The three a.m. chimed the grandfather clock as Sarah thrashed uneasily in her bed, the diary's secrets creeping into her subconscious brain like ink into water. The air in her bedroom grew heavy with the scent of beeswax candles and rosewater—scent foreign to her world now.

When at last sleep claimed her, she did not dream.

She recalled. 1784

The crunch of gravel beneath satin slippers. The soft rustle of silk against the calves as she sprinted past the garden path. Sarah—no, Emily—clasped a hand over her racing heart, the corset stays pinching into her ribs with each excited breath.

He waited under the hawthorn tree.

Thomas stood backlit by moonlight, his riding coat frost-etched, his breath pluming in the cold air. When he turned, his eyes burned with a heat that made her knees weaken.

"You came." His voice was rougher than in the diary, sharpened by desperation. He reached out, his fingers tracing her cheek—and Sarah felt it. The calluses of holding reins and paintbrushes. The heat. The solidity.

"This isn't a dream, is it?" Emily's voice left Sarah's lips.

Thomas's thumb drew her lower lip, sending shivers down her body. "We've done this scene before, you and I. Different costume, different century." His other hand rested flat over her sternum, where her pulse beat rapidly like a caged bird. "But the heart? The heart remembers."

A shriek cut the moment. Torches blazed through the trees.

"They're coming—" Thomas jammed a wrinkled sheet of paper into her hand. "Find the painting. It holds the secret about—"

Present Day

Sarah jerked up with a shiver. Dawn colored her bedroom in soft gold, but the metal flavor and fear still clung to her skin. Her fingers unclenched to reveal nothing but damp sheets.

Then she froze.

On her nightstand, the diary was open to a fresh page—one she was certain hadn't been there last night. New ink sparkled in the morning light:

"The hawthorn conceals our masterpiece. Trace the roots."

In the distance, an engine revved into motion. Sarah stumbled towards the window in time to see Lucas's bike flying down the lane, a canvas attached to the rear—a woman in a blue dress outside a hawthorn tree.

Her dress.

Her tree.