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I look at the doorway. Gibbons is picking his way through the wreckage. I reach for another shelf. It topples over the other, the keen of glass breaking joining Lord Bailemore’s and Gibbons’s yelling. I try to slow my exhausted panting as sharp, stinging smells fill the air around me, then force myself to hold my breath.

“Are you crazy, woman?” Gibbons yells.

I ignore him, searching for the stove. I spot it between two more sets of tall shelves. Pulling down another shelf with me, I push my way across the room.

“What are you doing?” Gibbons shrieks this time.

Grinning at him, I fling the nearest dial to high. To my chagrin, nothing happens. Gas stove! And without an automatic lighter. I pull the front of my nightgown over my mouth, gulping back a breath before holding it again. I search the room frantically. Looking for matches, looking for anything to blow the room to bits. The flicker of light catches my attention. Gleaming above a wooden table on the opposite wall is a gas wall sconce, thanks to the age of the house we’re in. I grab a nearby towel before hopping across the room to avoid liquids already pooling there. I toss the towel on top of the light.

“Get out! Get out!” Gibbons’s voice mingles with the sudden roar of flames. Heat snaps at me, pushing me back.

I look toward the door nearest me, leading outside. Get out, that’s a good idea. I fling myself toward it, pushing against it with all my strength and tumbling out into the street before an explosion throws me hard to the sidewalk.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The voices seem to come to me through water. “Where is she? WHERE IS SHE—” I cringe at the profanity spilling from a familiar voice.

“She’s everywhere, you idiot! She’s the one that blew up the house.” Gibbons sounds enraged. Not a surprise.

A heavy thwump and then a gasp of pain from Gibbons follows. I try to yell, but it doesn’t work at first. Taking a deep breath, I roll over to my hands and knees, but every part of my body screams at me in pain, and I collapse against the sidewalk. Heat still licks at my back, and a glance over my shoulder shows flames dancing over the wooden walls of the house I just escaped, with smoke billowing out of the broken windows and the gaping hole in the side. I try crawling forward, knowing I’m not out of danger yet, but my limbs refuse to obey. How can I get Ben to hear me? How far away are he and Gibbons? The sounds around me are muffled—the cracking of the fire and the moaning of the burning house—probably a result of the explosion, and the street is still empty in the too-early morning hours. The explosion should have awakened the neighbors, but would they see me amidst all the wreckage?

I try yelling again. “Ben?” Then, only slightly louder, “Ben!”

Footsteps warn me of someone coming closer. “Thank heavens, thank heavens,” Ben whispers.

“Yes,” I say, then cough. “Because I shouldn’t be alive.”

“No, you shouldn’t.” He lifts me, cradling me tenderly against his chest. “I get it, darling. You’re capable. I’ll never doubt that again.”

“I beat the crap out of him,” I wheeze, which earns me a tight chuckle.

“I saw.” Then, louder, he shouts, “I’ve got her, Quint!” His voice cracks with relief. “I’ve got her. She’s alive.”

I roll my head to the side, catching sight of Quint running toward us from the front of the house. I reach a hand out to him, desperate to be in his arms, and guilt sweeps through me when the arms already holding me tighten but still hand me off.

I don’t consider that Quint is still engaged when his lips press against the side of my head, my cheeks, my hair. I close my eyes and relax against him. He gently slips me into the back seat of a car, scooting in next to me.

“You’re safe,” he whispers. “You’re safe.” He buries his head into my shoulder, then presses his face against mine again, breathing shakily in and out. It feels good here with him, however long it lasts, wherever it leads to. His arms around my shoulders hug me close. His closeness melts away the aches in my body and the vile feeling of Lord Bailemore’s hands on me.

I don’t know if I’m fully conscious when I find the strength to take his face in mine and stare at him. “I love you,” I say. “Always.” Then I have to close my eyes again. The memories are flying away faster now, snatching back the images of those little girls and my wrinkled hands encased in Quint’s.

And I don’t know what that means.

Chapter Twenty-Six

I have the strongest urge to point at Gibbons and laugh. He looks absolutely ridiculous, strapped to a chair—Quint and Ben planned on tossing him through the mirror like that, for lack of a better way—and it satisfies me to see Gibbons so incapacitated. Especially with the tight gag around his mouth preventing him from expressing the rage written all over his furious expression.

Instead, I turn back to Ben. He and Quint did some fast thinking to get Gibbons into the car and away from the burning house before the police showed up. The last thing we needed was for him to escape from a less-than-secure 1930s jail. Without further hesitation, he needs to go back to the present.

And in all the chaos, there had been no time for me to talk to Ben. “Can we talk before…” I mean to say “we go,” but a lump in my throat stops me from finishing that. “Can we talk?” I repeat instead.

He nods at me quickly. “I promise, Clara,” he says in a whisper, rushed and pleading. “As soon as we get Gibbons back. I’ll—we’ll talk. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

Something in my chest tightens. “I need to talk to you first. Now.”

Ben looks over at Gibbons, worry in his expression. I don’t blame him. It feels as though he could simply disappear from our grasp. But I have to say this now.

“Okay,” he says slowly, his expression cautious as he steps away from the mirror that will lead him back to the future. Quint politely turns his back, focusing on standing guard over Gibbons. In all the chaos, I haven’t spoken to him either. First things first.