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“You’ve already saved my life once,” she says, “and not for the last time. Don’t ask me not to keep you from harm when I can.”

We both climb into the back and I smile again. “I can’t get over the fact that it’s you. I just fed you a bottle. Your father says hello.”

She swallows and then she smiles. A brief smile, a flicker. “Does he?” she asks.

She changes the subject. Maybe she does so because her father is alive and she speaks to him daily. Or maybe she does so because the subject is painful and she doesn’t want to give too much away.

I lean back against the plush leather, tired but not exhausted the way I’ve been in the past. I couldn’t time travel right now, but it feels like I won’t need ages to recover, either. “Do you know how long I’ll need to stay?” I ask. “How long it takes me to get all my ability back?”

She smiles at me fondly, and it’s as if our roles are reversed. “A little over a week,” she says. “But try to make the most of your time here. You’ve never gotten to enjoy Paris when you were completely healthy.”

We’re entering the city now, bright and pristine, old and modern simultaneously. And it’s perfect, but I don’t want to be here. I want to be home with Henri and our daughter. “I just want to get back,” I tell her. “Once we leave for England everything’s going to change and—” I shrug. “Our lives are very peaceful now. I’m not sure they’ll stay that way.”

She continues to smile pleasantly. Am I imagining the strain I see behind it?

We pull up in front of the flat where I stayed the last time, and Philippe comes out to open the door. “I’ll see you again before you leave,” she says.

“You’re not coming in?”

She squeezes my hand. “As much as I’d like to, I think it’s best I don’t. I see you trying to read the future in every word I say, like a child who says she doesn’t want to know what’s in the box but keeps peeking inside anyway.”

I hesitate. “Do I want to know? Will I regret not asking later?”

She shakes her head. “There is not a single thing about your life you would change, Sarah,” she says. “Your life will be filled with more magic than you can possibly realize.”

* * *

The next morning, I am shepherded out of Cecelia’s flat early in the day for another of her beloved spa appointments. My skin is waxed and scrubbed and steamed until it shines, and then I’m led back to the car and taken to yet another spa to get my brows done and my hair cut. I know Cecelia well enough by now not to argue. She’s so used to her modern-day life that she doesn’t realize a hot shower and some tropical fruit alone seem like the height of luxury to me.

After my haircut, I ask Philippe if I can walk back to the flat and he agrees, though I know he’ll be following at a distance. The brisk air whips the coat around my legs, and I breathe deep, happy and sad at once. I want to be here, but I miss Henri. I miss our daughter. And time spent without them can only be bittersweet.

I turn the corner to Rue Courtalon. The limo is in front of the flat already, and as I step off the sidewalk to cross the street, I stumble to a sudden halt. There’s a woman beside the building, staring intensely at the limo...and I recognize her. Even though I only saw her once, very briefly, I recognize her face.

I recognize the malevolence that seems to radiate from her, just like the last time.

She’s the time traveler who followed Cecelia and me in the park, the last time I was here. I remain frozen a moment too long, and then I dart across the street. I have no plan in mind. I just know she’d better have a damn good explanation for why she’s following me. She was watching the limousine, but when the car I jump in front of lays on its horn, her head jerks in my direction.

Her nostrils flare in disgust, her eyes narrow, and then she begins to run.

She’s already turned into an alley by the time I reach her side of the street, and I know it’s a lost cause. If we go to that alley we’ll only find a pile of clothes once more. Philippe is by my side within seconds. “It would make my job easier if you wouldn’t throw yourself in front of cars for the remainder of your stay,” he suggests.

“I’m sorry.” I hug my arms to my chest. “I don’t suppose Cecelia would allow me a gun during this visit?”

He laughs. “Not if you intend to start shooting women who just happen to look on when a limo pulls up to the building.”

It’s nothing I can explain to him, but she didn’t just happen to be here. She’s watching us. And I want to know why.

At my request the next morning, Cecelia comes to the flat once more.

“I understand you’ve been using my pillows for target practice since yesterday,” she comments, trying not to smile.

It would be hard to deny since there’s currently a knife sticking out of one. “Just the bedroom pillow. It’s not expensive, right?”

She laughs. “I wouldn’t care if it were. My issue is more with the fact that you are suddenly feeling like you need to defend yourself. I fear you’ve hurt Philippe’s feelings.”

I take the seat across from her. “I saw that time traveler again yesterday,” I admit, twisting my hands. “She was watching the limo. I guess she was waiting for me to get out. And I know this will sound paranoid, but she’s bad. I can feel it. She needs to be stopped.”

I see a hint of knowledge in her eyes. And concern.