I swallow the automatic denial and say carefully, “Yes, I did have an imaginary friend here when I was young, but I never told anyone about him.”
She chuckles and leans back, scratching Enigma’s ears. “Not once you were old enough to know better, but as a little girl, you chattered about him all the time to your aunt. It was a secret between you. Then, when you were about four, you stopped mentioning him. When Judith asked, you pretended not to know what she was talking about. She said you were adorable. Like a tiny MI6 agent protecting top-secret data. All shifty-eyed and ‘I don’t know what you mean, Auntie.’”
My cheeks heat. “I don’t remember any of that.”
“Well, clearly, by that age, you’d realized you were experiencing something you shouldn’t discuss with grownups.” Freya slants me a knowing look. “Lest they try to convince you that your boy wasn’t real.”
My cheeks burn now. I don’t speak, though. I’m afraid if I do, it’ll be a denial, and I don’t want to deny this. It’s as if I really am four years old again, hoping someone will drag a secret from me so I can share it guilt-free.
“There were several Williams in the Thorne family,” she says.
I look over sharply.
“Yes, your aunt had a name for your friend. Not that it does much good. The original house was built by a William Thorne, who passed it to his oldest, also named William, who then passed it, yes, to William the third, who passed it on to his oldest . . .”
“William the fourth?” I say with a forced smile.
“No, that Lord Willie attempted to buck tradition. Only his son wrested it back and named his firstborn William. Then it passed to a cousin, who rechristened his heir William to properly reclaim the family tradition.”
“So, lots of Williams. I must have read the name somewhere and used it for my imaginary friend.”
“Read it at the age of two?”
I say nothing.
Freya pets Enigma. “Have you seen him since you’ve been here?”
“I . . . I’ve dreamed of him.”
“Ah. So, in your ‘dreams,’ is he still a little boy?”
My cheeks heat, and she chuckles. “Obviously not.”
“My age. He’s always my age. When I dream about him, I mean.”
“Have you considered it’s not a dream, Bronwyn?”
“It is. I dreamed I woke up in his old room, which wouldn’t be his room now if he were real. He’d be the lord.”
“That hardly sounds like damning proof. What else did you see? Hear?”
I tell her everything about the second visit. His bedroom, what I overheard downstairs, the cat, Mrs. Shaw . . .
“Mrs. Shaw?” Freya says.
I nod. “That’s another thing that proves it’s a dream. Mrs. Shaw reminds me of Del.”
“You saw Mrs. Shaw this time?”
“No, but I’ve seen her before. When I was a child.”
“Before you met Del. His mother was a Shaw. She left High Thornesbury when she married, but her brother used to be the caretaker here. His family has worked at this house for generations.”
“Then that explains it. I must have known Del’s uncle, whose face I used for Mrs. Shaw.”
Freya’s lips twitch. “Only if Mrs. Shaw is six feet tall with red hair and a beard. You’re reaching, Bronwyn. Stretching as far as you can to explain this away. You’re afraid of considering the possibility that William exists, only to be told you’ve lost your mind again.”
Enigma hops over onto my lap, and I stroke her head.
“So what’s your explanation?” I say. “I’m not sure time portals fall under the umbrella of folklore.”
“Ah, but they do. Think of every fairy story where a person disappears into another world, another time, and returns to tell the tale. Or consider the Moberly-Jourdain Incident at Versailles. Or the three cadets who stumbled over a deserted medieval English village. The list goes on. Not time travel so much as time slips.”
“Is that what you think this is? A time slip.”
“More like a stitch in time.”
“Saves nine?” I manage a smile. “Fix something today, while the problem is small, to avoid a larger fix later. That proverb has nothing to do with time travel, though.”
Freya picks up two decorative cushions. “Imagine this pillow is Thorne Manor right now, and this other one is the house in your William’s time.” She holds his pillow under ours, separated by a few inches. Then she catches a fold in the fabric, tugs it down and pinches them together. “This is your room. A stitch between the two timelines. A spot where they intersect.”
“But time doesn’t run like that.” I take the pillows and lay them on the floor with a third between them. “This is time. A straight line.”
“If you really want theories on the nature of temporal reality, I can give them to you as both a folklorist and the wife of a retired scientist.”
My brows must fly up because she laughs. “Del doesn’t strike you as a fellow academic? He’s a physicist. He just takes his retirement very seriously. But this isn’t about proving time isn’t linear. It’s about proving that, in this particular house, you have a stitch that connects you to another era, a very specific one with a very specific person.”
“How would I prove that?”
“The next time you ‘dream’ about William, ask him to hide something. If you find it now, and it dates back to his time, that proves he exists.”
“I don’t think I can ask him anything. He’s pretending not to hear me.” My cheeks heat. “I, uh, I mean that in my, uh, dream, he seems to be angry with me.”
Freya bursts into such a ringing laugh that I give a start. “Sorry, lass.” Her eyes twinkle. “Is he handsome?”
I struggle to follow the change of subject. “He’s not what I’d call conventionally handsome, but he’s”—I remember August’s words—“not unattractive.”
Another laugh, just as sudden.
“What?” I say.
“If this William is your dream lover, surely he’d be devastatingly handsome and enthusiastically welcome you back.”
“Apparently, I’m a realist even when I’m asleep.”
She shakes her head. “I can see I won’t convince you of anything today, so let’s enjoy our tea while Del finishes his work. And let’s instead discuss ways to handle your ghost in black, which I have a feeling is far less frightening to you than discussing William Thorne.”
7
At just past six, Del calls for Archie, who apparently runs the local Uber equivalent—a guy you can ring up and get a lift from for a few quid. As we’re waiting, I pull on my hiking shoes.
“Where’re you off to at this hour?” Del says.
“It’s not even six thirty.”
“Those don’t look like jogging shoes. You’d better not be heading into the moors by yourself.”
When I say nothing, Del shoots Freya a look with, “You didn’t warn her about the moors?”
Freya only sighs and shakes her head.