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“Miss Granville.”

The unfortunately familiar voice sends a wave of panic through me. No. No way was it real. It was a dream. It has to have been a dream. I flop back onto the bed and pull the comforter up to cover my face, squeezing my eyes shut. After breathing deeply for a minute and then assuring myself that I was just hallucinating for a minute or not fully awake, I peer out from under the comforter.

A mahogany chaise with pristine white padding sitting against the wall that should not be there mocks me. Alas, not my furniture. Which is actually a shame. It’s gorgeous.

Maybe I’m still unconscious, though I think that someone should probably find me soon. Or they have and I’m still in a coma. Has Morgan come to check on me? Does she even know I’m hurt? She’s a busy lawyer who often gets engrossed in the tedious tasks of a new associate at a firm. And I’ve ghosted her plenty of times when I’ve gotten deep into research for a blog post or a special video series for Instagram or something. Maybe only an hour has passed in real time.

I close my eyes again and open them.

Maybe I’m really stuck in 1901.

I pull the covers back over my head.

The creak of my bedroom door warns me that the hotel maid that Ben secured to help me undress last night is coming in. Annabelle, a small, brunette woman, is on loan to me until we find another. Or until I wake up. Go home. Whatever.

“Miss Granville?” she asks timidly from the sliver of the doorway now showing.

“Yeah—yes?” Last night was fun. Kind of. Would another day really hurt?

That’s not really a great pep talk.

“Mr. Mitchell has asked to see you.”

I scowl. What does that mean? Am I being summoned? No thanks. “He’ll have to wait.” I will have independence. This is my coma.

“He asked me to tell you he’s been waiting two hours.” Annabelle’s voice is even quieter reporting this.

I throw down part of the covers. “Two hours? What time is it?”

“Eleven, miss. Mr. Mitchell wanted to make sure you’re feeling well.”

I went to bed early last night, so I don’t have the excuse of a late-night ball or dinner party for staying in bed this late.

“I’m fine,” I grumble. I push back the rest of the covers and swing my legs over the side of the bed, scanning the room again. The dresses that Mrs. Halloway’s maid had brought over last night are laid out on the sofa. There’s a lovely white muslin day dress with a lace overlay. It has a cape-like collar that will drape over my chest and a mock neck, all with fine, detailed embroidery.

“How about the white muslin?” I suggest. And to think that Aunt Vi worried about what use my research degree and my historical blog could be. Saved me some embarrassment this moment by allowing me to pick the appropriate dress. What do you think of that, Aunt Vi?

I smile, but a pang shoots through me anyway. Being here at The Villa and being stuck in the past amplifies my missing her, even after six months.

Annabelle smiles. “Of course, Miss Granville.” She moves to the couch, surveying Mrs. Halloway’s dresses and then plucking up the one I mentioned and the familiar undergarments from the night before. She puts the chemise, drawers, and silk stockings over her arm and then goes to an open door in the room, standing by it.

When I step through, I nearly gasp at the beauty of the bathroom in its original glory. The bright white room glows around me. A clawed, porcelain tub sits opposite the door, and there’s a pedestal sink next to it. I step inside, trying to make sure my perusal doesn’t look like gaping. I don’t want Annabelle gossiping about me because I’m taken aback by a bathroom. She might think I’ve never seen indoor plumbing before, a thought that almost makes me snort with laughter. The white tile on the floor is cool against my feet. I’ve changed my mind about where that extra money should go when I get home—wake up? Something—I’m spending it all on remodeling my bathroom to look just like this. Well, I’m going to add a shower.

“Would you like me to draw a bath, Miss Granville?”

“I ca—yes, please.” I correct myself quickly. I’m playing the part of a pampered lady, and I need to stay true to that.

I wait patiently while Annabelle runs the water and then pins up my hair so it doesn’t get wet. I mentally think back to how long it’s been since I washed my hair. Yesterday, maybe? So I can probably go a couple days, but without dry shampoo, any more will be pushing it. Funny the things you don’t think about when you’re falling through a mirror and into the past—like how much you’ll miss dry shampoo.

Or regular shampoo. I don’t even want to think about what I’m going to have to put into my hair if I have to stay here for long. Shudder.

I sink gratefully into the water the second Annabelle shuts the door behind her. I’ll soak up every single moment of solitude. As soon as I get out, Annabelle will invade every sense of privacy I have. I can put on the clothes myself—with a little help. But I owe it to Ben to act the part of a proper lady.

So I exercise my independence in this tiny way and refuse to get out of the bath until the water turns lukewarm.

It’s well over an hour later before I waltz into my sitting room and find Ben already there, tapping his foot on the floor and tearing his way through The San Francisco Call.

He tosses it down on the nearby sofa when I enter and leans forward, elbows on his knees. It’s such a modern way to sit and so out of character for him that I tilt my head to the side. Then I smile because at least I’m a safe place for Ben to be himself when he has to act around everyone else, just like I’ll have to do. It’s a special connection that comes with a sense of comfort for me too.