A Stitch in Time

by Kelley Armstrong

  I launch myself at them. I grab at Cordelia, but it’s like seizing air, and my fingers pass right through to William. His hand slams into me as he fights to breathe, and I reel back as that glow pulses between them.

  She’s drawing his breath from him. Draining his life.

  I grab to pull William away, but whatever she’s doing, it has him as immovable as if he’s been cast in cement.

  “Cordelia Thorne! I name you as the killer of Theodore Wakefield and Elizabeth Stanbury and, my uncle, Stanley Dale!”

  Cordelia staggers back, that glow fading, William catching a mouthful of air, like a swimmer surfacing.

  “Cordelia Thorne,” I step between them. “I name you as the killer of Theodore Wakefield and Elizabeth Stanbury and Stanley Dale.”

  She spins on her brother. “William . . .” she says, her voice breathy.

  “I know what you’ve done, Cordelia,” he says. “When I sent you away, I wanted you gone from my life. I was a coward. I knew you were a danger to others, and I allowed you to live because I could not bring myself to turn you in to the authorities. I certainly couldn’t do what Harold did. I said that I regretted you leaving. I meant that I regretted allowing you to leave.”

  “No . . .” she whispers.

  “I knew what you were, and I knew what you’d done, and I let you go because I still loved you. I regret that.”

  “No . . .”

  “I finally understand what you wanted. You had a fantasy of us growing old together. An endless childhood. Your brother looking after you forever, the two of us in this house, all my attention for you in a way it never was when you were a child. I am sorry for that.”

  He pauses. “No, I am sorry you felt deprived, but I know that I was kind to you, and I did find time for you. It simply wasn’t enough. There was a hole that you needed filled, and I couldn’t do it. I still cannot.”

  He steps forward. “Even if you take me, you will not have me. My ghost will remain, waiting for Bronwyn, so I may watch over her. If you kill her, I’ll end my life and join her. Either way, you will not have me. What you can have is peace and a place in my memory still touched with the love I bore for my sister. Let us go, and you leave me with that.”

  Her figure wavers, and I think that’s done it. She finally understands, and she’ll take that and leave. But then she blazes back, brighter than ever, her face set as she says, “No.”

  “Yes,” says a soft voice behind us.

  I look over to see Eliza with Teddy beside her, holding her hand.

  “Banish her, please,” Eliza says. “You’ve freed us. Now, banish her.”

  Cordelia snarls and lunges at Eliza, who does not move.

  “You can’t harm us now,” Eliza says. “For over a hundred years, you’ve terrorized us. Now, we have been named, and you can do us no harm. Your sins are named, too, and you have no reason and no right to stay here. So you will not.”

  She turns to me. “Banish her.”

  “I-I’m not sure how.”

  “Just say the words. Only the living can do it.”

  I take a deep breath. “Cordelia Thorne, I banish you from this house and from our lives. I wish you peace, but I want you gone.”

  “No!” Cordelia says, tears evaporating as she snarls.

  She keeps snarling, beyond protests, just cursing and snarling like a wild beast. I say the words again and again and again . . . as she fades. Even when she’s gone, her howling rage echoes through the room, and I stand there, paralyzed and tense, waiting for her to return.

  “She’s gone,” Eliza murmurs. “May she indeed find peace whether she deserves it or not.”

  She turns and points at the ring. “Take that.”

  I shake my head. She grips my hand and, again, I faintly feel her touch, like a warm breeze brushing my skin. She propels my hand to the ring and presses it overtop.

  “Yours,” she says. “You earned it. As you have earned . . .”

  Her gaze turns to William, standing there, silently waiting, tensed to fight again. She walks to him, still gripping Teddy’s hand, and she looks up into his unseeing face.

  “At least now I know it was not my fault I could not win you,” she says. “Your heart was already taken.”

  “You’ve earned him,” she says to me. One last smile for William. “Now be sure you earn her in return.”

  Teddy turns my way and gives a shy wave, and then they fade until William and I are alone in the room.

  William stands there, confused and tense.

  “Cordelia is gone,” I say.

  After a moment, he puts his hands around my waist, and we collapse into the chair. We sit there, holding each other as the hall clock ticks.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “For what Cordelia did to you.”

  “I believe that’s my line,” he says with a wan smile.

  I shake my head. “What you went through all these years is far worse.”

  He’s quiet. Then he says, “I won’t say it was worse, but yes, I’ve spent thirteen years tormented by thoughts of what I unleashed on the world. I could not bring her to justice, and I have regretted that ever since. Knowing now that she was never out there, never hurt anyone else . . .” He kisses my forehead. “It will be easier. So much easier.”

  I take his face in my hands, and I kiss him. I pour all my fear and my pain into that kiss. Fear for how close I came to losing him and pain for what he’s suffered, that shadow cast over his life.

  William says he was happy to stay here in self-imposed exile. I don’t doubt that given the choice, he’d have spent most of his life at Thorne Manor. But how much of it was a choice? How many times had he gone to London, heard whispers of how he murdered his fiancé, and been reminded of the person he suspected had really killed her? Reminded of the fact that his sister was out there in the world, possibly doing the same to others?

  “I am desperately sorry for everything you’ve been through,” I say. “And I wish I could have been there to go through it with you. When I saw Cordelia today . . . I told you that my mother took me away after a breakdown here when I saw a ghost. It was Cordelia. She tried to drive me away then, and my uncle . . .” I swallow.

  “Your uncle died,” he says softly.

  I nod. “Cordelia told me to stay away from you. After my breakdown, I blocked her exact threat, but some part of my mind remembered and kept me . . .”

  “Kept you away from our house. Kept you away from me.” His lips press to mine, and when he pulls back, he stays there, looking into my eyes. “Cordelia did everything in her power to keep you from me, but now she’s gone, and no one is ever going to keep me from you again.”

  “She did everything in her power to take me from you. To take away everyone you cared for, everyone who loved you. I might not be able to make up for all that, William, but I’m certainly going to try.” I take his face in my hands. “I will not leave. I promise you that. Whatever it takes, I will always find my way back to you.”

  “And I will always be here for you to find.”

  He lifts me, and carries me upstairs and lowers me onto the bed, already bending to kiss me and . . .

  The room fades. It doesn’t disappear as it always has. It’s a gradual transition. I see him bending for that kiss, and I strain up to meet it, and his bedroom disappears, and another appears, superimposed over it. The last thing I see is William’s eyes going wide as he sees me fading.

  “Bron—”

  That’s all he manages. And then he’s gone.

  When I land on the master suite bed, I’m not concerned. I run to my own room, close my eyes and try to return. Nothing happens. I feel nothing happening, like ramming my head into a solid wall where before there had been a curtain.

  I solved the mystery. I freed the ghosts and banished the killer and lifted the shadow from William’s life. I accomplished my task, and so the way has closed.

  The stitch has broken, and I’m on the wrong side.

  37

  I
can’t get back to William. I’ve tried, and I’ve tried, and I’ve tried. A month has passed, and the only thing that’s changed is that I spend less than half my waking hours trying to return.

  The ghosts are gone. Eliza Stanbury no longer walks my halls. Teddy Wakefield no longer slips from my closet.

  Some shameful corner of my soul wishes I’d never set their spirits free. Wishes I’d left them in limbo if it meant that passage stayed open. Yet even that’s pointless. If I hadn’t stopped Cordelia, she’d have killed me and then taken her brother.

  I don’t allow myself to think that William is dead and gone in my time. He’s alive in his, and that’s what matters. He pens me notes, an avalanche at first, whereupon we devised a code for communication. To ask a question, he places two coins in a box. If I take both, the answer is yes. One, it is no. We’ve tried more complicated systems, but they fail, so we’re left with this. I can only remove or leave what he offers.

  He knows I’m desperately trying to return. So he writes, and he leaves me pouches of coins, and we pretend this is temporary. When autumn comes, he knows I must return to school, and so he’ll wait. For how long? I don’t know.

  Yes, actually, I do.

  I’ve found the records of his death. I had to for my own peace of mind. William Thorne the Fifth dies at ninety-three, an astounding age for the time. He dies unmarried with no heirs save a second cousin who inherits his estate.

  So yes, William waits for me, and I long to tell him not to, but I can’t. I’m not certain it would matter anyway. He hadn’t planned any other life before I arrived. He has his manor house and his horses, and he’ll be, if not happy, at least content.

  I am not content.

  I’ve tried every way to get back. I’ve curled myself into that bedroom floorboard space as if I can pull forth whatever magic it retains. I’ve stood in that wall gap where I returned the last time. Teddy Wakefield has been buried. So, too, has Cordelia, and if the villagers wonder how I found them, they only whisper about the new lady of the manor putting the spirits to rest, and they’re pleased with me for it. It provides them with fresh stories and legends, which are always welcome.

  I spend my days lost in a pit of rage and grief and despair. I devote what energy I have to caring for Enigma. Otherwise, I half-heartedly tread water just enough to keep my head above the surface. Eat just enough. Bathe just enough. Leave the house just enough. Even that’s mostly for Del and Freya so they won’t make good on their threats to summon the doctor. And it’s for William, too. He lives for another forty-five years. I need to keep taking his notes from under that floorboard for just as long if I can.

  Five weeks after the stitch broke, I wake, pivot straight for the floorboard . . . and vomit all over my bedside carpet.

  I’m sick half the day, and then it clears, and I declare it food poisoning only to wake vomiting the next morning. Freya comes early and catches me with my head in the toilet, Enigma helpfully leading her to me. Over my protests, Freya summons the doctor.

  “Could you be pregnant?” That’s the first thing the young woman asks, and I laugh because I remember being her age and hearing those words at every doctor’s appointment.

  My throat’s been sore for a week now.

  Could you be pregnant?

  I twisted my foot, and it’s throbbing and tender.

  Could you be pregnant?

  There’s this odd rash on my arm . . .

  Could you be pregnant?

  Michael and I had made a joke of it. That’s what happens when you’re a woman in her twenties—you’re a walking pair of ovaries waiting to be seeded.

  I haven’t been asked that question in years. Now, though, when I start to laugh at it, I stop.

  Could you be pregnant?

  Oh.

  I have spent five weeks in this pit, and it takes only two lines on a small white stick to make me leap—no, vault out of it. This body I’m neglecting is no longer mine alone to abuse. It houses the beginnings of a child.

  William’s child.

  Five weeks ago, I fell into William’s bed with no thoughts of protection from pregnancy or disease. He would have presumed I was a sensible and responsible adult, who’d taken care of that with my twenty-first-century medical magic. I didn’t, and I’ve never, in my life, been so thrilled about making a mistake.

  After Michael’s death, I wanted his child even more than ever. I longed to discover he’d secretly bequeathed me that gift in a test tube somewhere. Of course, he hadn’t because he would have considered that wrong and selfish, leaving me with a child when he wasn’t there to help raise them.

  Now, I carry William’s baby, and I don’t care whether I’ll be a single parent. I’m joyful the way I thought nothing on earth could make me again. When our child is born, I’ll find a way to let William know. I can give him that, and I can give him the gift of a daughter or son who’ll be loved as fiercely as any parent ever loved a child. And I’ll keep trying to cross over—I’ll never stop trying.

  I soldier through the morning sickness, and I mend my body and my mind. I commit myself to making a place here, not only in this house but in the community. Our child will spend their summers here, and I suspect High Thornesbury will be more their home than my Toronto neighborhood. So, I lay the foundation for both of us as I take a role in village life, volunteering at the library and visiting the pub for stories and gossip and non-alcoholic refreshments.

  I have a standing pub date every Thursday late in the evening when Freya holds her “witching hour,” regaling locals and visitors with folklore tales. That particular Thursday, I’m volunteering at the library until nearly eight, but there’s enough of a gap before the pub night that I motor home for a late dinner.

  I’m heading for the house in twilight when I catch a glimpse of a distant figure. It’s Harold Shaw with his spade. I’ve spotted him many times since that last day, and I presume I’m still seeing a vision from the past—like Eliza in the moors—rather than his ghost. But that evening, he stands leaning on his spade, very clearly watching me. We make eye contact, and he turns into the yard and motions for me to follow.

  When I catch up, he’s digging in the wild edge of the property. His spade, of course, does nothing—his ghost simply goes through the motions. When he turns to look at me, I understand, and I hurry back to the garage and grab my own spade. I take care not to strain myself. I have a fetus the size of a rice grain inside me—I doubt I can injure it lifting shovels of dirt. The ground is soft, the digging easy. I’m still careful.

  “Is it Eliza?” I ask as I scoop up another shovelful.

  Harold says nothing. Doesn’t seem to hear me. Just stares down at the spot, watching me dig. When my spade hits something with a hollow thump, he nods in satisfaction. I clear the object. It’s a box, and at first, I think it’s a casket, but then I see a trunk.

  I bend and clear the dirt with my hands. There’s a huge brass latch, and I struggle to undo it. Then I brace myself for what’s inside as I yank it open and—

  A trunk full of clothing.

  I lift out a beautiful gown of green velvet. Something slides from it. A box. I pry that open to find antique jewels. I set the box aside and keep emptying the trunk. Clothing. It’s all Victorian women’s clothing until I reach the bottom and find a bag filled with gold bullion and bills.

  I told her to leave. She said she didn’t have any money. I emptied my safe—a small fortune—slammed it down in front of her and rode off into the moors. She took the money along with her things.

  I look up at Harold. “This is Cordelia’s. You buried it here.”

  His chin inclines in the barest nod.

  “You didn’t take the money or the jewels. Is that what you wanted to show me?”

  A barely perceptible shake of his head, those eyes fixed on me. Waiting for me to figure it out.

  “I name you Harold Shaw.”

  He nods, but says nothing.

  “I’m not sure what you want,” I say with
some exasperation. “I’m not going to name you as her killer.”

  His gaze meets mine, and I feel the message there.

  “You want me to? But you ended her life to protect William, and I’m not sentencing you to . . .”

  I trail off. If I name his crime, do I sentence him to anything? I presumed I would, but what if it only releases him?

  “You need me to accuse you,” I say. “To name you as her killer so you can be free.”

  A nod.

  “Thank you for showing me this,” I say, nodding down at the trunk. “Thank you for not taking anything from it. Thank you, too, for doing what William could not, what would have destroyed him. He knows what you did, and he forgives you, and he is grateful. I am even more grateful.”

  His face stays stiff, but relief passes behind his eyes. The relief of a man who committed a horrible crime for all the right reasons but has never reconciled that.

  I straighten. “I name you, Harold Shaw, as the man who took the life of Cordelia Thorne to protect the lives of others.”

  A soft sigh, the first sound I’ve ever heard from him. And with it, he fades into the night. I stand there, watching him go, and I sigh myself, an exhale of relief. It’s done. Now, it’s truly done.

  I bend to the trunk. Museum-quality clothing, exquisite jewels and a small fortune in gold and pristine bills.

  “Well, our child will want for little, William,” I murmur. “Thank you, Harold.”

  I take the money bag, put the jewels in it, close the trunk and head for the house.

  As I near the house, something flickers in my bedroom window, and my chest seizes. I hurry forward, and in that window, the drapes move, and I run faster, only to see an empty and open window, the new sheers fluttering in the summer breeze.

  I take a deep breath and head to the garage where I return the shovel to its place and wash my hands. I should take the money and jewels inside, but I’m already late for Freya’s pub talk. So I put them into the car trunk for now.

  I put the top down on the car and drive out into the gorgeous summer night. I’m ripping past the house when . . . the front door opens.