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I turn to William. “Good morning,” is all I can say with any measure of control before I stride away, off to find Mrs. Allen.

Mrs. Allen is too busy seeing to her household to talk for long. And none of her memories seem helpful in figuring out if those really were my parents at The Villa. It’s been twenty years, and like the letters they’d exchanged, Mrs. Allen remembers the conversations centering mostly on the children and with no specifics on Mrs. Granville’s side.

So I settle for reading in the library, first going through the latest newspaper in an attempt to familiarize myself with the current issues of the day. I find magazines to peruse, and I’m paging through the fourth issue of McClure’s (and not feeling particularly smarter) that afternoon when Quint finds me for the first time.

“Go put on an evening gown, Clara. We’re going out,” he declares.

The thought of being on the town with Quint—in New York City in 1928, of all times and places—changes my mood. “Out?” I say, setting the magazine down on the table.

Quint sits on the arm of the couch where I am and leans over me. His eyes dance so mischievously.

I stare up at him before releasing a long sigh. “This is crazy, Quint. To let ourselves get tangled up in something that can’t be.”

He slides his hand along my cheek, fingers brushing at the back of my hairline, and I automatically lean into him. “It already is.”

I shake my head at him. “Quint—it’s complicated.” He opens his mouth to protest again, but I raise a hand. “Ben and I…” I don’t know how to word this, and even as I say his name, more confusion settles over me. “You know that your father assumed we had eloped, and that’s because we are…” I don’t know how to finish that sentence. I don’t know what we are. Was it only a few days ago that Morgan teased me that Ben wasn’t my boyfriend yet? And now … I don’t even know if that eventuality is what I want. When we go home, will he find ways to dismiss me there like he is now?

“I understand,” Quint says in a low voice that sends shivers through me, and his eyes say he can read my thoughts. He runs a finger along my cheekbone, then along my jaw, and then brushes his thumb ever so lightly along my bottom lip. “But I know the lines of your face as well as I know my own. I could sketch every curve from absolute memory. I don’t know how it is … how I can look at you and know that we have been each other’s for a lifetime, but I know it as solidly as I know the sun will shine.”

“Well…” I clear my throat, shaken by his surety. “That’s quite an argument for an evening out.”

“Go get dressed,” he says. And this time, I don’t argue.

My evening dress is a pale pink shift dress with a scallop pattern on the skirt and a V-neck. Mrs. Allen’s maid, White, works in a twinkling silver headband across my forehead with a pink feather that matches my dress, waving in every gentle breeze. She lines my eyes darkly and then chooses a bold red lipstick, causing me to gasp over how perfectly vintage I look. Everything about my time in 1901 had been demure. Tonight I’m part flapper and without a care as to who judges me for it. I smooth up the seam in the back of my silk stockings, pulling on a lacy jazz garter decorated with ribbon.

Quint declares me breathtaking. He drives us into the city, taking me to a small theatre with hardly room for fifty spectators.

“What is this?” I ask as I walk in on his arm and follow an usher to our seats.

He gives me a mysterious smile, kisses my cheek, and says, “You’ll see.” He holds my hand while we wait, and we bend our heads together in anticipation—me of the surprise and Quint to reveal it.

He doesn’t need to say anything, though, as the orchestra—a small one—begins playing. I place my fingers over my lips at the opening of The Sleeping Beauty. He takes that hand and brings it to his own lips, kissing it.

“Don’t get too grateful yet,” he cautions. “It’s not a full staging.”

I still shake my head, awed at him. “Does it have the waltz?”

“Of course.”

So I sit next to him, enthralled by the performance, imperfect though it is for its small scale. The dancers are still divine. It’s been so long since I’ve seen a ballet—years ago, well before my parents died. I lap up their fluid, gorgeous movements, bringing to life parts of the breathtaking story I’ve only ever seen in cartoon movie form. Having Quint next to me, his hand in mine, makes the experience all the sweeter. Every time I dare a glance away from the stage, I find him staring at me, wonder in his smile that’s echoed in my own expression.

I can’t seem to find balance, some breathing room from the swirling of this new-old life as it moves into a permanent place within me. Once we—well, Ben, really—find Gibbons, I’ll go home. With Ben. I try to remember the way he kissed me before Burke and Cooper insisted we come here, how his fingers grazed my neck as he moved my hair out of the way, how those fingers wove into my hair. But for the life of me, I can’t put anyone but Quint’s face to those memories, and not exactly those. New ones, where Quint parks the car at the drive of Gracewoods but pulls me close before we go inside.

How can I enjoy this dizzy, out-of-control feeling of this headlong dive into a broken heart?

“That was magnificent,” I breathe as we stand on the curb to wait for Quint’s car to be brought around.

“It’s not over yet,” he proclaims with one of his roguish grins.

He takes me to a nearby club to dance. Of all the times I wish I could fall into a movie, the dance club scenes would be my first pick. The exciting atmosphere begs to be joined, with the elegant yet animated dancers in the middle of the room, the tables ringing the edges, and white-coated waiters weaving between them. That’s when I notice the suspicious drinks and remember one of the top points of the quick lectures Ben and I got to prepare us to come back in time—Prohibition.

“Quint,” I cry as he pulls me farther into the club, his hand in mine. “You’re going to get us arrested.”

“I’m quick on my feet, love.” And he winks.

The mood of the club is energetic and almost frantic. We choose the dance floor first, and Quint pulls me close, but I find it’s more for my safety than anything else. The crowd moves recklessly, laughing as they dance to swinging brass rhythms. I grin along with Quint during the upbeat tunes, sounding so different from the staticky recordings I’ve heard of the music from the twenties. It’s sweet and sharp and clear.

The slow ones steal more pieces of my heart. Quint wraps his arm tightly around my waist and grips my hand in his, then leans his head down to rest forehead to forehead with me. I can almost forget the people bumping into us and spend those moments in our own world. I give in to the part of me living off already-made memories of him.