A Rip Through Time(5)

Am I wearing a corset?

Holy shit, I’m wearing a corset and a nightgown. Also some kind of wig—I can feel hair against my back where it normally falls on my shoulders.

I’m not safely in a hospital. My attacker has taken me hostage. Strangled me until I lost consciousness and brought me to some … I’d say “lair” if that didn’t sound so comic-book villain. I’ve been taken captive and dressed in a gown and a corset and a wig. I am suddenly terrified of the answer to the question “Where the hell am I?”

There might be a serial killer in Edinburgh, but that’s not who jumped me. This is a whole other kind of attack. The kind that turns the stomach of even seasoned detectives.

Breathe, Mallory. Just breathe.

I do. I rein in the galloping terror and take deep breaths. Go back to step one. Try to open the door.

I take two steps toward the sliver of light, only to tangle in the skirt again, and I stagger forward, hands slamming down on something hard that twists my wrist and has me uttering a string of curses.

A distant gasp. Then running footsteps.

I back up, fists rising. The door swings open, and that harsh light floods in, making my head shriek, my eyes half shutting, giving me only the barest glimpse of the newcomer. It’s a girl, no more than twelve, backlit by that white light, her edges blurred by my throbbing head. She’s holding something like a toy sand bucket.

My brain refuses to process. I see a young girl and—considering what I fear has happened to me—I can only think she must be another victim. But she’s out and about, running around the house with a toy.

I swallow and force myself to remain calm.

“Hey, kid,” I say, my voice coming out weirdly pitched. “I don’t know where I am, but could you help—”

She screams. Drops the bucket and races back down the hall. I stand there, staring after her.

It’s only as she flees that my mind finishes processing her image. Twelve-year-old girl with brown hair and eyes, a smattering of freckles, and a thin frame. Her hair was swept up under a strange little cap, one that matched a dress that looked like something out of a historical drama, simple and blue with a matching white apron.

I stare down at the bucket. It’s made of wooden slats with iron rings, and its contents puddle on the floor, steaming water that carries one of the smells from my room—a medicinal, tar-like scent.

I lift my gaze to the hall. It’s a corridor of gold damask wallpaper, the sort I remember from my great-grandmother’s house. There’s a light right outside my room. A brass fixture on the wall, spitting white flame.

I take another step back, smacking into whatever I hit earlier. It’s a cabinet, the top holding a ceramic bowl and jug and a small pedestal mirror. The cabinet is a dark red wood, the two doors held closed by a brass medallion engraved with a Chinese dragon.

My gut squeezes, nausea rising. I’ve been kidnapped and thrown into someone’s sick fantasy version of a Victorian home, complete with a poor kid forced to play the role of maid.

The nausea solidifies into anger as I inhale again. Okay, whatever this is, I can handle it, and I can help that girl. I just need to figure out what’s going on and play along. Help the child; catch this bastard; save myself.

As I straighten, my gaze lifts to the mirror, to my reflection in it, and …

The blond girl from the alley stares back.





THREE


I stand in front of the cabinet, staring at the reflection of the blond girl from the alley. The obvious answer is that I’m looking at another projection. I don’t even get a chance to consider that, because my first reaction is to jerk back, startled … and the girl in the mirror moves with me.

Bruises dapple her neck, and there’s a dressing on her temple, as if she’d been struck there, and my mind goes instantly to the alley, hearing her gasp and fall back, seeing hands around her throat.

The girl—young woman, I should say—is no more than twenty. Honey-blond hair that curls to midback. Bright blue eyes. Average height with curves not quite contained by the corset over my chest.

Not me.

None of it is me.

I take a deep breath. Or I try to, but the corset restricts the movement. I look down to see I’m wearing a dress. A long-sleeved cotton dress, not unlike the one on the little girl who fled. When I run my hands over the bodice, I feel stiff stays beneath.

Who puts an injured young woman to bed while wearing a dress and corset?

I almost laugh at my outrage, as if this “young woman” is a stranger and I’m incensed on her behalf.

This stranger is me.

Footsteps thump up the stairs. Heavy floor-creaking steps, with lighter ones pattering along. My head jerks up, and I lunge, only to inhale sharply as the corset tightens. I gather my skirts—a phrase I’ve never had cause to use before—and race to the door, easing it shut before the people reach the top of the stairs.

A few moments later, someone turns the knob, and I brace my back against the door.

“Catriona?” a woman says. “Open this door.”

I close my eyes and lean against it, and I have no idea what I’m doing, only that I do not want to face anyone until I’ve figured out what the hell is going on.

“Are ye certain she’s awake, Alice?” the woman asks.

A girl’s voice says, “Aye, ma’am. She were on her feet ’n’ talking, though what she said … Her mind must be addled fae th’ blow.”