. I peer across the room and then down at the book. I can see it perfectly. Thank God for small mercies—I imagine in this world, unless a maid is half blind, she’s not going to get spectacles.

I settle on the bed and open the book to the first page. There’s an inscription.

To my darling genius son,

I found this in a shop, Duncan, and thought you might enjoy it. Please don’t let your sister get hold of this one. You know she’ll insist on reading it, even when it will give her nightmares.

Love always,

Mama

The warmth of those words settles over me. When I smile, my eyes glaze with tears. I don’t know this woman—I presume she’s gone and I’ll never get that chance—but in her words, I am reminded of my own mother.

When I graduated from university, I overheard extended family whispering about how disappointed my mother must be that I wasn’t going to law school. Did I not have the marks? Such a shame. Such a disappointment. I didn’t bristle at those words. I inwardly laughed at how little they knew my mother, who had never once tried to nudge my dream in line with hers. No more than my father tried to nudge me toward English when I wanted to study criminology and sociology.

I might be an only child, but my parents never made me carry the weight of their dreams. They’d found their own and encouraged me to do the same. I feel that same sentiment in these words, and I am happy for Gray in having that.

Does that make me think again of my own parents? Of what they’ll go through if I never return? Of what I’ll go through if I never see them again? Yes, it does, but this time it’s only a pinprick of pain, washed away by the certainty that I will see them. The determination to do so, to find a way. My mood has lifted again, and so I am able to set that aside and focus on the moment.

I turn the page, and I tug the coverlet over me, and I pick up a cookie—biscuit, I remind myself—and I begin to read.





TWELVE


“What is this?” a voice thunders, and I leap up, all four limbs flailing. One knocks the book off the bed, and before I can blink myself awake, Mrs. Wallace is scooping it up. The housekeeper stares at the book and then opens it and stares some more.

I’m about to ask what emergency brought her here in the middle of the night. Then I see dawn’s light seeping through the curtains. That doesn’t necessarily mean it isn’t the middle of the night, as I’ve already realized. We’re in the north and we predate daylight savings time, meaning “dawn” comes around four A.M. at this time of year.

I rub my eyes and give my head a sharp shake. I’m still dressed from the day before, having fallen asleep reading.

I squint behind Mrs. Wallace.

“No,” she snaps. “Alice did not come to wake you, because I had a more important task for her. I realized you were still abed and came to get you myself and found you’ve been eating pilfered biscuits. That was bad enough. But this?” She waves the book. “You stole from the master’s library?”

From her tone, you’d think I’d stolen from the family safe. “No, I didn’t—”

“It is bad enough you pilfered from the good silver,” she says. “Bad enough I caught you with one of the mistress’s bracelets. They will not notice that. This they will notice.”

She waves the book again.

“I didn’t—”

“I covered for you, missy. I let you cry and promise you wouldn’t do it again. I knew better. I could hear the lie in your voice, see the crocodile in your tears, but for Miss Isla’s sake, I allowed you one final chance. This is the last straw. This time I will speak to the master.”