of hours later, but is really less than one, I am clean, my hair shampooed, my nightgown thrown in the laundry although it may not be salvageable, I am wearing clean clothes, I have obediently eaten scrambled eggs and toast, and I am at last, in my bed. Emme has come over and embraced me ferociously (finally, someone who doesn’t yell at me in order to show they care) and left again. No one has forced more explanations from me, though Israel looks at me from underneath hooded, suspicious eyes. He holds his tongue for now, but I know instinctively that when we wake I am going to be drilled with questions.
Everyone is almost as exhausted as I am and they all are as happy to drop into their beds as I am, though Harry and Matthias leave for their new home first. It is not even twilight, but it no longer matters; as long as we all sleep together we don’t care what time of day or night it is. Dad tucks me in like a little girl and I am touched by the rarity of this demonstration of sentimentality.
“You scared me,” he says, from his perch on the side of my bed. “Don’t do that again. Please.”
“Yes, Dad,” I promise, and put my hand over his. His trembles just a bit. With his free hand, he reaches up and smoothes his eyebrow. Then he reaches over and smoothes my hair back from my forehead. I feel pleased and honored to be the recipient of his nervous habits somehow. “I just wanted to find Rose. Be together again. Like it used to be.”
“Rose is gone, Sonnet. Your mother is gone. I couldn’t bear it if I lost you too.” I realize then that he is not slurring his speech and that his eyes are clear and focused on mine. Has my disappearance sobered him?
“Yes, Dad,” I repeat and blink the tears from my eyes. “I’m sorry. Do you feel it coming?”
I speak of traveling. That feeling that has been lingering in my mind and emotions for days now. To my surprise, he seems to know exactly what I’m referring to.
“Yes,” he says. “It’s coming.”
I sleep.
I sleep like the dead and it feels so lovely that when I feel strong hands shaking me awake hours later, I squeeze my eyes closed tighter and mutter a threat. The hands are persistent and I can’t ignore them much longer; I open my eyes and scowl at Dad.
Besides the look on his face – worried and nervous and drawn – the smell is the first thing that clues me in. An odor of cabbage and cold humidity wafts by my nostrils, like the smell of dank heavy fog mixed with old vegetables. The aromas, though not entirely pleasant, match my surroundings, and my surroundings are not my bedroom. It is not my house at all, it is not my town, and it is not the century I fell asleep in. There are cobblestones beneath me, hard and unyielding. I am curled up against a wall; on inspection it seems to be a very large building on a very English looking street. English, I’d wager, not because I am an expert on architecture or geography, but because of the frowning mustached man looming over me. He is quite obviously British, from his well trained mustache to his bowler hat to his walking cane. If that hadn’t been enough to tip me off, his accent certainly convinces me.
“Get up then, miss,” he pokes me with the tip of his cane. “There isn’t any loitering in this neighborhood. This is a respectable neighborhood, and I’ll thank you, sir,” he turns his attention to my father, “To stay out of it.”
Dad only blinks, touches his own mustache indifferently, and nods.
The man makes a humphing sound and continues his walk down the street. He tips his hat to a smartly dressed lady with a parasol as they pass, and the woman frowns at me, stepping farther away from my vicinity as she walks by.
Wonderful. Corsets. Just my luck. My ribs ache already at the very real memory of whale bone cutting into them. I stand with a sigh.
“Prue and Israel?” I ask Dad.
“Here,” he nods. “Been up a little bit. Went to find things out, thought we’d let you sleep as long as possible.”
“Thanks.” It’s very cold, there is slush on the street, and I jump from one foot to the other to keep warm. My head feels