Spots Of Time.

Zero.

"There are in our existence spots of time,
That with distinct pre-eminence retain
A renovating virtue, whence, depressed
By false opinion and contentious thought,
Or aught of heavier or more deadly weight,
In trivial occupations, and the round
Of ordinary intercourse, our minds
Are nourished and invisibly repaired;
A virtue, by which pleasure is enhanced,
That penetrates, enables us to mount,
When high, more high, and lifts us up when fallen"

- William Wordsworth
(The Prelude)
(Book XI, ls 258-278)

When the parallel worlds came into close contact that year, with the wind taking her to him (note that the wind was the sun chariot she so beheld whenever she wished to, for that chariot was her father's gift to her, a token of love she used to ride about) reframing and dismantling was requisite to the narrative.

So a misguided author looms in, and the narrative rolls around like a loom of wool.

How were those spots of time transcended?

The author was in a vexation. How could they have met, two different worlds attenuated to mirror images, parallelism conjured out of thin air and abyss.

Then in deep meditation, the innards of a typewriter shrieks up and down whilst the weaver tries to measure and decode the events he witnessed.

(REFERENCE:

The term is chosen to highlight the timelessness of the novel, showing time to be a disparate unit, not denying it but choosing to revere it in a nourishing way as Wordsworth would say, choosing to see comets flash across violet skies.)