Page 106 of The Little Shop of Curiosities, The Music Box Part 2

With Ichabod at the front and Cornelius behind, presumably to stop us from getting into trouble, we’re led to a door that descends into a small square room with bare brick walls.

“Uh, this is a cellar?” I ask, confused.

“Is it?” Ichabod’s lips curve into a small smile, and he pushes against one of the walls.

A seam appears in the brickwork, and a section swings inward to reveal a hidden entrance that Ichabod steps into. Before I have time to question the whole enterprise, Cornelius pushes us forward. We follow Ichabod and find ourselves standing in what looks like a smuggler’s tunnel. To the side is a shelf holding several oil lamps, one of which Ichabod lights.

The brick door closes behind us with an ominous hiss and clunk. As we begin to walk, I note that the tunnel is built of brick, with a curved roof that blends seamlessly into the walls. Unfortunately, the detail was not carried to the ground, which is bare soil. I grimace at the feel of it squishing between my toes.

In a surprisingly short time, we emerge at the other end, exiting through a heavy wooden door, which leads out into a narrow stone alleyway that ends with a tall iron gate.

As we reach the gate, I see a carriage waiting in the smog and low lamplight. My feet are freezing against the cobbles, and my body is already shaking from the cold. I realise why when we step through the gate and onto the street. A dusting of snow and a biting wind make me think we’ve landed in the middle of winter. I can’t help but hope some form of footwear may be in that carriage.

Ichabod moves to the front of the carriage to speak with the driver, and I look up at the buildings from where we’ve just come. There’s something familiar about the area. Turning my head, I suck in a sharp breath.

“What is it?” Sam asks. He stands as close to me as possible without touching in case anyone sees.

“That building over there.” I nod in its direction. “Do you recognise it?”

Sam’s brows rise and he shifts his gaze to the one building we just discreetly left.

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters.

“It’s the street my shop and flat are on. That building over there survived”—I nod slightly to our left—“but this row of houses must have been demolished and rebuilt at some point. My shop is on the exact footprint of the one where we ended up. Which means the music box threw us through time, but not across distance. We ended up exactly where we started, just over a century into the past.”

Sam frowns. “Do you think that was on purpose?”

“I don’t know.” My brain’s a bit scrambled and my thoughts are getting fuzzy. “I’m so tired.”

“You should be resting,” Sam says quietly, and his fingers twitch like he wants to reach out for me. “After all, you did get stabbed twenty-four hours ago.”

“That feels like a lifetime,” I mutter.

He huffs. “I suppose technically it was.”

“Didn’t we tell you not to dally?” Cornelius opens the door and hurries us inside the carriage, glancing warily up and down the street. A moment later, Ichabod climbs in and closes the door, then raps sharply on the roof.

The carriage jerks and I wince at the jostling motion of the hard wheels over the cobbles. I know we’re supposed to be careful, but I can’t help pressing myself against Sam’s side and drawing comfort from his presence while I freeze my arse off travelling through the dangerous streets of Victorian London. God, I hope someone gives me some fucking shoes soon.

Seriously. What the hell are we doing here?

25

Whitechapel 1886

Iwince as the clatter of the horses’ hooves slows and the jostling of the carriage halts. Ichabod climbs out and disappears into the dark, but I can still sense his emotions so he can’t have gone far.

“You alright, Prickles?” Sam whispers under his breath.

I give him a somewhat strained smile in answer.

“We’ll figure this out,” he tries to assure me.

Right now, I’m more worried about developing haemorrhoids from the carriage ride from Islington to Whitechapel. These carriages may look very posh and elegant inside a museum, but this hard leather-covered bench is brutal on my coccyx. I never thought I’d miss London black cabs. Every one I’ve been in has resulted in a case of whiplash and my life literally flashing before my eyes.

Right now, I’m not sure which is worse.

The reality of our situation crashes in on me again, and I swallow down the wave of panic that keeps trying to drown me.