"What was that?" Cira screamed at him through the elucidator as he zoomed into darkness. Sam dangled next to him, still bleeding and unconscious. He held onto her as tightly as he could, but her head still bobbed about as they spiraled.

"I don't know," JB yelled back. "Looked like some freakish mutated breed from—"

"I'm not talking about the creature," Cira snapped. "What was the elucidator doing in Samantha's pocket? Is that your thing now, letting time primitives take care of everything?"

"Her pockets were deeper than mine and it wouldn't make sense for a man to be carrying a thimble around in the 1760s anyway. Besides, we have bigger problems," he said through gritted teeth. Didn't Cira realize how badly Sam was hurt? "Please send us something to stop her bleeding."

"Obviously."

He was drenched with rainwater, but the warm blood trickling onto him from Sam's wounds was unmistakable. And it kept spilling. "Sam, can you hear me?" No response.

"You know," came Cira's voice again, sounding way too matter-of-fact, "if she dies anytime before the 1920s, our projectionists say some of the future could still be saved."

"What are you talking about? We can't let her die like this!"

"I'm not talking about right now. I just mean that if something like this happens again and you don't have time to get her out, you should get yourself out and come back to headquarters. Two dead bodies in the wrong time period is worse than one. Plus, then there may be a chance of saving a few centuries from collapse, even if we can't save everything."

How could she say these things with such little emotion? "Cira, when you're in the field doing the actual work, it's not as simple as sitting in headqu—"

"Do not try to mentor me!" JB couldn't see her face, but she sounded like smoke was blowing out of her ears. "I'm your boss now, remember? And I'm trying to do what's best for history. You know, the thing you're supposed to care about."

"I do care about history. I just care about people too."

"Is that your excuse for getting all mushy-eyed back there? Don't think I missed that. If you'd been paying less attention to the time primitive and more attention to your surroundings, you might have heard the beast coming."

JB had no response to that. He, himself, wasn't really sure what had happened between him and Sam before the beast showed up. All he knew was that she'd felt scared and alone and he wanted to be there for her. Whatever Cira thought she saw, she had to be wrong. Nothing had happened. It was rainy and cold and Sam was crying, so of course he had to comfort her. Nothing more.

He could see the familiar lights now, gleaming below. And he could feel Sam's limp arms getting colder by the minute. "Please hurry, Cira."

...

Sam heard a voice in the darkness, whispering something. Begging. "Please, please, please, wake up." The voice sounded familiar, soothing. Safe. It was JB, she finally realized as the fog in her memory cleared. She was lying on something soft and clean. Wool sheets, she realized, feeling the whisper of fuzz all around her.

JB was still pleading, "I'll do anything, just open your eyes."

Anything? Well, if you say so. "Tell me who killed the Black Dahlia, then," she said.

A surge of sharp pain flashed through her upper body as she felt a pair of trembling arms squeeze her in a tight embrace. "Owwww!"

She opened her eyes to find JB backing up hastily, brow furrowed, but smiling. His powdered wig was gone now, and his natural brown fringe flopped slightly askew. Dark crescents hung below his eyes. It was like he hadn't slept in ages. "Sorry!" he said. Then his smile morphed into a smirk. "Serves you right for joking around after I've been worried sick for three days."

"I wasn't joking! I do want to know who killed the—Wait, did you say three days?" She scanned her surroundings: They were in a blue room, wide with an impressive white ceiling lined in grecian motifs. To her right, velvet curtains hung over a large rectangular window. An unlit fireplace framed in white plaster was nestled in the left corner. Surrounding her were the silk drapings of a canopy bed. "Where are we?" she asked. "And how am I not starving or thirsty?"

"We're in Birmingham, England," said JB. "Luckily I always keep a few doses of emergency hydration and protein shots in my pocket at all times. I was just worried I'd run out before you woke up."

She observed JB more closely. He wore a blue tailcoat over light brown trousers. A white collar stuck out from under his cravat and grazed his jaw. Even with little to no sleep, he was still extremely handsome. Shut up, Sam, she thought. Regency men's clothes look hot on everyone.

But why would he be wearing Regency attire in the 1760s? She glanced under the sheets at her own clothes and found herself in a white night jacket over a linen shift. A quick pat across her head confirmed she also had on a nightcap. "Did you bring us to the 1810s?"

"1817 to be precise." He shook his head, looking amused. "You figured it out that fast?"

She ignored the question because something else concerned her. "What happened to my 1760s clothes?"

"Well, you had to tear off the blue dress, remember? And we didn't exactly have time to grab anything else before I had the elucidator take us to the next unstable time period on our list."

"Not even my red dress?" She hoped JB couldn't hear the pout she felt in her throat. She knew it was stupid to worry about clothes at this moment, but she'd wanted to take that one home.

"Next time you're bleeding to death, I'll take note of your priorities," he said.

She knew he was just teasing, but she felt her face heat up anyway. "I'm sorry. Thank you for saving me. I was really scared." She finally let herself recall the events that led her here. Just the memory of those vicious teeth ripping into her flesh made her heart race once again. JB must have sensed something was wrong because he sat on the edge of the bed beside her and assured her, "We're safe now."

She exhaled slowly and attempted to release some of the panic that threatened to suffocate her. It helped having JB there, a kind face in this vast, confusing universe. She wished he would hug her again, but she knew he wouldn't after hearing her cry out in pain. Instead, she attempted to touch his face and reignite the warmth she had felt just moments before she spotted the beast. But JB leaned away and made a sound that she thought was a poor attempt at a cough. He stood up once again and awkwardly gazed at the ceiling. "So…I should probably catch you up on how we got here," he said.

"Yes. Right." She wished he would look at her.

"We're inside Dorington Manor," he said, eyes still on the ceiling. "When we landed in 1817, a family spotted us on their way home. I told them we'd been attacked by a gang of muggers on our way to London. The family—the Daleys—took us in and offered to let us stay with them for a bit. They think my name is James Byron and that you're my wife, Amelia."

"I'm your wife this time?"

"It was the first thing that came to mind." Was he blushing? "Anyway, the Daleys are a family of four. Mr. and Mrs. Daley, their twelve year-old son Charles, and their youngest, five year-old Abby. They also have a niece, Sarah Carr, who's their live-in governess and general assistant. She's been in and out with clean night clothes and medicine for you. If she asks you if the medicine has been helping, just say yes and that you're feeling like you don't need it anymore. I've been tossing it in the garden for the past three days. I don't trust nineteenth century concoctions."

"I feel okay," Sam said. "Guess I didn't need much medicine."

"The beast thankfully didn't hit any major arteries when it attacked you. I've also been doing what I can from what I learned from a Native American tribe I lived with for five years in the 1600s. I'm no expert, but they taught me a lot."

Five years in the 1600s? "Hold up, you did what now?"

"Long story."

"You seem to have a lot of those."

"Welcome to my life," he said, and he was finally making eye contact with her, so she didn't press him for more. "Anyway, my boss also promised to send along some things for us shortly—including more doses of your prescription, money, and basic toiletries—but with time all messed up, it could take her a week or two to find an opening."

"Luckily I kept a months' worth of meds in my pocket just in case," she said, "but what about clothes?"

"Sarah is about your size, so she has some you can borrow. She plans to take you to a dressmaker in town soon so you have some of your own."

"A real Regency dressmaker!" Sam cried, and for a brief moment the sheer excitement at the notion made her forget herself. She burst upright in a spray of bedsheets, only to moan when the pain in her chest and neck zapped her back to reality. The bedroom blurred before her eyes and she dizzily fell back on her pillow.

"Take it easy," JB said in a strained whisper. "I don't want anyone to hear you and call some crackpot nineteenth century doctor to come prod at you."

She nodded slowly and let the room fade back into focus. "And why 1817? Why's this year unstable?"

JB bit his bottom lip. "I'm not exactly sure yet. It's early May right now and I know Jane Austen dies next month, so maybe something related to that."

"I'm guessing it would be pretty rude to go see Jane Austen on her deathbed," Sam sighed, mostly joking. "What's the point of traveling to the Regency if I can't even meet her?"

"Well, if she has something to do with the imbalance of time, we may have to meet her. But first," he added, "there's one more thing."

"And what's that?"

"Because we're, um, supposed to be husband and wife…" He was definitely blushing now. "The sleeping arrangements aren't ideal for a couple of, um, professional acquaintances."

Was that all they were? Sam felt her chest deflate. Sure, they'd only met recently, but they knew so much about each other already. People didn't share their complex mental health histories with just anyone. She had been certain they were friends by now. "What are the sleeping arrangements?" she asked flatly.

"Well, the Daleys only have one guest room," he said. "So…"

Oh. Now she could feel her own face growing hot.

"It's fine, I've just been sleeping on the couch over there." He nodded at a long piece of furniture beside the fireplace.

"It's called a chaise-longue," she said, still annoyed. "And that's fine. I don't really care where you sleep. We're just acquaintances, after all, right?"

His shoulders sank a little and he opened his mouth, but closed it again quickly before clearing his throat and nodding. "I'll go tell Sarah you're awake," he finally said.