A silvery melody drifted into his bedchamber and pulled him out of sleep. The tune was familiar, something from an old classic movie, perhaps? He rolled upright and listened more closely—was someone singing?

"…my heart wants to beat like the wings of the birds

That rise from the lake to the trees.

My heart wants to sigh like a chime that flies

From a church on a breeze…"

The voice streamed out in silky ribbons. He stretched his way out of bed and into the hallway.

"…to laugh like a brook when it trips and falls

Over stones on its way

To sing through the night

Like a lark who is learning to pray…"

Downstairs. It was coming from downstairs. He scrambled down the spiral staircase that led to a quaint, peach-toned sitting room. Sam flitted in with an ivory tea set on a tray, setting them on a delicate little table in the center of the room. Evidently oblivious to JB's presence at the bottom of the staircase, she left the tray on the table and twirled about, singing.

"I go to the hills

When my heart is lonel—"

He coughed and she froze. The sparkle in her eyes, the whimsy in her walk, the way her arms swung along to the music—it all flashed away as she stiffened and her ivory complexion turned a rosy pink. "Morning," she gasped. "Didn't see you there. You want some tea before we head out?"

"What were you singing?"

She turned away from him and suddenly looked very interested in pouring the tea. "Let's just pretend you didn't hear that."

"Why? You're good."

"Oh, uh, thanks." A timid giggle feathered out of her mouth. "Sorry if I woke you up."

"It was nice," he said. "I think I know the song from somewhere."

"Do people in the future still watch The Sound of Music?"

Recognition clapped in his brain. "That's what it is! With Julie Andrews, right?"

Sam beamed. "Right! Wow, I'm so glad that movie's still a classic. You know I played Maria on stage a few years ago?" Whatever embarrassment she possessed before had clearly disappeared and she returned to her natural tip-toed gait. She began to recount her favorite moments in the role, meanwhile, letting her teacup overflow. JB hastily confiscated the teapot and set it on the now-wet tray. Sam hardly seemed to notice. "Is live theatre still around in your time?"

"Yes, it's—" he stopped himself. "I'm not supposed to talk about that, remember?"

She slumped—as much as one could slump in a pair of fully boned stays—onto the long settee that lay behind the table. "Right, right. I forgot."

"Have you been in lots of musicals?" He hoped this might redirect her interest. It seemed to work.

"Oh, yes! I was Belle in Beauty and the Beast back in my early twenties, and Meg March in Little Women—Oh, and I played Anne Shirley in Anne of Green Gables when I was thirteen. But that was just a play, not a musical." She lifted her teacup to take a sip, then frowned when she noticed the spilled tea on the tray. "How did that—? Oh, never mind." From the folds of her skirts, she retrieved a handkerchief and wiped the bottom of her cup before blowing on it and taking a cautious sip.

"So, essentially," said JB, feeling a smile creep into his voice, "You've played yourself three times. Is it really acting if the characters are just like you?"

"I've played other roles!" she said, eyes inflated and brows arched high. Her free arm flung out in annoyance with each syllable. "I played Eponine in Les Mis and Bonnie in Bonnie and Clyde. I'm nothing like those two."

"Okay, okay. I believe you." JB had to lift his teacup and pretend to take a sip to hide his amusement. Watching her get so worked up and flustered was quite entertaining.

"You know I'm more than just a historian, right?" she said. "I've always hated the idea of being defined by my occupation. Theatre is just as much a part of my life as history and music and all sorts of things. I contain multitudes." Her tone was playful, but JB sensed that this was something she felt very strongly about. He locked eyes with her and nodded to show that he understood.

"How's the tea?" she asked after settling back into a cheerful state. "I like a lot of honey and lemon in mine, but I didn't want to put as much in yours in case you prefer it without."

He realized he had only feigned a taste before, so he brought the rim back to his lips and let the warm liquid roll across his tongue and down his throat. It was fruity and slightly tart. "It's interesting," he said. "Is it a type of berry tea?"

"Black currant. One of my favorites. I brought some along for the trip and figured I'd make some to keep me awake throughout the day. I got zero sleep last night."

"Should I make some toast?" JB offered.

"Could we see if there's a bakery in the village?" She gazed at him hopefully. "I don't think that would cause any paradoxes, do you?"

He felt his muscles tense up. "I don't love the idea…"

"Don't we need to get to know the locals anyway? What better way than to purchase some local bread? It's a lot less suspicious than just strolling in and asking random questions."

She wasn't wrong. "I suppose that might work. If we're careful."

They finished their tea and JB squeezed back into his period appropriate clothing. After Sam gave him a brief lesson on walking in 1760s attire (according to her, his normal gait made him look like a creature from outer space), the two of them ventured out the front gate and down a winding dirt path. Ahead was a cluster of cottages tucked between tree-dotted hills. In the sunlight, JB noticed the striking contrast between the crimson shade of Sam's dress and her porcelain white complexion. Her features might have appeared washed-out if it weren't for her dark curls and ebony eyes, which gave her face dimension. She was smart to wrap a white fischu around her neck with the ends tucked into her bodice, protecting her chest area from the bright sun. A flat, wide-brimmed bergère of woven straw was perched on her head to shade her face, which otherwise would surely burn in a matter of minutes. He watched her kneel down halfway up the path to pluck a yellow dandelion from the grass. It was like a scene from an eighteenth century oil painting.

"Isn't it incredible?" She sighed, twirling the flower in her right hand and smiling at the sky. "I mean, we've traveled back over two-hundred years, but the flowers are exactly the same. Doesn't it make the past feel less distant somehow?"

"The past isn't distant," he reminded her, unsure what else to say. "We're right here in it."

She pursed her lips and playfully tossed the dandelion at his face. "You know what I mean!"

"Sure," was all he could manage. Too many thoughts were rushing through his head, like the fact that he knew she'd never again see twenty-first century dandelions once their mission was over, or the total lack of tracers in this unfamiliar territory, or the knowledge that the agency was probably watching and criticizing his every decision.