This room, her room, didn't even have a writing desk, just the vanity. It was a room for a woman that she had pretended to be for so long that the thought of being anyone else, even the girl she had once been, was frightening.
That wasn't all bad. Scary, but there were possibilities, and it wasn't about a trip to London that would probably never really happen when she might slip out for a day to see the Tower of London and figure out where the Chronicler's headquarters was. It was more than possible that it was fate. It was, like finding Charles, or being found by him, a part of something incomplete that would bring her one step closer to home.
The word made her take in a shaky breath. Home. It was an idea more than an actual place. If she did go home, back to the day or the moment
