“Are you...?” Shielding his gaze from the sun, he struggled to keep his hand steady. “Are you some sort of angel?” She had a striking presence with her fox-like eyes, long lashes, and round cheeks.
“If you aspire to be a poet, I recommend trying harder.” Her low voice was tinged with amusement even as her expression remained unsettled. “That dreadful phrase never works.”
Okay, at least he wasn’t dead. He mentally crossed that option off the shortening list of possibilities.
“What’s going on then?” His frustration hit critical mass. He needed to make sense of this. Of the seasonal shift. Ofher.An idea flashed and he clung to it as though it might carry him back to sanity. “Wait.” He snapped his fingers. “Is this one of those historical reenactments? You know, where you act like an old-timey cosplayer and run a blacksmith shop or whatever?”
“A blacksmith?” She flicked up her brows. “Precisely how hard did I hit you with that apple?”
A muscle twitched in his jaw. She had to be messing with him.
“I get it,” he growled. “Nice work. You’re good at your job. A ten-out-of-ten performance. But drop the act. Where’s the car? I have to find my sister.”
“Car?” She stared blankly. “You mean a cart, sir?”
“No, of course I don’t.” He released a frustrated sigh. “It can’t be summer.” The throbbing in the back of his head mirrored how he sometimes felt after colliding with a goalpost.
“It is Midsummer’s Day.”
The nausea returned. “What the hell happened to December?”
She clicked her tongue. “Perhaps if I fetch a doctor and—”
“No!” He threw up a hand, trying to think, trying to make this make sense. “Wait! Okay. Let’s pretend for a second that you aren’t an actor, and it’s actually summer. This is still England, right?”
“Indeed. We’re in Hallow’s Gate, sir. Midway between Ropley and Bentworth.”
Okay, okay. The place was the same. He was going to make a fool out of himself with the next question. But he had to. “W-what year is it?”
“Are you attempting to secure amusement at my expense?” she snapped.
“If I was, I could think of a dozen better ways that wouldn’t involve getting my ass wet while asking stupid questions.”
“Your point is well taken.” She turned over his words before giving a small shrug. “It’s 1812.”
The strange electric buzzing ceased. The world went still—nothing but wind, birdsong, and water lapping the pond’s shore. If this was a dream, he’d better wake up real damn soon.
“You don’t appear happy with the news,” she said.
“No, I—” He released a bark of laughter—no humor in it, but better than exploding. “Can’t say that I am.”
“I need a moment to collect my thoughts.” She ripped out her bun, long waves of dark brown hair tumbling over her shouldersas she paced. “You’ve voided your stomach and are uncertain of the year. However, you don’t appear mad or in your cups.”
“My cups?”
“Pickled. Three sheets to the wind. Drunk as a lord.” She paused, tapping her chin. “Something very strange appears to have happened.”
“Understatement.” He twisted his mouth into a humorless smile. “But yeah. You’re not wrong. I’m from more recent times.”
She digested that; he could practically hear her brain chewing through his words. “When? 1912?”
A hundred-year jump.
He snorted, scratching the back of his head. “Add another hundred years and then toss in some change.”
“Oh.” The color drained from her face before she stiffened her spine. “Prove it.”
“How?” He snorted. “Want me to pull a newspaper out of my pocket?” He gestured to his outfit. “Do people dress like me around here?”
