Page 15 of Here in Your Arms
They had talked about their lives forty years apart—Emmy laughing over things Rose found completely unfathomable.Cordless phones. Personal computers in every home. A whole genre of music called hip-hop.
“You haven’t even hit the ’80s yet,” Emmy had teased. “Oh, you’re in for a wild ride.”
Rose had frowned. “But... what about disco?”
That had made Emmy laugh even harder, her gorgeous smile bright, her eyes sparkling. She faked a wince for Rose’s benefit. “Sorry, I think it was at its peak in ’78, but by 1980, it was pretty much done. Overtaken by... maybe punk and new wave at that time? And of course, rock has always been popular. But don’t worry,” she had added with mock seriousness, “if you’ve just learned how to do the Hustle, I can guarantee you won’t need it here, either.”
Rose had been a little surprised that Emmy even knew what the dance was. She couldn’t name a single song from forty years before her time. “Are they including disco history in music classes now?”
Emmy had grinned. “No, or at least not that I know of. But I used to go to this club in Manhattan, which styled itself as the last living discotheque. They played all that old stuff.”
Old stuff.
Rose had pouted, and Emmy had laughed before deftly changing the subject. “Damn, what I wouldn’t give to hear any music, anything modern day. Agnes’s humming and the church hymns we have now since a priest was finally found for Dunmara aren’t cutting it, I don’t mind telling you.”
And when the conversation had turned to family, their tones had softened.
Rose had spoken about her studies, her work in the archives, and how, despite enjoying her job, she had never really connected with the people around her.
Emmy, to Rose’s surprise, had understood completely.
“I had friends in my time, but...those connections were never deep, maybe not even true, if you know what I mean. And my mom was always more focused on her career than me,” Emmy had admitted, fiddling absently with the sleeve of her gown. “I grew up mostly with nannies. So yeah, I get it. I was always sort of... alone, even when I wasn’t.”
Something in Rose’s chest had tightened at that. They had come from different worlds, different times, but in a way, they had both felt the same kind of loneliness.
“My mom died when I was nine,” Rose had confessed.
Emmy’s expression softened instantly. “Oh, Rose, I’m so sorry.”
Rose had tapped the scar running along her cheek. “That’s how I got this.”
Emmy had gasped but caught herself, softening again. “Oh, gosh—I didn’t want to ask, but... what happened?”
“Car accident. It was just me and Mom. She died instantly.”
Rose had decided right then and there—as if she hadn’t been headed in that direction already—that Emmy MacIntyre was a seriously kind person. Just full of warmth, understanding. And so easy to talk to.
It was as if they’d known each other for ages.
Ages. Centuries.
That thought clung to her now, as she lay in bed, staring at the low wooden ceiling, still wishing this was all some bizarre dream. Because if it wasn’t—if this was real—then what?
A soft knock at the door startled her from her thoughts.
“Rose?” Emmy’s voice, gentle and familiar, cut through the silence. “Are you awake?”
She swallowed down the beginning of another bout of panic and sat up, brushing her hair from her face. “Yeah. C’mon in.”
The heavy wooden door creaked open, and Emmy stepped inside, carrying another set of clothes over her arm. Even aftertwo days in her company, Rose still found herself thrown by the sight of her—so familiar, yet so strangely out of place.
In the glow of morning light streaming through the narrow window, Emmy looked both regal and effortless, as if she’d always belonged here. The dark blue wool of her kirtle hugged her figure in a way that made it look tailored specifically for her, the long, fitted sleeves buttoned at the wrists, the rich color deepening the warmth of her complexion. A thin leather belt was cinched around her waist, and the ivory léine beneath had its ties fastened loosely at her throat, allowing just the faintest hint of embroidery to peek through. Her long, dark blonde hair was plaited in an intricate braid, wrapped and pinned at the crown of her head—a medieval style, if Rose had ever seen one.
“You’re awake early,” Emmy noted, stepping toward the bed, holding up the garments she carried. “I figured you might be more comfortable in this today.”
Rose eyed the offering—a crisp, ivory léine with delicate pleating at the neckline and a soft, sage-green kirtle. The fabric looked well-made, the stitching finer than even some machine-made clothing.
Wearing only the shift that Emmy had also provided her, Rose stood and donned both the items. Like yesterday’s outfit, this one was also too long for Rose—as was expected, since Emmy was at least three or four inches taller than her.
