In the women’s room she found her doorway to Madrid 1880 where she’d stashed a gown and danced flamenco, then to a taverna in Havana 1902, and from there to her room. He wouldn’t possibly be able to follow that path.
Unbelievable, how out of a few thousand years of history available to them and countless millions of locations around the world, they kept running into each other.
Ned wore black. He had to, really, because they were at the dawn of the age of the tuxedo, and all the men wore black suits: black pressed trousers, jackets with tails, waistcoats, white cravats. Madeline rather liked the trend, because the women, in a hundred shades of rippling silk and shining jewels, glittered against the monotone backdrop.
Gowns here didn’t require the elaborate architecture they had during the previous three centuries. She wore a corset, but her skirt was not so wide as to prevent walking through doorways. The fabric, pleated and gathered in back, draped around her in slimming lines. She glided, tall and elegant as a Greek statue.
He hadn’t seen her yet. For once, she had the advantage. She watched behind the shelter of a neoclassical pillar. He moved like he’d been born to this dance. Perhaps he had. Every step made with confidence, he and his partner might have been the same unit as they turned, stepped, turned, not looking where they were going yet never missing a step. It always amazed her, how a hundred couples could circle a crowded ballroom like this and never collide.
He was smiling, his gaze locked on his partner’s the whole time. For a moment, Madeline wished she were dancing with him. Passing time had cooled her temper.
She’d already got what she came for, a few bits of original Tiffany jewelry. After a dance or two, she could open a door and leave. In a room this large, she could dance a turn and Ned would never have to know she’d been here.
But she waited until his steps brought him close to her. She moved into view, caught his gaze and smiled. He stumbled on the parquet.
He managed to recover without falling and without losing too much of his natural grace. “Madeline! I didn’t see you.”
“I know.”
He abandoned his partner—turned his back on her and went straight to Madeline. The woman glared after him with a mortally offended expression that Ned didn’t seem to notice.
“Been a while, eh?”
“Only a month, subjective.”
“So—what brings you here?”
“That’s my secret. I’ve learned my lesson about telling you anything. You?”
He looked around, surveying the ballroom, the orchestra on the stage, the swirl of couples dancing a pattern like an eddy in a stream. Each couple was independent, but all of them together moved as one entity, as if choreographed.
“Strauss,” he said at last. “Will you dance with me, Miss Madeline?”
He offered his hand, and she placed hers in it. They joined the pattern.
“Have you forgiven me for that comment from last time?”
“No,” Madeline said with a smile. “I’m waiting for the chance to return the favor.”
Step two three turn two three—
“Do you believe in fate?” Ned said.
“Fate? I suppose I have to, considering some of the things I’ve seen. Why do you ask?”
“It’s a wonderful thing, really. You see, we never should have met. I should have died before you were born—or vice versa, since I still don’t know when you’re from. But here we are.”
“That’s fate? I thought you were following me.”
“Ah yes.”
Madeline tilted her head back. Crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead, turning, turning. Ned didn’t take his eyes off her.
“Have you thought of why I might follow you?” he said.
“To reap the benefits of my hard work. I do the research and case the site, and you arrive to take the prize. It’s all very neat and I’d like you to stop.”
“I can’t do that, Madeline.”