When the time came for JB to finally see Sam's place, Leo instantly volunteered to drive him. Virginia joined JB in the backseat, as she was ready to go home for the night. It was only when they were on the highway, breezing past frosty fields and festively lit neighborhoods in the twilight, that JB understood why Leo had wanted to be the one to take them. With his eyes trained on the road, Leo asked, "Do you remember the day I was rescued?"

"Of course," said JB. "How could I forget?"

Leo shrugged. "I'm sure you've been on wilder missions."

"Possibly, but it's not every day you manage to save seven people from an assassination—though technically, Katherine did most of the saving." He could never take credit for Katherine's incredible bravery that day.

"Then you must remember how I struggled to move on," Leo continued. "You know, I never properly thanked you for giving me that chance to at least try and save Clothide."

Of course. Clothide, Leo's first love—perhaps only love—had been separated from him during the revolution. While Leo was tasked with looking after the Romanovs, Clothide, a former palace maid, had been thrust into the horrors of the Russian Revolution to lead a life of starvation and hardship. JB had realized that Leo would not have been able to move forward with his life without the chance to try and save Clothide. And so, for the second time that day, he'd been "careless" with his elucidator, giving Leo the opportunity to snatch it and transport himself to the night of Clothide's last moments. Ultimately, in the few minutes Leo had to save her, she was already too far gone.

"Even though I knew deep down there was nothing more to be done," Leo said, "I still tormented myself on particularly bad days, running multiple scenarios in my head on how I might have better convinced Clothide to come with me, or wondering what my life might be like if I'd only had a few more seconds with her in that hovel." Leo's face contorted for a moment, but he quickly sucked in a breath and kept staring straight ahead. "What I'm trying to get at is this: Nobody else is going to bring up the possibility that Sam might not want to be saved by the time you reach her."

JB's blood went frigid.

"I'm not saying this to be cruel," Leo went on. "I just want you to know that if it does come to that—and it might not—you know there's someone who's already been through it."

"Two people," Virginia said quietly, and JB swallowed a gasp. She'd sat so still beside him this entire time, he'd almost forgotten she was there. "I've lost someone too."

"Thank you," JB said shakily. He could hardly bear to entertain the possibility that he wouldn't be able to save Sam, but he did want to show his gratitude. "I wish I could have done more for you both."

Virginia shook her head. "You tried your hardest. The best we can hope for now is to see you succeed where we couldn't." She pulled a cloth handkerchief from her purse and dabbed at her eyes. JB noticed the initials E. A. P. embroidered in the corner. He stared down at the books in his lap, his own treasured keepsakes from the one he'd lost. No one had questioned why he insisted on carrying them everywhere, heavy as they were. Linda had offered him one of her shopping bags, but he preferred to carry them in his arms, to feel their weight against his chest.

"Here we are," Leo muttered as he pulled into a driveway. The street was lined with old Queen Anne style houses. JB peered out the window for any sign of an apartment building, but he saw none.

"That's it," Virginia said, pointing at a pink two-story house with white trim. It looked more like a cake than a dwelling. "Sam's apartment is the top floor."

"Dad did some digging into Sam's finances and noticed that she could have afforded a bigger place if she wanted," Leo added, "but for some reason she chose to stay here."

JB smiled despite himself. "Let me guess, all the bigger places within her price range weren't old enough—or at least a lot less pink." He'd only ever seen images of the inside of Sam's place, but if he'd had to imagine what her home looked like on the outside, he would have pictured something like this.

Virginia snickered. "You call this old? This was built forty years after my time, and don't get me started on the twenty-first century additions."

"Ah, yes, the dreaded flushing toilet," Leo teased as he put the car in park and turned off the engine. He turned to JB and explained, "I only heard Mom's end of the conversation, but on Virginia's first day here, she'd called Mom in a panic because she was certain the downstairs was going to flood."

"I thought we'd explained how to use a toilet before we sent you off," said JB, suppressing a laugh. He and Sam had struggled to explain the process in a way that wouldn't clash with nineteenth-century sensibilities. It had not gone well.

Virginia crossed her arms. "I still don't understand how the water just disappears."

Leo rolled his eyes. "Pipes, Virginia. Pipes."

Still smiling, JB slid out of the car and said, "I'm ready."

The moment they stepped inside, the scent almost knocked him out cold. Roses and black currant, with a hint of almond. "It…it still smells like her…" He couldn't help himself—he collapsed against the wall and wept. The books tumbled out of his arms and onto the hardwood floor with a series of thumps. He wept harder.

"Oh dear," Virginia whispered. "This is my fault. I spilled some of Sam's old hair oil last night on my way out and forgot to clean it…" She frowned apologetically.

It took JB several moments to compose himself, but finally the storm subsided to a light drizzle. He collected the books and carefully rose back up. Leo patted JB on the back and said to Virginia. "Why don't you and I take a seat in the living room so JB can explore in peace?"

"Yes, okay," said Virginia.

Leo gave a little wave and the two disappeared into the room on the right.

JB took a left and found himself in a small kitchen. It was fairly sparse, save a microwave and a tea kettle on the counter. From the variety of takeout menus on the refrigerator, JB could tell Sam didn't like to cook. She'd told him as much before, but this confirmed it.

Amidst the menus hung various flyers for museum exhibitions and theater performances. In the center, held by a plain white magnet, was a photo of what looked like a ten year-old Sam, grinning between an older-looking couple. These must have been the Cretney's, Sam's adoptive parents. They looked to be in their mid-sixties, perhaps older. The man was tall and slim with rectangular glasses and light blue eyes that squinted happily at the camera. The woman had silver hair and a pale freckled complexion—not like Sam's freckles, though. Sam's were a light dusting on just her nose and cheekbones, invisible from a distance. The woman's freckles were larger and covered her entire face, and her eyes were blue like her husband's. Sam, of course, stood out with her brown hair and even darker brown eyes, but she looked very happy. The photo reminded JB of his own childhood, as his parents had also been older than most of his friends'. And suddenly he felt a new surge of sadness, this one unrelated to the loss of Sam, but rather to the loss of his parents. It had been years now since they'd died, but the discovery of his first identity—of being adopted—had reopened the wound and filled it with confusion on top of the grief. Why had they never told him he was adopted? Had Mileva come to them and requested their silence? Were they afraid he might love them less?

He sighed and wandered out of the kitchen. He had enough to worry about without thinking of his parents.

He took a quick peek in the living room where Leo and Virginia sat, rifling through a pile of books on the coffee table. The whole apartment was bursting at the seams with books of all kinds—fiction, nonfiction, museum catalogs, old textbooks, travel books, classics, sewing guides, leather-bound antiques, even coloring books. Of course, the room with the most books was her bedroom, the one he'd wanted to see the most. He hesitated behind the threshold at first, feeling suddenly as if this was an invasion of privacy. Then he remembered that Virginia had been using this bedroom for the past thirteen years and had already granted him permission to see it.

The bed was small, with a wooden frame. A lavender quilt with floral embroidery covered the mattress. The curtains were drawn, but the little chandelier that hung from the ceiling offered plenty of light. There was a white vanity on the other side, carved in a rococo style with gold trim. A pot of what JB recognized as hair powder sat on top of it with a bamboo comb and a few other historical beauty products she must have worn for her history camps at the museum. Finally, he saw the bookcase, an ornately carved wooden antique that almost reached the ceiling. Beside it was a matching wooden stool. At only five feet tall, she surely needed it.

JB looked down once again at the books in his arms and thought back to the moment he saw them in the London bookstore. He recalled his disappointment when he'd returned in the wee hours of Christmas morning only to find them gone, believing he'd lost his chance to leave her a parting gift.

In that moment, JB made a decision. He laid the ten volumes on the bed, in numerical order, and separated the first five volumes from the last. He opened volume ten to the last page and searched the room for a pen. He found one on top of her night stand next to a framed photo of a black lab. Then he returned to the books. In his large, scribbly penmanship, he wrote the same words she had left him on that sad Christmas morning.

He gathered volumes one through five under his arm, then slid volumes six through ten where they belonged—in Sam's bookcase. After one final glance, he left the room, a newfound strength drumming inside him. He would bring Sam home. There were no acceptable alternatives.