A Rip Through Time(65)

Isla sighs again. “Would you like something to eat, Catriona?”

“Is there a patio?”

“A…?”

“Outdoor seating?”

She continues to stare at me.

I watch as a passing cart sprays filthy water onto a shopfront. Down a side lane, a guy is openly pissing on the wall.

“Er, right,” I say. “A quiet tearoom, perhaps?”

She waves for me to walk, and I break into a trot, keeping pace with her long strides.





TWENTY-THREE


We’re on the street I know as the Royal Mile. In the twenty-first century, it’s the tourist ninth circle of hell. In this era, it’s already inching in that direction, with tidy shops lining the road between Edinburgh Castle and Holyrood Palace. On the way, Isla pulls over at a public pump and hands me a handkerchief to “clean up a little.” Right, because I just spent the night in a prison cell.

I glance at the pump, water collecting in a stone basin below, a child filling a bucket from it. “Er, so, cholera. How’s the research coming on that?”

Isla arches a brow.

“Public water. Cholera. Is there any connection that you know of?”

Now both brows rise. “You have heard of the work of Dr. Snow?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, just nods and says, “We understand the link between some diseases, particularly cholera, and the water supply. You can be assured that is safe. This is Scotland.”

I dip the handkerchief in the running water, wash my face, and then wipe off my dress. When I try to hand back the cloth, Isla waves it away, and I tuck it into my coat pocket. The day is warming up, and I have the coat over my arm as we make our way to the tea shop.

I asked for quiet. What Isla provides is a private room in a bustling shop, which gives us privacy to speak, while the outside noise ensures our voices won’t echo into the main dining area.

The table is big enough for six, and I sit in the shadowiest seat, well aware that even after washing, I’m not presentable enough for this middle-class tea shop. Isla starts to take the seat beside me, and then opts for the next one over. Yep, apparently, I stink, too.

Isla orders tea and a tray bearing a selection of meats, cheeses, and breads. Breakfast-worthy, even if it’s closing in on noon. I don’t plan to eat before I speak, but the moment I smell the bread, I dive in. I polish off a slice, and my stomach stops growling.

“Okay,” I say, and even that unfamiliar word is enough to have her brows knitting. I resist the urge to replace it. Time to be me. Be Mallory.

“I’m going to tell you my story,” I say. “And as weird as it will get, just let me tell it, okay? That’s all I’m asking. Let me finish.”

A brief nod as she pours her tea, her gaze on the cup. Fortifying herself to endure whatever bizarre story her housemaid is about to dream up. Lady, you have no idea.

“Roll back the clock to exactly one week ago today,” I say. “I’ve flown to Edinburgh to be with my nan. She’s in hospice care. Cancer. Two weeks to live, tops, which means she’s probably already…” I inhale. “Yep, I’m trying not to think about that.”

Isla’s mild brow knit tightens into a full-blown knot.

I continue, “I’m about to say a whole lotta words that will make zero sense to you. Just roll with it. So, a week ago. Long day at Nan’s bedside, and I need a break. I decide to go for a jog in the Grassmarket, which is mostly pubs and restaurants and whatever. Safe enough. I’m in a quiet part. Quieter than I should be in at that hour, but hey, I’m a cop, I can handle it.”

“Cop?”

“Police officer. Detective, actually. Anyway, I got cocky. I’ve patrolled worse neighborhoods in Vancouver.”

“Van…?”

“Canadian port city. West coast. In 1869, it’d be a trading post. Maybe a fort? That’s always one of the wildest parts of being in Scotland. Walking around the Old Town, seeing medieval buildings being used as condos, when in Vancouver, if it’s over a hundred and fifty years old, we wrap it in cotton to preserve the historic value.”

She’s staring. I expect that. I could shorten my story, cut out any side rambles or confusing terminology, but if I have any chance of convincing her, this is how I’ll do it. Talk like someone from the twenty-first century. Pepper my story with terms and asides too elaborate for me to concoct on the spur of the moment.

“Like I said, I got cocky. I heard a woman, and it sounded like she was in trouble, and I’m a cop, right? I can’t just ignore it. I head into the lane, and I see a flash of this blond girl in an old-fashioned blue dress. She’s semitransparent. Obviously, it’s some kind of projected image, maybe from a tour. The Victorian Edinburgh Experience, complete with murdered pretty girls! I figured that was the source of the woman’s cries that brought me running. A malfunctioning tour video. Before I could leave the alley, I was attacked. Fought like hell, but the guy got a rope around my neck. Eventually I passed out. I woke in a strange house, hoping to God it wasn’t the killer’s lair. I looked in the mirror, and holy shit, it’s the blond girl from the alley. I’m the blond girl from the alley. In her body. In her house. In her time.”

I stop there. Isla has her fingers on her teacup.

I take a sip of mine and lean back.