A Stitch in Time

by Kelley Armstrong

  “You have seen something?” Freya presses.

  I set down my cup. I want to answer. I want to talk about this to someone exactly like Freya. Kind and open-minded and educated in the subject.

  When I still don’t reply, she says, “Whatever you tell me doesn’t go outside this room, Bronwyn. Not even to Del. I might believe in ghosts, but I’m not going to hare off to an online forum and share your story. I don’t think the world needs proof. Either people believe, or they don’t. Trouble only arises when those who see things are convinced they don’t by well-meaning loved ones who persuade them they’ve had a mental breakdown.”

  I tense. I can just imagine what passes over my face, as she leans forward, saying, “I’m sorry, lass. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “No, it’s okay.”

  “It isn’t. It’s none of my business. I’m the only person your aunt told, and just because she knows I can keep a confidence. She needed to speak to someone about it. She was so angry with your mother, but she couldn’t tell you that and risk your relationship when you’d only just reunited. If it’s any consolation, I talked Judith down when she was in a right fury over it. Your mother didn’t mean any harm. In her world, that explanation made sense.”

  “I don’t . . . I don’t normally see ghosts. I never have outside this house.” I force a smile. “God knows, since Michael—my husband—died . . .” I inhale. “I’ve never even seen an eye speck that I could pretend was him.”

  I try to say it lightly, but my eyes still fill, and Freya moves beside me, taking my hand.

  After a moment, she says softly, “When he passed, were things settled between you?”

  “Settled?”

  “Was he ready to go? I know it was a brain tumor. I’m presuming you had time. Not enough time, of course. It’s never enough.”

  “With the tumor, we knew Michael’s mental capacity could become impaired, so we got our affairs in order, financially and emotionally. I miss him terribly, but there were no loose ends, and I’m grateful for that.”

  Freya squeezes my hand, and I relax into my grief, the kind that no longer feels like a stiletto through the heart. It’s a wound that can lie quiet even if it still never fully heals. A wound that I don’t want to heal. Even if I ever fall in love and marry again, I hope that thoughts of Michael will always bring a pang of loss and regret. He deserves that much.

  “This is why you won’t see Michael,” Freya says after a few minutes. “He’s at peace. He said what needed to be said. Did what needed to be done. That let him cross over as he should. No matter how much a spirit might want to linger with loved ones, it isn’t healthy for them or us.”

  “I . . . I’m not sure that’s the entire answer for me. I really haven’t ever seen anything outside this house. There was the night Uncle Stan—” I swallow. “The night he died. Even that was the only one I ever saw until”—I force the words out—“last night.”

  As I tell her about the black-veiled ghost, her eyes widen.

  “My gods, lass, I’d have fled, bad hip and all. Why didn’t you come to our house?”

  I shrug. “I was fine. It—she—didn’t follow me into my old room.”

  “Do you think it was the same ghost you saw the first time? When Stan—”

  “I don’t know. I can never remember that ghost. Apparently, I said it was a woman, though, and I think . . . Well, I’ve been trying not to think about it, but yes, it must be the same ghost. Did Aunt Judith ever see anything?”

  “She had minor experiences here. Fleeting glimpses. Whispers. A flicker caught in the corner of the eye. A tickle that sets your hairs on end. The smattering of sixth sense we all share, as animals do.” She looks around. “Which reminds me, Del mentioned a kitten?”

  “She’s sleeping in the kitchen.”

  “Was she there last night? Did she detect anything?”

  When I describe Enigma’s response, Freya’s brows lift and she says, “Well, then, I hope you aren’t doubting you saw a ghost.”

  “I’m not.”

  We munch our way through two biscuits before she says, “May I ask you about the boy? The one you used to see here?”

  I sit up so abruptly my chair squeaks, and I’m still collecting myself when Enigma toddles from the kitchen, having woken and realized there’s a party to which she wasn’t invited. Her timing is perfect. I pick her up, and Freya oohs and aahs over her, and Enigma revels in the attention.

  “Should I not ask about your imaginary friend?” Freya says as I pass Enigma onto her lap.

  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’v
e 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.

  “Let me guess,” I say. “Serial killers? The cabbie warned me about serial killers and sheep. I’m more worried about the sheep.” I pause, narrowing my eyes. “I also seem to recall that when I was little, someone warned me about the dreaded moor hobgoblins.”

  Del looks at Freya.

  “You had a penchant for sneaking out,” Freya says. “Judith begged me to tell you local lore that wouldn’t necessarily frighten you from the moors forever but . . .”

  “Might make me less likely to sneak out on my own?”

  “Yes. We’ve never had an actual serial killer in there, though.”

  Del opens his mouth, but she beats him to it. “There are stories about disappearances, of course, as with any wild place.”

  Del fixes her with a scowl. “Don’t you say that every story is spun from a grain of truth?” He looks at me. “Girls go missing in our moors.”

  “Then it’s a good thing I haven’t been a girl in twenty years,” I say.

  Before he can reply, Freya says, “People have gone missing there. Hikers, day-trippers, suicides . . . It’s not the Bermuda Triangle of North Yorkshire. Experienced hikers have accidents. Day-trippers wander too far from the paths. And some poor souls just want to end their lives in a place of peace and beauty. I will admit that this particular stretch does carry a legend of young women who vanished, their bodies never found. However, the last person to disappear was two years ago—a man who fell into the inexperienced-hiker category and who was found, alive.”

  “Alive and ranting about ghosts on the moors,” Del says. “Ghosts of young women.”

  Now Freya’s the one fixing him with a look. After a grumble, he says, “All right. He was dehydrated and suffering from exposure. But he did claim to see the ghost of a young woman.”

  “Which he recanted after he recovered, chalking it up to fevered hallucinations.” She turns to me as a car heads up the road. “Once upon a time, people did disappear out there. But now, even in this isolated corner of the moors, you don’t need to walk far to see the lights of a town. You know your way around the moors, and it’s barely evening. Stick to the paths, and give yourself plenty of time to be back before dark.”

  “I will.”

  Archie’s car pulls into the drive, and Freya introduces us. I get Archie’s number in case I need a lift though the young man assures me Ronnie will get the convertible going. He also hints that if I need someone to care for the car after I leave, come September . . .

  “You’re volunteering to keep her safe and sound in your garage?” Del says.

  The young man scratches his dark cheek, looking sheepish. “Well, no, I’d drive her, of course, when the weather’s good, but I’d store her for free, and Ronnie could do more work while the lady’s gone.”

  I thank him for the offer and promise to consider it. I will, too, if it gives Ronnie added encouragement to get the Austin-Healey running.

  Once they’re gone, I fully intend to head straight to the moors. I have my phone and my hiking shoes and my water bottle. It’s not yet seven, meaning I have two hours of good light left. Yet as I’m crossing the lawn, I happen to walk through one of the good cell-service areas, and my dad calls. I don’t dare walk and talk—I’m guaranteed to lose the connection—so I stop to chat for a few minutes. Which turn into an hour.

  Neither Dad nor I have ever been called garrulous, but you’d never know it when we get together. Perhaps it’s those ten years of separation. We’re always trying to make up for lost time, mend that unwanted rift. Part, too, is that we’re both historians.

  Dad works in Toronto at the Royal Ontario Museum, which means we’re accustomed to regular contact—daily phone calls, twice-weekly Dad-and-daughter coffee dates, Sunday dinners with his wife, and so on. I haven’t spoken to him since the day before I left, so our quick check-in call turns into an hour-long intense discussion of the recent discovery of a new First Nations site off the coast of British Columbia.

  I don’t notice how long I’m on the phone. I just talk, and then I continue on with my plans, walking into the moors. I’ve been at Thorne Manor for two days without setting foot on the moors, and when I do, I can’t believe it took so long. It’s like renting a room beside a bakery and going two days before stepping inside.

  People talk about their favorite place in the world. The place that, every time they return, makes them unreasonably happy. For some, it’s oceans, for others, i
t’s mountains or desert, an environment that speaks to their soul and puts a smile on their face and a spring in their step. The moors is that for me, and the fact it’s taken two days speaks to just how conflicted I am about Thorne Manor and all it represents. There was a fear that I’d step into the moors again and find the magic gone.

  The magic is not gone.

  The moors . . . I always struggle to describe them. A windswept blanket of green and purple, paths that seem as if they go on forever, and then dip into a forested dale, or skirt a deep bog of peat. There are populated sections, of course, and plenty of farms and pastures, but this corner is open land where I can walk for miles and see nothing except, yes, sheep and, honestly, not many of those.

  I wander, and I wander, lost in the moors and the memories it conjures. Then shadows snake over me, and I look up with a start. I didn’t see storms in the forecast. But it’s not a storm. It’s nine p.m. There’s a moment of alarm as I realize I’m farther from home than I expected. Then I see the setting sun, a watercolor splash of purple and yellow, and I spend another ten minutes snapping photos.

  Oh my God, it’s almost dark, and I need to get back now and . . . Ooh, look at the pretty sunset.

  I should be ashamed of myself. I’m not. The setting sun is a marvel that I won’t miss because there’s nothing like a sunset on the moors. Also, it’s been a very, very long time since I noticed the sun setting at all. I take those extra minutes to admire and document the sight. Then I’m off, walking briskly as the shadows lengthen.

  I’ll get back before actual night. That is, before the sun fully sets. I console myself with that as I cover the distance in long strides. I will admit to the briefest exhale of relief when I spot the distant roof of Thorne Manor. I fix my gaze on it and tell myself that the sun isn’t quite down yet, and I don’t need to turn on my phone flashlight, just keep walking—

  Something touches my fingers.

  I wheel, my hands flying up, phone flying out of one. As I see the phone fall, I mentally curse myself for my nerves. Clearly, my fingers brushed a bush or tall grass or . . .