A rip through time, p.9
A Rip Through Time, page 9
As we walk through the neighborhood, I resist the urge to pull in my skirts like a proper little miss, my pretty nose upturned, curls flouncing. While I’d patrolled in modern tenement neighborhoods, this is worse than anything I’d seen in Vancouver. This is true squalor, with the stench to match, the kind of place that reminds me how, only hours ago, I’d acknowledged that some people would happily take Catriona’s job. Now I see those people, for whom a daughter in service would be “the one who got out”—the pride of the family, sending home whatever shillings she could spare.
Catriona wasn’t from this neighborhood. So what was she doing here? The answer, apparently, can be found just a few steps from where her body was discovered.
As we stand in that alley, Gray points to a hand-lettered sign in a nearby grimy window. “You were in there, having a drink.”
“It’s a pub?”
He clears his throat. “It passes for such, but Hugh—Detective McCreadie—says it is a known den of…”
“Iniquity?”
He looks startled. “No, not at all. There’s nothing of a salacious nature about it. I was going to say den of thieves, and then realized my phrasing might be offensive.”
“Not if I used to be a thief.”
“Yes, but you are no longer one. So I presume you were meeting a former compatriot for a drink. A social engagement.”
I look at that grimy window and try not to shudder. You’d need to pay me to drink anything served in there.
“All right, so I was spotted in that … establishment,” I say.
“Spotted leaving it,” he corrects. “The proprietor would not confirm you had been a patron.”
“But I presumably was. Then I came out and was pushed into this alley here, where I was hit on the head and strangled. Or I was strangled and struck my head in falling.”
I drift into memories again, trying to remember exactly what I’d heard and seen. A shadowed figure throttling Catriona. She’d been conscious, so she must have hit her head when she fell.
Stop that. Solving the attack on her isn’t my business. Getting home is my business. My only purpose in being at this spot.
I start to walk down the alley and halt. I don’t want to cross through time with Gray standing right there. I owe him better than that. I stop short and wave my hand. “Do you know precisely where I fell?”
He shakes his head. “You were not discovered for several hours. When you were, it was by a passing constable. He recognized you—having seen you once before with young Findlay.”
Constable Findlay? Detective McCreadie’s assistant?
I open my mouth to ask why I’d been with Findlay, but then I remember yesterday, when McCreadie had seemed to expect that Findlay might wish to speak to me. I’d thought it might be a romantic entanglement. They were of an age, and Findlay would be a good social match for Catriona.
Gray continues. “Recognizing you, this constable sent for me, and I attended you here before bringing you home.”
“No one had noticed me missing?”
“It was one of your half days off.”
So Catriona had a half day off, and that night, instead of being home in bed, she was here, in this pub, possibly meeting an old colleague, possibly continuing her “felonious” ways.
As a detective, I’d start there. Former—or not-so-former—thief gets attacked leaving a black-market dive bar. While it’s possible it was a random attack, it’s more likely connected to her criminal endeavors. She pissed someone off. Double-crossed someone. Or even just refused a gig, that classic “one more job.”
Of course, none of this matters to me. I’d love to solve the attack on Catriona, as an apology for borrowing her body. But even if the answer miraculously fell from the sky, I doubt her attacker would ever see justice. She’s only a maid, and this was only a physical assault in a neighborhood where it might happen to anyone alone at night.
I suppose Catriona figured she could take care of herself. Just like the detective who ran into this alley a hundred and fifty years from now, alone at night, following the cries of a woman in distress.
Seems we both aren’t as street-savvy as we thought.
I turn to Gray. “Thank you, sir, for bringing me here. I think I shall linger and see whether any memories return.”
“Leave you here?” He looks around in horror. “Absolutely not.”
“It’s daytime, sir. I will be fine.”
“In the very spot where you were brutally attacked and left for dead? No, look around all you wish. I shall wait.”
* * *
I don’t let Gray wait. Oh, I can’t convince him to leave. McCreadie grumbled about Gray’s sister being stubborn. Apparently, it’s a family trait, and when a man of Gray’s size decides to park himself somewhere, he stays parked. I won’t try to cross through time with him watching, so the only way for me to break the impasse is to pretend to skulk about with dramatic pauses for deep contemplation and deeper sighs before declaring I remember nothing.
“We will head back through the market,” he says. “I’ll leave you there to do your shopping.”
“Shopping?”
“Spending some of your quarterly wages.”
“And what would I spend it on?”
He throws up his hands. “Confits? Ribbons? A new bonnet. Whatever you like.”
Candies and pretty bows? Is that truly where he imagines a housemaid’s salary goes? In his defense, maybe he hopes it does. Catriona’s daily needs are covered—food, shelter, uniform, and such—and so he expects wages to be like pocket money.
If I were a maid, I know exactly what I’d do with my salary. I’d save it up in hopes that I wouldn’t be scrubbing chamber pots into my twilight years.
While I don’t actually have any wages to spend, I’ll let Gray escort me to the market. Once he leaves me to shop, I’ll sneak back to that alley.
This neighborhood is known as the Grassmarket because it used to be the main market for Edinburgh. It’s now more of a hodgepodge of shops and tenement housing, all of which have seen better days—hell, better centuries—but there’s also an open market space with stalls, and there’s where we go.
I expect Gray to deposit me at the edge, but he seems quite content to wander at my side. That is, he’s content to do so until a cart of antique books catches his eyes.
“Is that Paré’s plague treatise?” he murmurs to himself as he wanders off.
“Thank you, sir!” I call after him. “I shall see my own way home this eve!”
Unfortunately, the sound of my voice reminds him of my existence. Gaze still half on that book cart, he takes two long strides my way as he roots in his pocket. When he reaches me, he passes over a coin.
“For your help today, Catriona.”
“I thought we agreed to time off instead?”
“You earned both.” A faint smile. “Spend it on something that makes you happy.”
I don’t even have time to thank him before he’s heading back to those books, leaving me staring at his back and thinking that, of all the fascinating things in this world, he might be the one I’ll most regret not getting to know better.
“I’ll look you up when I get home, Duncan Gray,” I murmur as he bends over the cart of old books. “I expect you did some amazing things.”
I lift my fingers in a wave, even if he can’t see it, and then I hurry from the market.
* * *
I have been in the right spot for over an hour, pacing and wandering, and at one point—when the lane is clear—even dropping to the ground, as if I can somehow pass through time that way. I realize that is ridiculous. Just like I realize this entire plan is ridiculous.
I’m trying to pass back through time by returning to the place where I crossed over. My brain says that makes logical sense, but I am well aware that it only makes sense because I’ve seen it in movies and read it in books. To return to your own time, you go back to that spot—that magical bridge between worlds. Or you go there and do something you did the last time and that makes you cross over. Maybe it’s a word or a phrase or an action or an emotion. Do that thing, and it will unlock the door through time.
Which is like saying that if I tap my ruby slippers three times I can go home again. I am basing my entire theory on the imagination of fiction writers. Not scientists, because there is no science. People can’t travel through time. Therefore, writers don’t need to worry about “getting it right.” They make up whatever they want.
To return to your own time, child, you must find the spot where you crossed, during the same alignment of the planets, and then eat one hundred and fifty leaves of thyme, one for each year you must travel.
I knew this was a preposterous plan. Yet it was the only one I had, and what was the alternative? To throw up my hands and resign myself to the life of a housemaid when a walk across town might have been the key to returning? If so many writers used that particular trope, maybe there was a kernel of truth to it. It’s like meeting a vampire while holding a vial of holy water and not throwing it at him.
I don’t know what happened to me. I cannot begin to understand it, because the possibility doesn’t exist in any reality I know. I suspect modern theoretical scientists would have ideas, but it’s not a subject I’ve ever needed to research. I am hoping, then, that some author or screenwriter did the research for me and this whole “return to the spot where you passed over” idea is sound.
What I suspect, though, is that what I encountered here was a rip in the fabric of reality. I was strangled in the same spot, on the same day, at the same moment as a young woman a hundred and fifty years earlier. That caused some crossing of wires in a cosmic sense, and my consciousness—my soul or whatever you care to call it—somehow swapped with that of Catriona Mitchell.
Can such a thing be undone? I can’t even contemplate a negative answer. The despair would swallow me whole, and I might find myself taking the most desperate action to get home again. To put myself in those exact conditions. To die on that spot and hope that took me home because I cannot imagine being trapped here forever.
There are worse fates than being a maid in a decent household. I have a job and food and a roof over my head. There’s even the possibility that I could become the assistant to a man doing work I find fascinating—work I could surely help with. But those are only scraps, barely enough to keep me from lying down on this spot and strangling myself.
Yes, there are things in my real life I’d like to change, but I want the chance to do that. I need to see Nan and tell her all about this before she dies. Give her a glimpse into true magic, a goodbye gift, one last secret between us before she’s gone.
I want to make other changes, too. Work less. Play more. Renew friendships. Fall in love. Compared to Catriona, though, I had an idyllic life. A challenging job that I love. A cozy condo and a loving family and my freedom. Most of all, I had my freedom. I could go where I wanted, do what I wanted, be who I wanted. This is not my world, and I do not want to stay in it.
So I will sustain my spirits by telling myself there must be a door. That I can get back, and either I’ll figure it out or I’ll return when the universe repairs its glitch.
Until then, I’ll make the best of it. Be Catriona Mitchell. Do whatever I can to make that role mine. To be a version of this girl that I can live with and not go mad. Also, to not act in any way that’ll have me labeled mad. Keep my secret, blend in, and do my best.
I pace the alley one last time, as if the thousandth will make a difference. When footsteps sound, I stiffen. I’m not alone on this lane. I’ve had my share of curious looks. I entertained two offers of “companionship” before I learned to busy myself whenever anyone passed. Still, it’s been safe enough. However bad the neighborhood, it’s still daytime and even the offers had only been for a drink, while naturally hoping it’d lead to more. It’s not as if anyone has honestly mistaken me for a sex worker. At those footsteps, though, I still steel myself as I turn.
It’s a woman, maybe in her late twenties. Dark-haired, with a scar across her cheek and a narrow-eyed look that dares anyone to ask her how she got it.
“Well, look at the little kitty-cat, slunk back to see what’s left in the cream bowl. I thought you’d never show your face here again, not after last week. I heard someone taught you a lesson. Much overdue, it was.”
The woman smiles, revealing exactly the sort of teeth I expected from an era before regular dental cleanings. Then I realize what she’s saying. She knows me—knows Catriona. And something else.
“You know what happened to me here?” I say. “When I was attacked?”
“Everyone does. They’re wagering on who done it. Too many people wanted you dead. I can’t say I blame them.” She leans forward, foul breath washing over me. “If you want to make a wager yourself, we can put it under my name. Earn ourselves both a bit of money.”
I shake my head. “I don’t know who attacked me. I don’t even remember why I was here.” I tap the fading bruise on my temple. “I’ve lost my memory.”
She laughs so hard a rat squeaks and scurries off. “Oh, is that your story? And such pretty manners, too.” Her eyes narrow. “What are you up to?”
“Trying to figure out who tried to kill me.”
More eye narrowing. “Do not forget who you’re talking to, Miss Kitty-Cat. I know all about that canny mind of yours. I’ve been a victim of your schemes as often as I’ve helped you build them. You might be able to fool the lads, but I see past that pretty face.”
Before I can speak, she rocks back on her heels. “Is it the doctor?”
“What?”
“Your master. Dr. Gray. I heard he came to fetch you. Nursed you back to health. Have you decided to take my advice? Is that what the pretty new speech is for? The pretty new manners? You’ve finally set your sights on the master?”
She bats her lashes and simpers. “Oh, kind sir, I don’t remember anything with this lump on my skull. I am but a poor, innocent lassie in need of a strong man’s protection. A strong and rich man’s protection.” She cackles. “He may not be a proper toff, but he’s got a fine house and a fine income. No proper lady will have him, so you might as well.”
“Dr. Gray’s occupation would hardly prevent him from finding himself a proper lady.”
“His occupation?” She snorts. “You have indeed taken a hard blow to the head if you think that’d be what stops them.”
“I did take a hard blow, and I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Are you daft? Even if you’ve forgotten the scandal, surely one look at the man will jolt your memory.”
She taps her cheek and arches her brows. Does she mean because he’s not white? What would that have to do with a scandal? Ah, I bet I know. His skin tone suggests one of his parents is white and the other isn’t. Such a union would probably be shocking in this day.
“Whatever the issue,” I say, “I cannot imagine Dr. Gray lacks for female companionship. And no, I have not changed my mind on that count. I’m not sure how traipsing around this neighborhood would help me win him to my bed.”
“Traipsing? My, my, you speak like a properly educated lady yourself.” She eyes me. “I’ve heard you come from a good family, however much you denied it. That could be useful. Get little Miss Kitty-Cat into places no alley-cat girls can go.”
I shake my head. “I just came to see if I could find out what happened to me. If you have anything to add, I’d appreciate the information. Otherwise—”
She grabs my arm, fingers digging in. “Pretty words and manners are all very fine, but don’t you go putting on airs with me. Do not forget I know things that would get you tossed from your fine doctor’s home.”
“Yes,” I murmur under my breath. “I’ve heard that before. Today in fact.”
She twists my arm. “Do not mutter insults at me, Catriona.”
“I wasn’t,” I say, “and I apologize if I was being rude.” I pause. “Perhaps we could have a drink, for old times’ sake.”
If this woman holds something over me, I need to be nice. Also, I’d like to know more about the young woman whose body I inhabit, and this seems an excellent opportunity to do so.
“A drink?” The woman scowls. “Is that a joke?”
Fortunately, my expression must answer for me, because she eases back, still eyeing me sharply. “You really have lost your memory. No, kitty-cat, I do not want a drink. I don’t imbibe. Neither do you, and that piece of advice I’ll give for free. Lose yourself in a bottle, and soon you’ll be lifting your skirts for more. That’s not the life for us.”
“So what is the life for us?” I say. “Forget the drink. May I ask you some questions?” I take out the coin. “I can pay.”
“With two bob? That’ll buy you two words.” She makes what I presume is a rude gesture and then puts out her hand.
I pocket the coin. “How much for more?”
“I’ll give you the going rate for a high-class whore. A pound will buy you twenty minutes of my time.” She starts to walk away. “You know where to find me, kitty-cat.”
“No, actually, I don’t.”
She laughs and points at the dive bar where Catriona had been spotted the night she was attacked.
“Can I get your name?” I call after her.
She turns and puts out her hand. With a sigh, I drop the coin into it.
“Davina,” she says, closes her hand, and walks away.
ELEVEN
By the time I get home, I’m starving, and I’ve missed dinner. I’m not even sure I’d have been entitled to it on my day off. While I doubt Gray would have begrudged me an extra meal, Mrs. Wallace is an entirely different matter.
