Praise for Kelley Armstrong

  “Armstrong is a talented and evocative writer who knows well how to balance the elements of good, suspenseful fiction, and her stories evoke poignancy, action, humor and suspense.”

  The Globe and Mail

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  “[A] master of crime thrillers.”

  Kirkus

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  “Kelley Armstrong is one of the purest storytellers Canada has produced in a long while.”

  National Post

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  “Armstrong is a talented and original writer whose inventiveness and sense of the bizarre is arresting.”

  London Free Press

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  “Kelley Armstrong has long been a favorite of mine.”

  Charlaine Harris

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  “Armstrong’s name is synonymous with great storytelling.”

  Suspense Magazine

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  “Like Stephen King, who manages an under-the-covers, flashlight-in-face kind of storytelling without sounding ridiculous, Armstrong not only writes interesting page-turners, she has also achieved that unlikely goal, what all writers strive for: a genre of her own.”

  The Walrus

  Also by Kelley Armstrong

  A Rip Through Time mystery series

  A Rip Through Time

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  Haven’s Rock mystery series

  Murder at Haven’s Rock

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  Rockton mystery series

  City of the Lost

  A Darkness Absolute

  This Fallen Prey

  Watcher in the Woods

  Alone in the Wild

  A Stranger in Town

  The Deepest of Secrets

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  A Stitch in Time time-travel gothic

  A Stitch in Time

  Ballgowns & Butterflies (novella)

  A Twist of Fate

  Snowstorms & Sleigh Bells (novella)

  A Turn of the Tide

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  Cursed Luck contemporary fantasy

  Cursed Luck

  High Jinx

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  Standalone Thrillers

  The Life She Had

  Wherever She Goes

  Every Step She Takes

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  Past Series

  Cainsville paranormal mystery series

  Otherworld urban fantasy series

  Nadia Stafford mystery trilogy

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  Young Adult

  Aftermath / Missing / The Masked Truth

  Otherworld: Kate & Logan: paranormal duology

  Darkest Powers paranormal trilogy

  Darkness Rising paranormal trilogy

  Age of Legends fantasy trilogy

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  Middle Grade

  A Royal Guide to Monster Slaying fantasy series

  The Blackwell Pages trilogy (with Melissa Marr)

  Ghosts & Garlands

  A Stitch in Time holiday novella

  Kelley Armstrong

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without the written permission of the Author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

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  Copyright © 2022 K.L.A. Fricke Inc.

  All rights reserved.

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  Cover Design by Cover Couture www.bookcovercouture.com

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  ISBN-13 (ebook): 978-1-989046-56-2

  Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  More Stories….

  About the Author

  Introduction

  If you’re new to my A Stitch in Time stories—or if it’s been a while since you’ve read one—here’s a little introduction to get you up to speed. Otherwise, if you’re ready to go, just skip to chapter one and dive in!

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  There’s a time stitch in Thorne Manor, hereditary summer home to the Thornes of North Yorkshire. As far as we know, Bronwyn Dale was the first to pass through, traveling from the twenty-first century to the nineteenth, where she met William Thorne when they were both children. Later, as a widow, she returned to find William still there. They’re now married with two daughters. They live in Thorne Manor and divide their time between the modern world and the Victorian one.

  Before Bronwyn returned to Thorne Manor, Rosalind—the wife of William’s best friend August Courtenay—accidentally went through the time stitch into the modern world, where she was trapped for four years, separated from August and their young son, Edmund.

  Rosalind returned home last fall and reunited with her family, including her youngest sister, Miranda. In A Turn of the Tide, Miranda attempted to sneak through the stitch into the twenty-first century but found herself instead in the eighteenth century, where she joined Nicolas Dupuis, a young French privateer, on his Robin-Hood-esque mission to help a local village. Now, as the holidays approach, Miranda is finally in twenty-first-century London, with Nicolas, enjoying a much-deserved break.

  1

  I have always found Christmas to be the most frustrating of holidays, with its overflowing cornucopia of festive delights and impossible choices. Do I arrive at the yuletide ball in a one-horse open sleigh or walk along a moonlit path, snow crunching under my boots? Or do I forgo the ball and join a caroling party with my sister and her family, traveling incognito through the village and passing out baskets brimming with treats? Or do I go dancing and caroling another night and spend this one at home, snuggled in front of the roaring fire with a book and a cup of mulled wine?

  This holiday season, I am facing what may be the most impossible choice yet. Do I stand at the hotel window, staring out at the wonders of the twenty-first century . . . or do I stare at the bed where my lover is stretched naked, engrossed in a book? Both are marvels to behold and present an infuriating quandary.

  At last, I find a spot where I might greedily devour both—gazing out the window at this strange and beautiful world while watching Nicolas’s reflection as he greedily devours a book of twenty-first-century medicine. I suppose I could feel a pang of jealousy at the way he is so engrossed in that book when I stand here wearing nothing but a silken robe, but we have already made very good use of the bed, and it will be at least another half an hour before either of us is ready to continue that part of our holiday.

  It is a much-deserved break. A “vacation,” as Bronwyn calls it. Being from this world, she arranged it for us, right down to seeing us onto the train in York and ensuring a driver met us in London. It is Nicolas’s and my first time in the twenty-first century. Not our first time passing through the stitch, though. I went through months ago, expecting to jump from my Victorian world to this one and instead ending up in Nicolas’s—in 1790.

  We have spent the intervening months on the move. Twice we let the stitch send us where it may—to another time, another person in need. We also returned to 1790 to visit Nicolas’s family in Martinique. That was not a short journey. I only wish we weren’t limited to the stitch in Thorne Manor so that we might come to this world, fly where we need to be and then step back in time. Getting to Martinique was a month’s journey each way, and that was on the fastest boat we could find. So Nicolas and I have not truly rested since we met. That is the purpose of this trip.

  It is also about me donating the Roman gladius Nicolas gifted me shortly after we met. While the short sword is a common soldier’s weapon, it is in incredible condition, as if it had been buried before he bought it—quite inexpensively after the seller realized wealthy nobles had no interest in an “old” short sword. Having now been transported from the eighteenth century, the condition is even more incredible, and as much as I long to keep it, I understand the historical value and have agreed to the donation in a world where they will appreciate it.

  There is a third purpose for this trip: finally visiting the twenty-first century. Now that I am here, it is nothing short of terrifying. I am rather tempted to stay in this hotel room and only gaze out the window.

  “It is overwhelming, non?” Nicolas says as he comes up behind me, his hands going around my waist. “Or is that purely my own impression?”

  “Purely yours. My word for it is terrifying.”

  He kisses the side of my neck. “I believe yours may be more accurate, crécerelle.”

  His chin rests on my shoulder as he gazes down at the street an impossible distance below, crammed with cars and omnibuses, the honking reaching us even up here.

  “I already respected Rosalind immensely,” he says, “but seeing this, my awe for her has grown. I cannot imagine what it was like for your sister, trapped in this world.”

  “Nor can I,” I say, tears prickling my eyes.

  His arms tighten around me. “But she survived the ordeal, and she now returns to this world despite it. Tha
t makes her the second most remarkable Hastings sister I know.”

  I nod. “Yes, Portia is quite remarkable.”

  He chuckles under his breath. “You know that I meant you, but I should not set Portia in last place, even if it is a very difficult competition. While I do not know her as well as I do Rosalind, I hope to rectify that at Christmas, if I might lure Portia into conversation. She has been very quiet with me, and I am endeavoring not to take that personally.”

  “Do not. Portia has been rather reserved for even me these last couple of years. She—” I wave a hand. “I will not burden you with my family troubles.”

  “It is no burden if I hope to someday be part of that family myself. Perhaps a marriage license would help. Might I sneak that into your Christmas stocking?”

  He says it lightly, but I know he is not entirely joking. I twist in his arms and kiss his cheek. “You may consider it for my Easter basket. As for Portia, take that medical book with you, and you shall not be able to get rid of her.”

  That makes him smile. I have two sisters. Rosalind is the oldest, married with a son and a newborn daughter. Portia is next, and like Nicolas, she is trained as a doctor, though also without the formal schooling. In her case, she has been unable to obtain that formal schooling because of her sex. In his, he was supposed to obtain it in France, but the revolution put an end to that, and in my own time, as a Black man, he would find it as difficult a goal as Portia does. Still, both are—for all intents and purposes—as qualified as any medical professional, through apprenticeships, practice and study.

  “Then I know what I will buy her,” he says. He looks down at the road below. “Yet we would need to locate a bookshop.”

  “Which might be the one thing to tempt me out of this room.”

  “We will contact Bronwyn with the device she provided.”

  He means the “cell phone,” as she calls it. Rosalind says it’s a “mobile phone” here in England. As if things were not complicated enough . . .

  The phone sits on the desk. It is a wonder among wonders, and I find myself both spellbound and daunted. Apparently, it does many things—things that make my head ache thinking about them—but for us, it is intended as a way of instantly communicating with Bronwyn or her husband, William, who are in the twenty-first century, preparing for the holidays.

  I have only called Bronwyn once, to test it. I also might have been unable to resist randomly hitting numbers until someone answered . . . someone who spoke a language neither Nicolas nor I recognized, and we realized we might have been speaking to someone halfway around the world. My head also hurts thinking about that.

  “Perhaps we could walk around the block looking for a bookstore,” I say, as carefully as I might suggest swimming the Thames in my day. “If we stay on this side of the road and do not cross through traffic.” I squint down at what looks like water bugs zooming about at dizzying speeds. “And if we hold hands very tightly and do not let go.”

  Nicolas smiles. “I shall hold your hand as tightly as you hold mine, and together we shall conquer the beast.”

  We have been into the future before. Our second adventure took us to the 1950s, but only as far as the village near Thorne Manor. While we’d seen marvels, they’d been viewed from a distance, as we had no need to step into a motor vehicle. Since we’ve arrived in this world, we’ve been in Bronwyn’s vehicle, a train and a sleek black car with a liveried driver, all moving so fast that I lose my breath remembering it.

  “We have money, non?” Nicolas says. “Sufficient funds for this excursion?”

  I nod. Rosalind had given us each two hundred pounds, which seemed ridiculous. Then her husband, August, snuck Nicolas another five hundred “just in case.” In case of what? Getting trapped in this world and needing to purchase a small dwelling? Then, on the drive to the hotel, I saw giant signs advertising what looked like apartment flats for the bargain price of a quarter million pounds. Now I am half-afraid to set foot in a bookshop for fear I’ll faint when I see the prices. On the other hand, as an authoress—author, Bronwyn would correct—I do hope book prices have kept apace.

  “I believe we can safely descend into the maelstrom,” Nicolas says. “Perhaps, if we work up the courage, we might even slip into a shop for a bite to eat, as it does appear to be nearing teatime.”

  I am about to answer when a knock comes at the door. We both pivot to stare at it. Or, at least, to stare in the direction of it. The room is big enough to hold a family of six . . . and Bronwyn warned that it was quite small by her North American standards. It has its own water closet, with running water, a tub and a booth for showering. It also has a front hall, where the door is located.

  The knock comes again.

  “Hello?” I call, chastising myself for the tremor in my voice. That is not the voice of Miranda Hastings. But in this unfamiliar place, I feel as I did when I first stepped onto the shores of Martinique, uncertain and more than a little unsettled.

  “Ms. Hastings?” a woman’s voice calls back. “It’s your concierge service.”

  The word concierge sounds French, and while Nicolas is teaching me his mother tongue, I do not yet know this term. He whispers, “It means the caretaker of the hotel.”

  He raises his voice. “We are quite fine, thank you.”

  “Dr. Dupuis?” she says and then rapid-fires a line in French that has his brows rising.

  “She says she has a package and a message for us, one that is, as she says, ‘time sensitive.’ If we are ‘resting,’ there is a robe I may don to answer the door.”

  My brows shoot up higher than his. Not only does the concierge seem unconcerned about us sharing a room and not a surname, but she expects us to answer the door in a dressing gown?

  Nicolas only shrugs and goes to the closet, where he pulls out two white dressing gowns. One thing I learned about his eighteenth century is that it is more relaxed about such things than the nineteenth. And apparently, the twenty-first is even more so.

  We don the dressing gowns. I’m relieved to find mine easily wraps around me. I am considered quite plump in my world, and I do not fit into most ready-made clothing. From what I have seen, I am not so outsized in this world. While there are many who look as if they might have the Victorian fabled “twenty-two-inch waist,” people come in all shapes and sizes, and I only hope that means they are all equally accepted.

  Speaking of acceptance, while I did notice a few sideways looks at Nicolas and me on the train, we did not attract nearly the attention we do in our own times, as a Black man and white woman. When Nicolas opens the door, the concierge—a gray-haired woman—barely flicks a glance over us.

  She asks how we’re finding the room. Nicolas replies. Growing up, Rosalind often grumbled that the “cat never seizes your tongue, Miranda, and sometimes, I wish it would.” Of the three Hastings sisters, I was the first to speak, however daunting the circumstances . . . and however impolitic my opinions. Yet in the last few months, I’ve found myself allowing Nicolas to speak for us. That has nothing to do with being the woman in a relationship and everything to do with being . . . well, the less worldly one.

  At one time, I would have laughed at that. I am a hundred times more worldly than other women of twenty-six. I had done all the things women of my age and position are not supposed to do, from traveling alone to nourishing a career, not to mention having sex out of wedlock. But for all that, I was still, in many ways, Shakespeare’s Miranda, as Nicolas once put it, “trapped on her island and dreaming of more.” I’d never traveled farther than France. I’d never lived alone. I’d never done millions of things that men do.