The first few days of the week it took my wound to close were relatively entertaining, considering Henry's nearly endless supply of books. I managed to finish three in total for the week as a whole—a new personal record—and I have to say, my host was actually a pretty cool guy. Although I still didn't trust him (and probably never would), I found myself slowly beginning to at least accept him as 'probably not a murderer.' Did that mean I stopped acting like an awkward child? Ah, no; but I did, however, stop tensing whenever he entered the room around my third day of recovery. I also began responding to his questions with answers longer than a couple of words. In all honesty, Henry provided enough information about the past (well, technically present) that I could challenge most modern historians. He answered all kinds of my questions, even the blatantly absurd ones. Yes, Edgar Allan Poe was as broody and reclusive as his poems and stories suggested. Yes, Charles Dickens was an incredibly popular author in the United States... no, we couldn't go to England to meet him (you can imagine my disappointment at the last response).

His questions were more controlled, more sensitive—and more about me rather than the future. He wanted to know why I chose to study literature of all subjects, to which I responded (kinda lamely, might I add) that fiction was a passion of mine and that I believed it revealed more about life than non-fiction. He also asked me why I dressed so... 'unusual,' as he so eloquently put it. This made me laugh before I realized the serious answer the inquiry made me think about. Why did I wear my style of clothing? And makeup? Normally, I wouldn't have even wondered, but I could tell that Henry wasn't going to accept a dismissive response and, as a result, I thought hard about the answer.

"I guess it's about individuality," I finally said, meeting his inquiring eyes with a small smile. "I mean, even though women's rights are far, far better than they are now—no offense—we still have limitations forced on us by society. We're still living in a man's world, not a world of equality. I guess dressing the way I do is my way of saying that I won't conform to the bullshit restrictions that social standards demand I follow. Now, I'm not saying that there's anything wrong with wearing dresses and other things considered 'feminine;' part of my core beliefs say that women should have the right to choose what they want. I only get pissed when society forces us to do or wear or believe something we don't want to." I realized that I was ranting and abruptly stopped, blushing a deep shade of scarlet. "Uh, sorry. I, ah, I get worked up about this shi—stuff."

I expected him to scoff, to say that I should just appreciate that I had more rights than women elsewhere, a spiel that I've heard too many times to count. How he actually responded, though, was a complete shock to me:

"Well said, Miss Armstrong."

I frowned, confusion radiating from me in waves. "What?"

It was a stupid question, really, but Henry merely smirked. "I understand that you may have... low opinions about men; I can't blame you for that; they sometimes give me headaches as well. And yet just because I happen to be a man, doesn't mean I share their beliefs, nor that all of them are oppressive." He stood from where he sat in one of the library's many chairs. "Judge us not equally, Miss Armstrong."

And with that, he exited the room, leaving me to wallow in guilt. As much as I hated the 'not all men' speech, I had to recognize that Henry had a bit of a point. Had I really been so caught up in my fears that I'd come to believe that men were little more than oppressive operators only in the game for themselves? Had I forgotten what I stood for, that many men are just as much victims of society as I am? Perhaps. Would I willingly admit this to anyone, let alone Henry? Ah, no... but maybe, maybe, I would at least acknowledge his advice and be a little less judgmental. After all, he'd helped me when there wasn't really anything in it for him; didn't that deserve a little respect?

Shaking my head, I closed the book in my hands (Pride and Prejudice—and yes I was aware of the irony) and stood, leaving it sitting on the chair. I knew that I should find Henry and thank him for listening to me rant (and actually kind of taking my side), but when I reached the doors to the library, I froze. The room seemed oddly... warm, almost like someone had lit a fire, and I frowned, glancing over my shoulder. My eyes widened as I caught sight of the reason for the sudden rise in temperature: what looked like tiny bolts of lightening surrounded the chair I'd just left, crackling like radio static and twitching as if met with resistance. While I watched, too dumbfounded and frightened to move, the light grew brighter—so bright that I was forced to shield my eyes. I wanted to scream, but the sound just wouldn't come, and I could only assume that I was too paralyzed with fear.

And then, almost as quickly as it had started, the light vanished, leaving me with black spots dancing in front of my eyes. As I lowered my hands, I looked over at the chair and saw a neatly folded piece of paper resting on it, my name written on the front in elegant, flawless cursive. Hesitantly, I crept toward it and picked it up, opening it a second later.

'Dear Miss Armstrong,' it began and I felt a chill run down my spine despite the warm room. 'I'm sorry for not writing sooner. As you can imagine, these letters take quite a bit of energy to send and it took me a while to gather enough.

You've probably figured out by now that I'm responsible for sending you back in time. I'll get to that presently. At the moment, I wish to tell you that the reason why you're here is far more important than you could have ever imagined. You must not fail. Doing so would only end in catastrophic consequences.

I understand that you have many questions. 'Who are you?' 'Why am I here?' 'Why me?' I'm sorry to say that I cannot answer them as of now. You'll have to figure them out for yourself.

I may not be able to send another letter for a while, so until next time, stay strong. You can do this.

-S'

Well, I could at least say that whoever the hell sent me back in time was polite; not that it really mattered.

In all seriousness: what. the. hell. I'm the one that actually does the time traveling, and all I get is a crappy letter? No explanation, hardly any sympathy, and no clues as to who did this? Yeah, either I had the worst luck in the universe, or my mysterious pen-pal hated me. Honestly, I would put money on both of those if I had the chance, but since I didn't exactly have any money (the joys of being a college student), that proved impossible. Just my frickin' luck.

Against my will, tears filled my eyes, threatening to spill over if I didn't do anything about them. Blinking rapidly, I forced them to dry. If it's one thing I could say about myself, it was this: I was good at hiding tears; I'd always been good at it, but refined the skill over the past few years. With my vision clear, I folded the letter and shoved it in my pocket before exiting the library. For some odd reason that I likely knew the answer to but didn't want to confront it, the house suddenly seemed too cramped, too stuffy. Even though it was easily the largest dwelling I'd ever stayed in, I just wanted to get out. Yes, I knew of the dangers that interacting with the public of the past posed, but at that point, I really didn't give a damn. If I didn't get some fresh air soon, I would go crazy.

Henry was in the kitchen when I finally found him, trying to get the stove to light, to no avail. I could hear him cursing from the doorway and grinned, finding the profanity oddly... cute. Oh dear God, forget I said that. I don't know what's wrong with me.

"You're not using the right kind of kindling," I eventually said after a few seconds of watching him struggle.

"If you think you can do better," he responded without looking over at me, "then by all means, do so."

My smile widened as I stepped forward and motioned for him to move. Upon first glance, it seemed as though the kindling was wet, but as I looked closer, I saw that the problem lay in the fact that it was too big. Instead of using twigs and brush to start with, Henry had been trying to light sticks. Shooting him a wry grin, I changed out the kindling for something smaller and had the stove lit in practically no time at all. As I stood back, Henry gaped at me, showing more expression (if you could call it that) than I had ever seen on his face.

"How?" He demanded and I raised an eyebrow.

"Like I said: wrong kindling."

There was silence for a few moments, during which Henry brought a large kettle over to the stove and set it on top, and I debated what to say. I didn't know how he would react to my request for fresh air, didn't know if he would vehemently refuse it or actually agree to it. I also wondered if I should apologize to him for the rant or thank him for listening. He could have just as easily scoffed at me and dismissed everything I said, but he hadn't. That deserved at least a little recognition, right? Ye-ah. I thought so.

"Listen," I began, reluctantly meeting his eyes, "I, ah, I just wanted to thank you... for everything, ya know? I really appreciate it. I mean, you didn't have to help me last week when this whole thing started, but you did." I briefly glanced away, feeling my cheeks begin to flush. "Sorry that I haven't exactly been, y'know, accepting, for lack of a better word. I'm just... I'm so used to everyone always being out for themselves that I forget that people can actually be good."

Okay, that was way more than I'd intended to reveal, but whatever; as long as it got my point across. To give him credit, Henry didn't laugh at my awkwardness or roll his eyes at the rambling. He smirked a little, but I'd come to realize that that was a common expression for him when he didn't know what the hell to say. I did my best to return the small smile, but it ended up being little more than a twitch of my lips and I quickly decided that maybe I should just wait for him to answer instead of make myself look like a fool.

"No apology necessary, Miss Armstrong," he responded, turning away to rummage through the kitchen cabinets. "I understand what you're going through."

I let out an incredulous breath. "Really? Experience many internal crises, then?"

The joke was lame—I'll freely admit to that—but Henry smirked all the same and glanced my way after he found whatever was in the cupboard. "More than you'd think, actually."

"Sure." For some reason, I didn't believe him. "You're, what, twenty-four?"

"Five-and-twenty." He set a rather large kettle on the stove. "Does it matter? I can only guess that you're two-and-twenty, perhaps three, and I assume you've had many an 'internal crisis.'"

More than you could ever imagine, I thought, but instead uttered: "In my defense, going back in time counts as a major crisis." My eyes widened as I realized what I'd said and I frantically backtracked. "I'm not saying that meeting you is bad or anything, I, uh, I just—shit, what's wrong with me?"

In case it hasn't already become painfully, painfully obvious, I had the social skills of a tree.

Henry didn't respond and I took that as my cue to stop talking, instead opting to sit down at the small square table that resided in the center of the room. As we waited for the water in the kettle to boil, he brought over some bread that he'd made yesterday and set it in front of me before gesturing for me to take some. Despite the fact that I was hungry, I only grabbed a little piece, not wanting to appear overzealous or rude. He then sat across from me and took a slice for himself—a larger one than mine, but not by much.

"Is something bothering you, Miss Armstrong?" He eventually asked, tilting his head to one side. "Have I—"

I shook my head fervently. "No, no! You, ah, you haven't done anything wrong. I just..." I thought about the letter I'd received, about the strange energy that it took to send it, and bit my lip before continuing: "Something kinda... happened—nothing bad, though."

Henry waited.

"Someone—or something, I don't know—sent me a letter," I relayed in a jumbled rush as I fished through my pocket for the paper. "Apparently, they're the one who sent me back in time. They didn't leave a name or anything, just the letter 'S.'"

I handed the note to him and then sat back, suddenly not hungry. He scanned it and then gave it back to me, tiredly running a hand through his hair. "And you have no idea who this 'S' is?"

I shook my head again. "Sam? Sally? Servant to our dark lord Satan? Your guess is as good as mine."

There was a moment of silence as Henry thought over the contents of the letter, during which I drummed my fingers against the table. None of this made any sense. Why send someone back in time? More importantly, why send me? It wasn't like I was a historian or a physicist or, hell, even someone who actually wanted to go to the past. I was just a literature student who spent more time reading books and living in them than actually dealing with reality. I was probably the last person who should time travel to any period, let alone the goddamn civil war. Not only was I completely displaced (because, let's face it, a punk-rock feminist in the 1800s? Yeah, bad idea), I would also eventually have to interact with the public, which could cause a freaking paradox. So, in all honesty, I was basically screwed.

"Listen," I said after a while, when the quiet became nearly unbearable. "I, uh, I was wondering... if, y'know, I could go outside for a little bit? No offense, but staying cooped up indoors for another week doesn't really sound all that great. As much as I would love to be a little hermit, I do kinda miss being out in public... kinda."

Henry nodded as he stood and removed the kettle from the stove. "Of course," he responded, pouring tea into two cups and handing one to me. "I believe you'll find the city quite agreeable, actually."

It suddenly occurred to me that, aside from the United States, I had no idea where I was. "I'm sure I will... What city is it?"

"Washington DC."

Holy shit, we were really close to the Confederate border, which was enough to make me more than slightly nervous—even though I knew that battles of the Civil War never went that far north. Instead of freaking out, however, I simply nodded and sipped my tea. "Huh. Never been there; never had the time or the money."

"You never forget your first trip to the capital." Henry took another piece of bread and buttered it. "It's remarkable, really."

"Never forget it, huh?" I cradled my cup in my hands, reveling in its warmth. "So what was yours like?"

He smirked a little and tapped his hand against the table. "Incredible. The art, the literature, the city itself... there's nothing like it."

"I think I can relate," I murmured, returning his smile with one of my own. "Before I got sent here, I was looking to move out of my town—well, city. I live—lived—in San Diego, but I wanted to move up north, to San Francisco. I was looking into transferring my university credits to Stanford, but..." I trailed off as I realized that I was revealing way, way too much about myself. "Um... they wouldn't accept them," I finished lamely, knowing that Henry—perceptive as he was—would know that there was more to it than that.

In his defense, he didn't question me any further about the subject, for which I was grateful. I didn't want to talk about it. I never wanted to talk about it. All it did was serve as a painful reminder of what I could've had—and all that I'd lost.

"If we're going to go into town," he eventually began, snapping me out of my thoughts, "we'll have to do something about your attire." The corners of his mouth twitched in a halfhearted smirk. "You'll need to blend in."

My heart sank as I realized what he was saying. "Oh no," I argued, setting my cup aside so forcefully that its contents almost spilled. "No, you are not going to get me into one of those fancy, 1800s dresses!"

"I'm afraid you'll have to." There was a hint of laughter in his tone. "Unless you want to astound the locals."

In my head, I thought about how long it had been since I'd shaved my legs, but then realized that it didn't matter; 1800s dresses didn't even show ankles. "I can live with astounding them. I've done worse."

Henry shook his head and stood, a small grin on his face. "Bathroom's down the hall and to the left, if you wish to freshen up. The house has running water and I'll have clothes ready for you when you're done."

And with that, he exited the kitchen, leaving me to grumble quietly to myself. It wasn't long, however, until I conceded defeat and stood, making my toward the bathroom. I followed my host's directions and shut the door behind me before gazing at the room in shock. It was absolutely beautiful. The bathtub was actual porcelain (or looked a lot like it, at least) and there wasn't a stain in sight—a complete change from my bathroom at home, which was covered in soap scum and other undesirable grime (yes, I frequently cleaned it; but it's kinda hard to get rid of years worth of filth from the countless other tenants that lived in the apartment before me). In all honesty, Henry's home put mine to shame and I wondered how the hell he'd made all of his money. I could reasonably assume that he'd inherited it, but something about that explanation didn't seem quite right. So what, then? He seemed too young to have made it himself—but then again, people grew up a lot faster in the 1860s than in modern times. Maybe he'd started his own business? I would have to ask him about it when I got the chance.

Cleaning up felt amazing. For the past week, I'd been confined to washing myself off with washcloths, my wound hurting too much for me to submerge it. Now that it was closed, I could actually take a proper bath. Unfortunately, even though the house had plumbing, the water was cold—but that didn't bother me too much; there'd been days back home when my water heater broke and I hadn't had enough money to hire a repairman for a while. So, after a week of technically not bathing? Yeah, I wasn't going to complain, especially when my hair felt about as disgustingly greasy as used frying pan.

By the time I finished washing up, the water was fairly dirty, enough to make me feel extremely self-conscious. Had I really been that gross? And, oh jeez, had Henry actually stayed around me while I was that filthy? Okay, either he had no sense of smell or he was just really, really polite. Judging by my lack of luck, I would put money on the latter.

I dried myself off and wrapped the fluffy white towel around me so that I was completely covered before gingerly opening the door a crack. As Henry had informed me earlier, a fresh set of clothes were waiting for me on the table next to the entrance. I quickly grabbed them and shut the door with a barely audible click, examining the apparel a moment later. To my surprise, it wasn't too fancy. The slip was bleached cotton and hung down past my knees, but didn't quite reach my ankles, and much to my relief, there wasn't a corset. The dress itself was a dark plum color that almost touched the floor with thin sleeves and a fitted bodice. Next, I easily slid a pair of nice black boots on to my feet, feeling oddly surprised that they actually fit and were comfortable. Lastly, I fastened a gray bonnet securely on top of my head. I could only guess that I had to wear it because of my short hair, unless I wanted to come up with a believable story as to why it was cut. Seeing as though my poker face kinda sucked, I just went with the damn bonnet.

I had to admit, I almost fell when I tried walking in the stupid dress, but I took a few trips around the bathroom to get accustomed to the feel of it. When I was certain that I wouldn't make a complete fool out of myself, I opened the door and stepped out into the hall. A few strands of afternoon light shone through the windows and I quickly made my way to the living room, where Henry was waiting. He sported black attire and a pair of dark, old-fashioned sunglasses that almost completely concealed his eyes. Frowning, I glanced outside and saw that it wasn't too bright, rendering the glasses almost obsolete, but didn't say anything. No sense in offending my host.

As soon as he saw me, Henry tensed almost imperceptibly and tried to mask it with a small smile, but I saw through it anyways. "What?" I questioned, hoping that I hadn't accidentally offended him somehow (which I kinda had a tendency to do to people), and he shook his head.

"Nothing." He looked away. "I apologize if I was being rude, Miss Armstrong. I—"

"I'm not stupid, Henry," I interrupted, realizing too late that I was being impolite—not that it really mattered at that point. "I know that something's wrong. I don't wanna pry, but what is it?"

There was a moment of tense silence as he obviously waited for me to back down, but when I didn't, he sighed and ran a hand through his messy black hair. "This... this is difficult to explain, but..." He reluctantly raised his gaze to mine. "Those clothes belonged to my wife. It's... strange to see anyone else wearing them."

I instantly felt awful and briefly shut my eyes before speaking again: "I'm sorry. I... I shouldn't have asked. I, ah, I didn't realize how personal it could be."

Henry smiled (well, sort of), but it was a sad smile, one that seemed forced rather than genuine. "No apology necessary. You didn't know." He turned toward the door. "Shall we?"

Nodding after a moment of internal debate, I followed him outside and breathed in deeply, the fresh, crisp air feeling wonderful. Autumn leaves decorated the trees, blowing gently in the chilly breeze, and I felt myself grin despite the serious last few minutes. It was odd to actually see a different season. In San Diego, we had only two—Summer and Not Summer—and I'd never been out of state to witness a real seasonal change. The experience was... different, but nice. I found myself scarcely believing that this—any of it; the time traveling, the beauty of Autumn—was real. It felt real. It didn't feel like that fuzzy sensation of half-consciousness that manifested in a dream, like wandering through a sea of fog. No, it seemed tangible, beautiful, like that feeling of lucidity when you realize you're dreaming—and you know that you finally, finally have control over something in your life, at least for a little while.

"Miss Armstrong?"

Henry's gentle voice shocked me out of my reverie and I blinked in an attempt to regain control over myself. "Yeah?"

He looked confused when I finally directed my attention over to him. "Are you alright?" He asked, taking a small step toward me. "If this is—"

"I'm fine," I interjected with a smile, not wanting him to worry. "I just... I guess I'm kinda realizing that this is actually happening, ya know? This," I gestured around with my arm, "is all real. I really am in the past. It all felt kinda like a dream until now, but it's not. It's really happening."

He was quiet for a moment. "I think I understand," he eventually said, glancing around at the trees and the cloudy sky and the shrubbery. "I can't say that I have ever traveled back in time, but I have been in a completely different environment than what I was used to. It feels... imaginary."

I nodded. "Exactly. I just... it's hard to believe that I'm really here."

"Well," he extended his arm, "I suppose seeing is believing and you've yet to see the city. Perhaps things will become more realistic once you have. Shall we?"

It took me a second to realize that I was supposed to grab his hand so he could help me down the front steps. Normally, I would have scoffed and pushed him aside, but since I was wearing a poofy 1800s dress that I'd already almost fallen in, I figured that I should just swallow my pride. So, steeling myself, I gently grasped it and allowed him to guide me toward the road, hating how I actually did need his help. In case it hasn't already become apparent, I could not stand being fussed over, and Henry's chivalrous actions made me want to set him on fire. Or maybe I wanted to set myself aflame because I was showing a sign of weakness. Or maybe I was just being pissy. I didn't know. All I did know was that I felt like a complete moron.

Thankfully, I descended the stairs quickly and didn't need to hold on to him once my feet were on the road. For the first few minutes of the walk into town, neither one of us spoke—though it wasn't an awkward silence, oddly enough. It felt strangely... comfortable, familiar, like we'd experienced it a thousand times before. Eventually, however, we began to chat—about books, of all things—and Henry appeared quite interested in my designated college major. He asked me about my studies, how I liked the courses, if I'd read any nonfiction, what my favorite novels were. I answered every question as honestly as I could and with more than just a simple explanation. When I got to the last inquiry, though, I had to stop and think for a moment. Most of my favorite books technically hadn't been written yet, seeing that I was one hundred and fifty odd years in the past, and I had to reach deep into my well of classic literature in order to find a suitable response. Finally, I settled on Hamlet, even though it's a play, not a novel, and Henry appeared satisfied.

Then it was my turn to ask the questions. I tried to avoid anything that I deemed too personal (i.e. what the hell happened to his wife) and instead focused on simple things, things such as his favorite novels, plays, and poems. To my surprise, he liked poetry the best out of all those categories, citing Wordsworth as his favorite poet (so far). In all honesty, Henry had struck me as more of a theater kind of guy, but it only went to show that I wasn't really good at reading people, certainly no Sherlock Holmes.

By the time we reached the city, the wind had picked up and the air was more than slightly chilly. I didn't mind. I'd always been a creature of the cold. Nevertheless, I couldn't suppress a shiver when the first snowflake fell and Henry briefly glanced my way before directing me into one of the many stores. An overhead bell rang as soon as we entered and he quickly shut the door behind us. It was warm in the little shop, for which I was begrudgingly thankful, and a nice fire was burning in a small fireplace toward the back. Random knickknacks, yards of cloth, and other general items lined the wall's shelves and even more were stuffed in large wooden crates. As I looked around in wonder, Henry rapped his knuckles twice on the counter and a few seconds later, a man emerged from behind one of the shelves.

The newcomer looked almost childlike, despite the fact that he was easily in his mid to late thirties, and had bright, shoulder-length orange hair that reminded me somewhat of a stringy carrot. His face was gentle, his eyes kind, but he didn't exactly smile when he saw Henry.

"Mr. Sturges," the man said and I suddenly realized that he was the shopkeeper. "What brings you into town?"

Henry tipped his chin in what resembled a nod of acknowledgement. "Just looking around, Mr. Speed," he responded, voice not quite warm, but not cold either; neutral.

"I see." The man finally took notice of me and I saw his eyes widen almost imperceptibly. "And who might you be, miss?"

I debated what to say for a quick second before settling on: "Name's Olivia. Olivia Armstrong. It's, ah, it's nice to meet you."

He smiled, a large, genuine one, and extended his hand for me to shake. "Likewise." He waited for me to grab his outstretched limb. "Joshua Speed, at your service. I run this here shop."

I nodded and withdrew my hand, glancing over at Henry, who was watching Speed carefully. It didn't take me long to figure out that they didn't particularly care for one another—not quite so far as to say they loathed each other, but it was pretty close. Confused, I opened my mouth to ask about the subject, but Henry beat me to speaking:

"I'm momentarily leaving Miss Armstrong in your care while I mail a letter," he revealed, a hint of ice in his tone. "Try not to bore her to death, Mr. Speed."

And then he was gone, letting in a snow-filled breeze through the door as he left. Frowning, I turned back to the shopkeeper—Speed—and raised an eyebrow. He merely shrugged and shook his head, seemingly not too bothered by Henry's brusque manner. I decided not to worry about it anymore and instead amused myself by looking around the shop. For what it lacked in size, it made up for in inventory. Aside from the general materials (cloth, dried food, etc), there were quite a few antiques (or, rather, new-ish items, but they were antiques to me). One of which was a sword—revolutionary cutlass, by the look of it—and I picked it up, examining the leather scabbard with interest. As I pulled the blade out, I was surprised to find that it was in relatively good condition despite its age. There wasn't any rust (that I could see, for that matter) and the grip was more or less well-maintained. I turned it over and watched the firelight glint off of the blade, my reflection staring back at me.

"How much is this?" I asked, glancing over my shoulder to meet Speed's eyes. "It's beautiful."

He approached me and took a look at the sword, a hint of a frown on his face. "I'm actually not sure," he responded, peering closer at the blade. "I'm not even sure what kind it is."

I briefly looked down at it again, examining the curvature. "It's a cutlass, probably from the American Revolution. I'd say it's British. Swords on the American side were crude and would've rusted away by now, most likely. Plus, American swords didn't usually curve." I held it up in the light. "Also, there's hints of silver forged in with the steel—you can tell by the way the light reflects off of the blade. So that means this sword probably belonged to a British officer—or higher—and was never used in battle. It might've even had an inscription on it at one point, but it's too old to tell."

The shopkeeper gaped at me, incredulity written all over his face. "That's quite impressive, Miss Armstrong," he eventually said once he'd regained his composure. "If I may ask, how'd you know?"

I shrugged. "I read a lot."

It was a lame response, really, but thankfully Speed seemed to buy it, apparently less perceptive than Henry. Smirking, I sheathed the sword and put it back where I'd found it, feeling a little disappointed when it was out of my grip. I figured that it was best not to mention that I could identify the blade because I'd participated in a lot of Renaissance fairs. Speed wouldn't know what I was talking about and I didn't believe Renaissance fairs even existed in the 1860s. Ergo, it was probably a good idea to keep my mouth shut and continue with my horrible excuse of a lie.

"Well, normally I would say it isn't for sale," the shopkeeper finally informed, directing his attention from the sword to me, "but honestly, it's probably better off with anyone else. Thirty-one dollars."

It took me a moment to realize that thirty-one dollars in the 1860s was way, way more than thirty-one dollars in modern times. For one absurd moment, I thought about asking Henry to buy the damn sword for me, but then realized that I'd already used up enough of his hospitality and immediately shut the idea down. I would just have to make money some other way.

"I'll wait on it," I affirmed and gave him a small smile. "I don't exactly have a lot of money."

Speed seemed to consider this for a moment, chewing on his lip in apparent thought. "If you want, Miss Armstrong, I'm in need of an assistant. I've been neglecting this shop as of late—other duties, you see—and I could use someone's help. The pay wouldn't be great, but I could offer you a room as well."

I had to admit, I was a little taken aback by his offer. I mean, I scarcely knew him and was thus wary of him (though he seemed to begrudgingly have Henry's trust). Nevertheless, I couldn't deny that I was intrigued. Not only would I have a way of making money, I would have a place to stay of my own (sort of). In all honesty, it didn't sound like a bad idea, but I didn't want to jump the gun—even though I knew that I couldn't stay with Henry forever.

"I, uh, I'll think about it," I murmured, shyly looking away. "I mean... yeah. I'll think about it."

The shopkeeper was about to say something, but the sudden chime of a bell alerted us that someone was entering the shop. Expecting Henry, I turned around and instead saw a woman walking through the door. She was fairly tall—definitely taller than little five-foot-two me—and had blonde hair that was twisted in an elegant up-do. There was a cold expression on her pale face as her eyes sought out Speed and glared at him, seemingly taking no notice of me. She stalked forward, lithe steps that put mine to shame, and stopped in front of him, curling her lips into a sneer.

"Mr. Speed," she icily acknowledged and I saw the shopkeeper shiver slightly. "We have business to discuss."

To give the man credit, Speed immediately covered his unease. "It'll have to wait, Miss Vadoma," he managed, throwing a quick glance at me. "I'm with a client."

Finally noticing that I was standing there, the woman—Vadoma—directed her attention to me. "I haven't seen you around here before," she remarked, tilting her head to one side. "Who might you be?"

I could tell that all of her politeness was absolutely fake and immediately deduced that she was, in essence, a world-class bitch. Keeping this knowledge to myself, I smiled as genuinely as I could and decided to play dumb. "I'm Olivia," I said, extending my arm forward. "It's nice to meet you."

"Likewise," she murmured as she shook my hand, and I detected a trace of a Southern accent. "Have you known Mr. Speed long, then?"

The shopkeeper shook his head. "I was just showing Miss Armstrong around," he informed and I internally groaned. Great. Now the bitch knew my last name.

Vadoma nodded and then glanced back to me. "Tell me, Miss Armstrong, where are you from? I always like to hear from newcomers. It can get dull on the plantation."

I struggled to keep my eyes from widening. She was a goddamned slaver. "California... San Diego, actually."

Her entire demeanor changed, forced cordiality disappearing completely as another sneer overtook her face. "Out west, then." She huffed out an incredulous breath. "I've heard... interesting things about that city. I understand that it's filled with quite... uncivilized people."

Okay, so if it was one thing I could say about myself, it was this: my temper wasn't exactly the best. So for that woman—that bitch—to insult me and my home town? Yeah, no.

"You must be mistaken," I found myself sweetly saying before I could do anything about it. "There're no slave owners in San Diego."

I had to admit, that probably wasn't a good idea, but it felt damn good. As I watched, her expression turned murderous and for a moment, I thought she was going to slap me or something, but Speed finally grew a spine and ushered her out of the shop. The second the door was shut, he whirled around to face me, a huge smile on his face. "That was probably the best thing I've ever seen," he exclaimed as he barked out a laugh. "Oh the look on her face!"

I grinned back at him, feeling proud despite myself. "Is she always like that?"

"Unfortunately yes, but lucky for us, she doesn't come into town very often." He laughed again. "Miss Armstrong, you are welcome in my store any time and that job is most definitely yours should you decide you want it."

At that moment, the door opened again and Henry walked in. I noticed that he immediately took note of the happy vibe in the room and for a second—just a second—a small smile reached his lips. "Did I miss something?" He questioned, his eyes meeting mine, and Speed chuckled.

"Just an astounding battle of insults, which Miss Armstrong promptly won," he cackled before regaining (slight) control over himself. "She's a sharp one."

I blushed. "She had it coming."

"I'm sure she did." Henry extended his arm. "Shall we?"

And with that, we said good-bye to Speed and left the store, returning to the house in a fairly short amount of time. The entire way back, I couldn't shake the elated feeling in my chest and maybe, maybe began to wonder if this whole 'time-travel' thing was such a bad thing after all.

That's it for this chapter! I'm so sorry that it took so long to upload, but it was kinda being problematic. I hope that the length and content made up for it! Thanks for reading and leave a review if you want, let me know how I did, what I can fix, etc.

-Conversationkiller (Nopride)

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