Page 32 of Every Hour until Then (Timeless #5)

November 11, 1938 London, England

Arthritis had settled into my fingers the year before, but that didn’t stop me from holding Austen’s hand as we walked slowly along Berkeley Square Road, toward the familiar townhouse where I had stayed with my parents fifty years ago. Though it felt like yesterday.

“Do you think this is wise?” I asked Austen as he walked slowly beside me.

“It’s up to you,” he said with a smile. “Everything from here on out is full of endless possibilities.”

“It’s strange to be living like the rest of them again,” I said with a chuckle. “We knew we had fifty years, but anything can happen now.”

The wrinkles around Austen’s eyes were a testament to the laughter and joy we’d had for five decades. He lifted my aged hand to his lips and shook his head. “Anything was always possible, my love. But now the real adventure has begun.”

I smiled at him, thankful that we’d been guaranteed those fifty years, though life had still thrown us many surprises along the way. Some we cherished and others we mourned.

My smile fell, thinking of our greatest loss.

“Cecily?” he asked, knowing me so well that he could sense the shift in my mood by watching me.

I lifted my face to the sun, not wanting to ruin this special day with the pain from the past. Instead, I allowed myself to smile once again and said her name. “Yes, Cecily.”

He squeezed my hand, ever so gently, and nodded at the townhouse up ahead. “Here we are.”

I put thoughts of Cecily aside, in the safe place within my heart where she lived forever, and took comfort knowing that her path was extraordinary.

“I’m happy I chose not to be here today as my younger self,” I told Austen, my thoughts shifting from Cecily to my mama and papa. “I remember leaving that morning to walk to Lancaster House to visit Jack the Ripper’s exhibit one more time before departing for America. I saw it in a brand-new light, knowing who Jack was and knowing that it wasn’t the end of mine or Mary’s story—but just the beginning in many ways.”

“It will be good to see Mary again when she comes to visit,” Austen said with excitement.

I nodded. Mary and I had written to each other over the years, once I knew it was safe for us to correspond. She had reimagined her life in ways I hadn’t expected, but I applauded. We’d gone to visit her many times, but her upcoming trip to London would be the first time she’d been home since 1888.

I couldn’t wait.

“Are you ready?” Austen asked me. “I’m sure your parents are eager to see you.”

“Are they?” I laughed and sighed. “For them, it will be a shock. I’m older than both of them! And they just saw me an hour ago—at least, the younger me. I haven’t spoken to them in fifty years. But it will be good to see them again. I’ve missed them fiercely.”

“Shall I ring the bell?” he asked.

I nodded, bracing myself.

Austen rang the doorbell, and I took a deep breath, marveling at this strange existence I shared with Mama and all the other time-crossers, Cecily included.

As the door opened and I faced Mama and Papa, tears of joy filled my eyes.

“Kathryn,” Mama said, pressing her lips together as she took a step forward to enfold me into her arms.

I let go of Austen’s hand and returned her hug, thanking God for the course my life had taken.

There truly was a season for everything, and His timing was perfect.