A Rip Through Time(73)

She exhales. “That is far more than I intended to say. You are too easy to speak to. It must serve you well as a detective.”

“It probably helps that you aren’t in any danger talking to me. Not like I’m going to gossip with the neighbors. I haven’t even seen the neighbors.”

“They are most unpleasant. I would not recommend it.” She rises and walks to a cabinet. “Now, while you find yourself writing paper, may I suggest a drink?”

She lifts what looks like a bottle of scotch. “Yes?”

“Yes, please.”



* * *



I’m a little tipsy as I climb the stairs to my room. It’s a lot of stairs, especially after a few fingers of very fine scotch. I blame the booze for the fact that my hand is on the doorknob before I notice light shining underneath the door.

I freeze. I’m sure I didn’t leave the light on. I’ve had the lecture from Mrs. Wallace on the cost of gas and how I must use oil lamps and candles when possible. I’ve also noticed that Gray has no problem leaving lights burning all over the place. I could gripe about this, but I don’t think he or Isla is the one expecting the staff to use candles. That’d be Mrs. Wallace, keeping her household running efficiently. I have also heard her grumble, quite loudly, when she needs to turn off lights in Gray’s wake.

As I watch the space under my door, the light fades and shifts. Someone inside with a flashlight. Uh, no, someone inside with a candle. Possibly a lantern. There are still so many parts of everyday life that I need to rethink here. Which reminds me, instead of prying into Isla and Gray’s personal lives tonight, I really should have been asking that most unanswerable of questions: How the hell am I supposed to wake up at 5:00 A.M. without an alarm clock? I can’t keep asking for Alice’s help.

At this moment, the “alarm” I apparently need is one on my door, which I bet they don’t have in this world either. My room does have a lock, and Mrs. Wallace has informed me that I’m incredibly lucky in this. Privacy is a rare gift for servants. Which also means that whoever is in my room has a key.

Mrs. Wallace would, I bet. Gray could get one, and he might if he felt compelled to prove I’m a bad seed sprouting irreparably twisted vines.

I’m about to open the door when my fear from earlier slams back.

If the raven killer is from my time, then he knows I’m not Catriona. And he’ll suspect I know he isn’t from the nineteenth century. That makes me a threat. That puts me in danger. Isla literally just told me the damn front door isn’t locked until everyone’s in for the night, and Gray is not.

I glance around for a weapon. My gaze falls on the door to Isla’s laboratory, but it’s locked—for our safety, I presume. Then I remember I grabbed my knife earlier. Yep, I’ve definitely had too much to drink. I ease the knife out.

A drawer opens in my room. Someone’s searching it.

I consider my options. Then I ease open the door, as quietly as I can. A figure stands in front of my narrow chest of drawers. She has her back to me, and she’s much smaller than I expected.

Alice.

I watch as she riffles through the drawer. She pulls out a silver brush and lifts it into the firelight, turning it this way and that. Then, with a grunt of satisfaction, she replaces it. That brush might be the most valuable thing in here. She’s not looking for anything to steal, then. She was making sure it didn’t belong to her master or mistress.

Alice tugs the drawer all the way out and reaches inside. With a crow of discovery, she pulls out a letter. It’s not until she starts to tug the paper from the envelope that I remember what it is: the letter from Lady Inglis to Gray.

Oh hell, no. We all need to learn our birds and bees sometime, but that is not the way I want this kid doing it.

“Stop right there,” I say as I stride in. I snatch the letter from her hand. “That is not addressed to you.”

“It is not addressed to you either,” she says tartly. When I shift, she flinches, expecting a smack, but she stands firm and lifts her chin. “It belongs to Dr. Gray.”

“It does,” I say, “and therefore neither of us should be reading it. Apparently, I stole it, though I have no idea why. It is simply a letter from a friend.”

When I reach to put it back, she flinches again. I stop and set the letter down. Time to get this out of the way.

“I hit you, didn’t I, Alice? Before my accident.”

She says nothing, just tightens her jaw.

“I did,” I say. “I must have, though I don’t remember.” I back up and sit on the end of my bed. “I won’t do that ever again. If I do, then…”

I sigh. “Well, if I do then I’m back to being the old Catriona, and if that happens, hopefully Mrs. Ballantyne will fire me. Otherwise, you should tell her. No matter what Catri—I said, you should always tell a grown-up when someone hurts you. A grown-up you trust, and I presume you trust Mrs. Ballantyne.”

She doesn’t answer.

“Do I seem like myself, Alice?” I ask.

She shakes her head.

“Because I’m not.”

“Or because you’re pretending you’re not. You tricked the master, and now you’ve tricked the mistress. Mrs. Ballantyne is a good woman, and she wants to help, and you’re giving her what she wants. That’s what Mrs. Wallace says.”