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“I’m fine,” I say quietly. I don’t want to startle him into letting go yet. “Just clumsy.”

“Be careful,” he says, his voice soft too, but a second later he drops his hands and bends to pick up my letters, scattered around where I’ve fallen.

“Well, good evening,” a voice says. I whirl to see Ben standing at the front door.

My heart thumps, torn between relief and guilt. What did he see when he came in? The relief wins out. “You’re finally back!” I hurry to him and throw my arms around him.

He pats me on the back, stepping away. “Easy there.”

I clench my jaw. Of course, he witnessed the one time Quint has been slightly more than formal with me—and over my falling. Apparently, Ben missed the falling part. “Where have you been?” I ask, irritated by the slight tremble in my voice.

“Watching some old house in the Lower East Side, getting cold and hungry.” He walks past me, heading for the stairs.

“So we know where he’s staying?” I follow, hoping that by ignoring his coldness, his mood will lighten.

“That’s about all.” Ben meets Quint’s eyes, a mocking expression sweeping across his face. “I’ll leave you two.” He strides up the stairs and disappears.

I stare after him, his lack of affection seeping through me. I try to shake it off. Countless times in 1928, his coddling had irritated me. After what he’s seen and what he knows, had I expected him to hug me and apologize for making me worry? But still, his shortness stings—even though I deserve it. Maybe more so, because so often in the past, Ben wouldn’t have made me feel bad for how much it must hurt him to see me with Quint again.

And that’s part of the problem.

I turn to Quint. For the first time, he holds my gaze. “Well, I guess this means good night,” I say.

He gives me a wary smile. “Good night, Miss Granville.”

How I hate the way he says Miss Granville. I nod and head to my own room. I lie down, fully clothed, on my bed for several minutes, trying to decide if I should undress for bed or go talk to Ben.

Quint will marry Kitty. I’ve seen it in writing. So why fight this? Do I even have a chance of keeping Ben now? Every minute here that he has to witness the elephant in the room of my feelings for Quint wears on his hope for us—his attitude tonight says it all. If I want any future at all with him, I’ll have to mend fences now, before things get too far out of hand.

Why is loving him so hard? Ben has given me everything. He’s taken care of me from the moment I fell through the mirror the first time. All without me asking, all the time saying he wanted to, even when that care stepped over the line or when it fell prey to social norms of the past.

But I still have to fight to feel the way I do about him. Unlike the blissful moments in Quint’s company—at least before I left him—I’ve had to tread carefully with Ben. In my heart, I know that eventually things will click for us. Our memories of the past will fade. Ben will open up and trust me with his deeper feelings, with more of himself, won’t he? Someday maybe we’ll be able to talk about it without breaking the thin ice that only just covers what I left in the past.

But maybe coming back has ruined everything. I knew it might from the moment I saw Quint. Ben probably did too.

How could we have refused to come, though?

Is it a sign, I wonder? If we can’t face the ghosts in my past without falling apart, can we make a future work? It solidifies my thoughts that Ben and I need more time before we set our future in stone. I rub my forehead, eyeing the ring box sitting on my nightstand. I’ve kept it there to remind myself of who I’m truly meant to be with.

I need to talk to Ben.

I peek out into the hall, not wanting to get caught going alone into Ben’s room so late in the evening. The hall is deserted. Watching my steps, I tiptoe to his bedroom, lifting my hand to tap on the door only to find it already partially open.

“Ben?” I push it slowly forward.

“Don’t you think it’s a little late to be out of your room, Miss Granville?”

I stiffen at the sound of his voice. If I hated Quint addressing me that way, I despise the way Ben says it now. He has on the mask. Charming words and polite demeanor, marred by a bitterness I haven’t heard since our first day in 1901. When I step all the way into the room, I find him lying on his bed and staring into the space above. His suit jacket lies over a chair, and his tie hangs loose over the top two buttons undone on his untucked shirt.

“Can we talk?” I ask, ignoring the hard edge to his tone. We can work this out—if Ben will let me in to try.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, his voice cool and detached. “I’m sorry for snapping at you downstairs.”

His apology, chilly as it is, still hurts. “Please don’t push me out. Talk to me,” I beg.

“About what?” he asks. He bites off the words, his own frustration evident.

“This entire situation, Ben!” I cry. “We can’t ignore it and hope it will all be okay again when we go home. Talk to me!”