My first thought as I slowly drifted back into consciousness was this: I really need to stop being overly dramatic about everything, which meant, in essence, no. more. fainting.

In my defense, however, I did just find out that I somehow managed to travel back in time well over a century. Such a thing could put quite a bit of stress on the brain and, all things considered, I probably reacted fairly well. Granted, I've never fainted a day in my life prior to now and I supposed that I should be slightly worried about my mental state, but I could only focus on the fact that—hello—I just went back in freaking time. It wasn't possible—or, at least it shouldn't have been. Time travel to the past couldn't physically exist, not when so many possibilities for paradoxes presented themselves. Good god, what if I'd already caused one?

It took me a while to open my eyes, but when I did, I saw that someone was hovering over me: the man who, I guess, had saved my life—Henry. He stared down at me, face a blank mask, and I found myself flinching away from him as much as the floor would allow. Just because he rescued me didn't mean that I trusted him. My trust needed to be earned—and even then, I might not give it. Life had made me cautious—perhaps overly so—and taught me not to put my faith in anyone but myself. I wouldn't make many friends with that policy, but if it kept me alive, I could deal. I'd rather be alive and alone than dead with company.

I moved to heave myself into a sitting position, but Henry gently placed his hand on my shoulder, effectively keeping me in place. "You shouldn't move," he muttered. "Don't know how badly you're hurt."

Tensing at the contact, I ignored him and shrugged his hand off, moving slowly until I was upright. My head spun a little, but other than that and the throbbing pain in my side, I felt alright. A little freaked out about the whole 'time travel' thing, but alright.

"Okay," I managed, though my voice was significantly weaker than I wanted. "I'm okay."

He looked like he wanted to argue, but instead sighed and responded: "Alright, but at least take it slowly... That wound on your side has stitches and you won't want to tear them. Trust me."

I nodded curtly and leaned back on my elbows, doing my best not to jostle the gash too much; a feat that was impossible, considering that it moved every time I breathed. Henry meanwhile took the opportunity to stand and walk over to the large bar that rested in the corner of the parlor, pulling out two glasses and pouring what looked like rum into them. He then took the drinks and crossed back over to me, silently offering one of them, which I reluctantly accepted. I figured that it was safe—after all, I did watch him pour it—and warily took a sip. Yeah. Definitely rum.

"Thanks," I murmured, deciding that I should at least act polite toward him. "I, ah, I haven't had a drink in a while."

He tipped his chin. "It's a daily necessity for me."

Great, I thought, nervously drinking more of the rum. He's gonna get wasted and kill me.

Despite my (slightly irrational) thinking, Henry merely nursed his glass and extended his arm to help me stand. After a moment of hesitation, I grabbed his hand and allowed him to haul me to my feet. He was surprisingly gentle, but lifted me like I weighed nothing; odd, considering that he didn't have much of a build. When I was more or less steady, he led me over to a couch and motioned for me to sit down, taking a seat in the chair accross from me when I begrudgingly complied. For a moment, neither one of us spoke. I absently swirled the rum in my glass while he watched me with a piercing gaze, like he was trying to decypher an impossible code. Fidgeting, I avoided his eyes, hating every second of the intense scrutiny.

"So tell me, Miss Armstrong," he eventually said, shifting so that he could rest his head on his hand. "Why'd you ask the year?"

And there it was, the question of the ages. Part of me was screaming to lie, to make up anything as far from the truth as possible, while the other half of me felt that telling him wasn't the worst damn idea I'd ever had. Opening my mouth to answer, I abruptly shut it as I realized that I still had no idea what I was going to say. If—major if—I decided to be honest, he could react one of two ways: either believe me and help me get back home, or call me a liar and think me crazy. I was willing to put money on the latter, since time travel is considered impossible by most rational people. That and no man would offer a woman help without expecting something in return.

After a while of internal debate, I remembered that Henry was waiting for an answer—particularly one that I didn't quite have. Swallowing the sudden bile that rose in my throat, I steeled myself and said: "I, ah, this is going to sound really, really, really insane, but... uh... I asked what year it is because... because I think I just went back in time some one hundred and fifty odd years."

I finished in a jumbled rush, nervously squeezing my glass of rum so hard that my knuckles turned white. To give him credit, Henry didn't react like I thought he would. Instead of jumping up and declaring me a lunatic, he just sat there and stared at me with that same piercing gaze, face completely devoid of any revealing emotions. In all honesty, I almost wished that he would act angry or scoff at my theory; at least then I could read something in his expression.

Eventually, though, he nodded and lifted his chin until he was looking down at me. "Let's say I believe you." He steepled his fingers. "How is that even possible?"

"Good question." I downed the rest of my drink, suddenly needing something to distract me. "Most of what I know about time travel comes from Doctor Who, and that hasn't even been invented yet. I'm a literature major. I don't know shit about physics."

Maybe it was the alcohol that disabled my filter (I've always been a lightweight), but I couldn't bring myself to care about the use of profanity. Yes, I knew that ladies in the nineteenth century were supposed to act 'proper' and not swear all that much, but I've never really been one to accept social standards. And if Henry was one of those stuffy, 'a-woman-should-know-her-place' types, then dangerous or not, I would leave, find help somewhere else. No one—no one—told me that I had a 'place,' not unless they wanted a combat boot kicking in their teeth.

Surprisingly, however, Henry didn't even flinch, actually smirked a little at the swear, and finished his glass of rum. "Well, Miss Armstrong, I'm afraid I'm at a loss. Assuming I believe you, I've no knowledge of time travel either, save for works of fiction."

I internally groaned and sank against the sofa, mentally chastising myself for even thinking that he would help me. "Then I'm stuck here," I stated, tilting my head back until I was staring at the ceiling. "Great. Back in time and I didn't even get sent somewhere cool, like Robber's Roost or Hole in the Wall. Whoever—or whatever—made this possible clearly doesn't know me all that well. I mean, no offense, but I'd totally rather be out west, meeting Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, but they're not even outlaws yet."

Of course, I was rambling and probably spilling too much information about the future (Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid? Really? They're more late 1800s than mid). On top of that, I was acting like a complete ass by saying that this time period wasn't interesting. In my defense, though, I was likely in shock, still freaking out about going back in freaking time. In all honesty, I was surprised that I hadn't completely dissolved into hysterics. Normally when anything even remotely inconvenient happened to me, it took about two anti-anxiety pills and at least an hour of crying to calm me down. The fact that I wasn't having a panic attack was definitely odd.

"I, ah, I'm sorry if I'm being rude," I apologized, avoiding his eyes. "I... there's nothing wrong with this time period. I'm... I'm just awkward, okay?"

Henry raised an eyebrow. "You lost me a while ago, Miss Armstrong. At 'cool.' I don't understand. Is the future warmer than now?"

It took practically all of my self control not to laugh, the question so ridiculous that I nearly wheezed. He didn't know any better. In fact, most of my modern vocabulary would probably confuse him, which meant that I would need to do a lot of explaining. "No, no," I eventually answered, barely managing to suppress another fit of giggles. "'Cool' is a slang term. It means... well, interesting."

He nodded and drummed his fingers against his glass. "And this... Butch Cassidy? Who is he?"

My eyes went wide as I struggled with what to tell him, finally deciding on: "He's... something of a hero."

"But you said he's an... outlaw?"

Shit. "In, ah, in the future," I stuttered, praying—praying—that I wasn't seriously messing up the whole concept of space-time. "We, ah, we romanticize outlaws—well, the western ones, anyways. And, I don't know, as long as you don't kill or hurt any innocent people, you're good in my book."

He appeared relatively satisfied and didn't ask any further about the subject, for which I felt gratitude. Stars only knew how much I've already royally screwed up history. We sat in silence for a while, though, oddly enough, it wasn't awkward. Granted, it wasn't exactly comfortable either—more like somewhere in between the two—but it was a hell of a lot better than most silences I've experienced. Thunder rumbled off in the distance as dark clouds coated the sky, making it nearly impossible to determine the time. Thankfully, a large grandfather clock told me that it was half-past three, and judging by the lack of light pokeing through the clouds, it was three thirty in the morning.

I supposed that that meant I should technically feel exhausted—which, of course, I was beginning to—but I'd always loved mornings... well, sort of. I loved mornings where I decided when to get out of bed, not when my alarm went off. I loved mornings where I didn't have to worry about finishing my ever-growing pile of essays before my next class. I loved mornings where I could make a cup of coffee or tea and read a book or watch my favorite movie. Basically, I loved mornings where I was in control of my life—a more rare occurrence these days than ever.

A few minutes—each longer than the last—passed before one of us decided to talk again, and it was me that did it. "If, ah, if you don't mind me asking," I began, nervously chewing on my lip for a second before continuing: "what's next? I mean, I'm stuck here. I'm in a completely different century and everything I know about how to... well, live, is basically useless. I, ah, I don't really know what to do."

Normally, I would have kicked myself for admitting just how vulnerable I really was, but at this point, I needed help and I needed it badly. I would just have to—unfortunately—trust someone else for a change. It felt absolutely wrong. Putting faith in anyone but myself... yeah. Every instinct I had was yelling at me to run fast and run far. Although Henry hadn't done anything to alarm me (yet), I couldn't rely solely on him. Hell, he'd probably refuse to help me at all and throw me out of his house the minute I could walk without feeling like my insides were going to explode. In all honesty, I would gladly leave on my own if I could. There was only one tiny problem: I felt like death. And because I'm (arguably) not an idiot, I could determine for myself when I needed to stay put. And sadly, now was one of those times.

Henry waited a while before responding, clearly thinking hard about my question, and that only served to heighten my anxiety. Finally, after what seemed like forever, he answered: "Before we do anything else, you need time to heal. I'm not a doctor, but that wound is going to take at least to close." He crossed one leg over the other. "We'll take this one step at a time."

Slowly, I nodded, feeling oddly comforted. I immediately dismissed the sensation in favor of doubt, reminding myself that, although Henry seemed like a trustworthy man, I couldn't rely on his word. "One step at a time," I repeated to myself, then said louder: "So what do I do for a week? I'm not exactly good at doing nothing, and it's not like Skyrim exists yet." I winced at the slip up. "Ah, ignore that last part."

Truth was, I was absolutely terrible at resting when told to. I always had to do something, whether it was play video games or running or reading. And, since video games hadn't been invented yet, I couldn't run without dying, and I hadn't seen a single book in Henry's house besides the ones in my bag, I was pretty much screwed for a whole week. The thought alone made me internally groan. If I didn't die of boredom, I would... well, I don't know what I'd do, but I'd definitely be grateful. So, here's hoping that, for as much as I didn't trust him, Henry was an entertaining host.

"You said you studied literature?" He eventually asked, confusing me beyond belief.

"Um... yes?" I responded warily, shrinking back into the couch a little and wondering why on earth he decided to ask me that.

A hint of something entered his eyes and he stood, slowly crossing over to me and holding his hand out. "Can you walk?"

For a moment, I just stared stupidly at it before realizing I was supposed to grab it. "I guess."

After I was standing, he helped me out of the living room and into the hallway, moving carefully, so as not to jostle my wound. Part of me felt curious, the other terrified. I wanted to know where he was taking me, but at the same time, I worried it might be a torture dungeon or something like that. Irrational thought? Yes. Did that stop me from thinking it? No. In case it wasn't already obvious, irrational beliefs kind of made up my mind most of the time, especially during potentially dangerous situations. I constantly had to remind myself that, in all likelihood, much of what popped into my head wasn't logical. Terrifying, but not logical—so I guess it really shouldn't have been a surprise that I flunked my logistics class.

We rounded a corner, passing a rather spacious kitchen, and came to a closed set of doors. Exactly what lay beyond them, I had no idea, but had no choice other than finding out. As Henry slowly pushed one of them open, I reluctantly followed him into the room—

—and abruptly stood still.

At least two dozen shelves lined the walls, absolutely filled with books—countless books, ranging from literature to poetry to non-fiction. While I stared in childlike awe, Henry walked over to one of the shelves and ran his fingers over the delicate spines. "As you can see, I've quite the extensive library," he said, turning to face me. "This should keep you busy for a week."

"No shit!" I breathed, still too shocked to care about vulgarity. "This place is amazing! Have you read all of these?"

He nodded. "Most of them, yes, though I've yet to read a few. Other than that, I can almost guarantee I've read it."

I glanced over at him, skepticism radiating from me in waves. "No way."

"Feel free to test me."

"Okay," I drawled, gearing up to win this argument. "Hamlet."

"'Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio. A fellow of infinite jest.'"

"A Tale of Two Cities."

"'It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.'"

"Les Miserables."

"'Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.'"

I let out an incredulous breath and crossed my arms over my chest. "Damn. You know your literature."

He didn't smile, but looked amused, and walked toward the doors once again. "Feel free to browse, Miss Armstrong. Nothing has a proper place; just don't leave it out."

And with that, he excited the room, leaving me to wander the library until dawn.

And that's it for this chapter! I hope all of you liked it! Feedback is always appreciated!

Thanks for reading!

-Conversationkiller111

Review Responses...

Clockworksalsa: Hi! Omg thank you for the kind review! I'm so glad that you've stuck with me for all this time! I hope you liked this update!

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Saar1o: Thank you! This version will be slightly different than the original (and I may or may not already be planning a sequel lol).