Isnuggle deeper into the bedcovers the next morning, relieved all over again that I’m not spending the night in jail.Instead, I’m waking up in what is probably the exact opposite of jail: a palace.A bit sore from falling down some steps, but in one piece and in a nice bed.
The rest of the night was surprisingly fun.Without the stress of where I was going to sleep, I was able to enjoy the party.Because of Leo, because without him standing next to me, I would have melted into the floor under the intense scrutiny of everyone in the room.
I couldn’t make a move without over twenty eyes staring at me, wondering about me so intently I could feel their thoughts.Who is she?What is she doing here?How did she talk to the Queen twice?Why is Leo glued to her side?Who does she think she is?
Usually, that would be a trial by fire for me.Not only to be the center of all that attention, but to know it’s negative attention, would make me want to throw myself against the nearest hard surface, hoping that it knocks me back into the present.Or to another time if that’s what the universe wants.As long as it gets me away from all the eyes.
But it wasn’t so bad with Leo next to me.
Then at the end of the night, I was taken to the nicest room I’ve ever stayed in.Old Masters paintings hang on my walls (although I guess they aren’t quite as old right now), while the walls themselves are plastered with a pink silk Damask wallpaper that is so soft to the touch.And yes, while I do not touch things in museums, these pieces are not historic yet, so I didn’t feel guilty taking a pet.
I lay under a canopy of thick, embroidered, floral fabric in a dark blue, green and silver pattern, enjoying the fireplace that had been lit before I even got in here, wearing a soft white cotton nightgown that had been laid out for me.
I got a better sleep than I have in a long while.Even with all my current problems, I was no match for a royal mattress, which was luxuriously filled with feathers and sheep’s wool, allowing me to sink into it and feel very cradled.And if I ever get back to my time, I will try not to gloat at my curator friends for being able to spend a night on one of their historic beds, which would only lead to them asking when and where that happened, and then not believing me when I answer.
Even the bathroom down the hall has plumbing.Rudimentary plumbing, but it works well enough to make me glad I didn’t go to an even earlier time.
Now that my immediate needs are taken care of (food, clothing, shelter, priceless art, and a royal party with a charming rake), I need to focus on how to get home.Last night I cried, but today I need to focus on next steps, because a plan has always served me well in the past.
I open the drapes to let in light and sit at the writing desk in the corner of the room, grabbing some paper and a fountain pen from a drawer.
Whenever I’m stuck on a problem with an article or lesson plan, writing by hand helps me brainstorm.It’s a little harder to do with a fountain pen and inkwell, but the principle must still be the same.But I’ll have to burn it later so people don’t find this and jump to the absolute accurate conclusion.
After an hour of doodling, all I have is that I should go back to the steps and try to recreate the fall.I don’t look forward to getting another concussion, but it’s the only idea I have for getting home, since I still don’t know exactly how I got here in the first place.
And I can’t stay here forever.I have a life to get back to; a life that I already miss desperately.Like my mom who usually sends me any and every social media post she thinks I might like, which end up ranging from hilarious to adorable to slightly passive aggressive suggestions for my life.And the books I usually spend my days with, as well as the neighborhood dogs I see on my evening walks.Especially the hours of pre-bedtime scrolling I do before looking at the time and realizing I won’t be getting my recommended eight hours of sleep, and I have no one to blame but myself.
It’s only been half a day, but it feels worse since I have no idea how or when I’ll make it home, or if I’ll even see any of those things again.
A knock at the door interrupts my useless brainstorming session/ homesick pity party.“Come in.”I fold up the paper with all the heresy on it and hide it in a drawer.
A woman comes in, and her plain but finely made black dress covered in a white apron with simple lace frills along the straps, her hair pulled back and topped with a white lace hair covering for maximum efficiency suggests she may be one of Victoria’s maids.“Good morning, Miss.Her Majesty sent me to help you dress for the day,” she says.
“Hello,” I say awkwardly, getting up from the desk.“There’s no need…” But then my eyes drop to the giant lump of material I assume is a dress that she’s holding in her arms.There’s actually very much a need.There’s no way I can get into any of those layers by myself.“Thank you.That would be very appreciated.My name’s Meera.”The woman looks at me without responding.“What’s yours?”
“It’s Anne, Ma’am.”
“Nice to meet you.”
The woman gives me a nod and then helps me get ready for my first day in Victorian England.The dress is much more authentic (and even more uncomfortable) than the costume I rented for the convention party (but that I could get into by myself).But I can’t argue with the craftsmanship of it.Anne gives me looks as I gaze with a little too much wonder at each garment she tries to put on me, and let my hands linger a little too long at the different textures of the soft undergarments to the heavily embroidered and heavily beaded (and just plain heavy) dress itself.
When Anne is done, I can’t stop staring at myself in the tall mirror.I look…Victorian.My clothes are exquisite, my hair is piled on top of my head, and Anne is looking at me like I shouldn’t be this amused to be dressed (and not so awkward when someone is trying to dress me, but in my defense, it’s been a while since I had help in that department.) I also can’t stop staring at the butt this dress gives me.It’s so big I’m going to knock things over with it if I’m not careful and I turn too fast.I’m glad bustles aren’t a thing anymore.
“Breakfast is served informally in the morning room.Then you can have use of the library or hall for entertainment, and luncheon will be served at one o’clock.Before dinner I will have the rest of your new clothes waiting for you here and you can change into something more formal for the meal,” Anne says.
If my plan works, I won’t be here for any of that.But that’s a lot to explain to a stranger, so I nod in gratitude.“That sounds lovely.May I take a walk around the gardens?”
She looks taken aback that I’m asking her for permission, probably not something the nobles she works for would do.Right.I hope I’m not here too long, because I do not have the temperament for this.“That would be fine.I can show you down to the morning room or outside, if you’d like?”
“Yes, please.I think I’ll go outside right now.Work up an appetite.”And if I’m successful, I can be back to present-day England with a sausage roll in my hand on the way to the airport before lunch.
“All right.We’ll head there now.”
The route is long and winding, through rooms filled with marble columns, gilt on everything, luxurious curtains, and walking on thick carpets.Copious amounts of paintings fill the walls, complemented by the army of statues standing in front of them.I gawk at it all in historian, but Anne doesn’t blink an eye.Either everyone gets this starstruck in front of all this conspicuous consumption, or they expect it from a foreigner.
Anne leaves me in the same verdant garden I was in yesterday (or a hundred and thirty years in the future), and I walk to the stairs.
“Okay, Meera.This is it.Just fall.You did it once; it can’t be that hard.”Except that it kind ofisthat hard.Every time I get close to the edge of the stairs, my brain orders my feet to freeze, not wanting that pain again.The few times I get past the first step, my feet move quickly down the rest to stop me from tumbling down.
