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flushed. He knew what kissing her there did to her. “No,” she said. “But it hurts a little here.” She pointed to her bottom lip.
    Simon leaned forward, his eyes dipped down to her mouth and back up. “Here?” he said before he took her mouth in a gentle, tugging kiss.
    Elizabeth let out a shuddering breath. “And other places.”
    He kissed her neck. “I’m afraid this requires,” he said punctuating each phrase with another kiss, “further investigation.”
    “Thorough,” Elizabeth said between gasping breaths. “Thorough investigation.”
    Simon’s hands pulled her body against his and the phone rang. He pulled back and was about to go in for another kiss when the phone rang again. “Bugger.”
    He let her go and went to the desk. “Remember where I was.”
    Elizabeth wasn’t about to forget, but the call wasn’t a quick one and the moment was gone. The man on the phone was one of the currency collectors they’d contacted. Simon insisted that they buy an obscene amount of currency. He’d traveled as a pauper once and had no intention of repeating the experience. In any period, money was their most useful tool.
    Simon had tried to explain early English currency. In 1971, the UK and Ireland had adopted decimalization, so that everything was based on units of ten and one hundred. That made sense. Pre-Decimalization money, the sort they’d be using, did not. Twelve pence in a shilling and twenty shillings in a pound, half-pennies, farthings, half-crowns and tanners and dozens of other coins and bills had left her completely and utterly lost.
    She’d have an easier time keeping their cover story straight than their money. They decided to keep the backstory simple. She and Simon were newlyweds, now living in America. They’d seen the photograph of Evan, Elizabeth’s uncle, in the paper and had come to collect him.
    The real trick for their cover story had been finding a compelling reason Simon wasn’t serving his country in the war. By 1942, every able-bodied man in England under the age of 51 would have been in the service. Special exemptions were given to a few categories of men, including those in the employ of a foreign government. That meant Simon was a professor working with the American government on some top-secret projects for the Department of Substitute Materials, whatever that was. The simpler the story the better. Luckily, without computers and long distance calls being rather expensive, it was doubtful anyone would or even could do much checking up on them. They were also counting on the fact that the hospital beds were at a premium and the administrators would be inclined to release Evan without much ado just to free one up.
    A penumbral eclipse that would allow the watch to activate was just three days away. Simon and Elizabeth planned to arrive in London on September 18, 1942, the day the photograph of Evan was taken. A return eclipse was less than a week later. It all sounded doable. Even though she knew it was dangerous, Elizabeth couldn’t hide her excitement. Given the chance, who wouldn’t want to travel in time? See history as it really was? In spite of the dangers they’d faced and the ones she was sure would surprise them this time, she counted herself incredibly privileged to be able to go. Even though he blustered on about the risks, she knew Simon felt the same way. Deep, deep Marianas Trench down.
    The night before the eclipse Elizabeth woke from a strange dream. Memories of it disappeared like smoke as she got her bearings. She rolled over to snuggle up to Simon, but his side of the bed was empty and cold. She slipped on her robe and headed down to the study. The light from inside stretched out into the hallway.
    Simon sat reading in Sebastian’s overstuffed club chair and he lifted his eyes from the pages when she padded in. It wasn’t unusual for him to get up in the middle of the night and go into his study at home and read until the early morning hours.
    “What