It was nearly dawn when Sam awoke and squinted in the dim blue light that tinted the room. Too early, she thought, and tried to roll onto her side. That's when she noticed she hadn't fallen asleep on her pillow last night. Instead of sinking into the embrace of goosefeather down, she realized her head was in fact lying on something warm, and a soothing rhythm thumped against her ear; a heartbeat. The scent of licorice was unmistakable. At first, she could not understand how she had ended up in the middle of the bed, curled up beside JB, who sat slumped against a bedpost. His legs hung off the edge of the mattress like he had just sat down and fallen asleep. She then realized that was exactly what had happened. Last night she'd expressed her anxieties about going to church and he'd sat on the edge of the bed to talk and then…they must have fallen asleep right there.

For a moment she was afraid her movement might wake him, but his chest continued to rise and fall at the same slow cadence, so she took this opportunity to study his face. The edges of his eyes turned slightly downward like in some of the photos she'd seen of young Albert Einstein. His lashes were dark—why did men always get the best lashes?— and his floppy fringe sprung sideways, entirely out of place, which made her smile. Against her better judgment, she tenderly combed it forward to its usual position just above his eyebrow. Evidently this was a mistake because he exhaled a quick groan and his eyes fluttered open shortly after.

"Sorry," Sam whispered, embarrassed. "Didn't mean to wake you."

"Wha…?" he yawned, still blinking.

"I think we fell asleep here," said Sam.

"Hmm…" He nodded absently, but after a second his eyes seemed to focus on something behind her—the chaise-longue—and he stiffened. "Oh!"

Change the subject, quick! she thought. "How did you sleep?"

"Um…" he swallowed.

Stupid, Sam. That's not changing the subject. "I mean…Are you ready for today? First time going into town since we got here."

"It will be nice to travel off the manor grounds," he agreed. "I imagine you're excited to pick up your dresses today."

"I can't wait!" All remaining grogginess evaporated at the reminder. She felt her insides vibrate as though she'd just had three shots of espresso. "I hope the measurements Sarah took were correct. I had a hard time standing up straight the first few days, what with my injuries." Instinctively she reached up to touch the leftover scar on the lower part of her neck, just above her collarbone. Now that there was no threat of death, her concern had shifted to how long it would take to fade. She hoped JB's boss would send some futuristic medicine that would hide it completely. Yes, it was superficial to care about a scar after she'd barely escaped with her life, but she knew most nineteenth century evening gowns had low necks, and if she wanted to get dressed up for the dance…

"Sam?" JB looked at her questioningly.

That reminded her. "Sarah wants me to go with her to the Whitsuntide dance in Erdington on the 26th. She thinks the Daleys will let her go if I join her."

"So I heard," said JB. "The Daleys seem to like you, so your chances are pretty good."

"They'd be better if you came along too," said Sam. Truthfully, she'd been meaning to ask him ever since Sarah brought it up, but she didn't want him to think she was trying to be too friendly after he'd made it clear that they were just acquaintances. But right now it was a much safer topic of discussion than the fact that she'd woken up with her head on his chest.

JB stretched his arms and stood up. "That's probably a smart idea. That way neither of us will have to be separated from the elucidator that night."

It wasn't exactly the answer she'd hoped for, but it was better than nothing. "Good. Then it's settled."

...

The church was large and crowded. Birmingham was a growing city in 1817, and the number of people crammed into the church proved it. Sam was impressed by the long gilded ceiling and the marble pillars that lined either side of the nave under massive arches. They were beautiful, but intimidating. She swallowed and made sure JB had not gotten swept up by the crowd. He remained beside her just as he promised, his eyes reassuring. She exhaled a steady breath and checked that her white morning frock looked presentable enough. The borrowed dress sat awkwardly on top of her 1760s stays, but she hoped that was hidden well enough under her cotton spencer.

Mr. Daley led the way with Mrs. Daley by his side. He was rather short with cropped grey sideburns and a receding hairline that he usually kept under a top hat, but which was currently uncovered. Mrs. Daley was an inch or two taller than her husband, rosy-cheeked and timid with a mass of brown ringlets at her temples. The Daleys seemed to recognize most of the faces in the crowd and Mr. Daley stopped to bid them good morning while his wife nodded politely. They introduced Sam and JB—or "James and Amelia"—as their guests and Sam offered her best curtsy each time. Sarah kept her hands firmly on the children's shoulders and herded them into a box pew, whispering, "Remember, Abby, no giggling during the sermon this time." Abby stuck out her bottom lip and Charles snickered at his sister. The rest of the group followed them into their reserved box pew and sat down. Sam liked the privacy of the carved wooden walls that separated each family box. They were tall enough that all she could see of the other churchgoers were the tops of bonnets and hair. No judging eyes.

The sermon was long and dull, which, Sam supposed, was better than loud and traumatizing. The minister looked about three-hundred years old and sounded even older. The long pauses between each sentence were excruciating. JB, Sarah, and Mr. and Mrs. Daley appeared content and invested in the service. Charles seemed to be doing his best, but his eyelids drooped and his spidery limbs gradually sank lower and lower as the minutes passed. Abby wiggled and shifted in her little yellow dress, bunching the fabric in her fists and tugging at the strings of her matching bonnet until it flopped backwards, revealing a mop of frizzy brown curls. Sam caught Abby's blue eyes, which widened at the realization of being caught misbehaving. The girl bristled and hastily plopped the bonnet back on her head and raised a finger to her lips. Sam grinned at her and nodded, then proceeded to contort her face into various goofy expressions for the remainder of the sermon. Their shenanigans went apparently unnoticed, so Sam figured that if there was a God, He must not have minded too much.

Of course, once the service finally ended and the group was ready to split up and go their separate ways for the afternoon, Abby suddenly did not want to go home with her brother and parents. She wanted to join Sarah and "Mrs. Byron" at the dress shop.

"But Abby, you must practice on the pianoforte," said Mrs. Daley.

Abby shook her head defiantly. "I want to help Mrs. Byron."

"That's very kind of you Abby," Sarah said, looking amused, "but I will be there to help Mrs. Byron. You'll have a much jollier time at home, I'm certain."

Abby crossed her arms.

Sam sat back down on the pew so her face was level with Abby's. "Why don't you practice so you can play for me later, Abby? I'm sure you're a very gifted musician. Which song is your favorite?"

"The fast one!" Abby exclaimed. She hopped as she said it and her bonnet once again dropped off her head and dangled around her neck by the ribbons.

Mrs. Daley bustled over, shaking her head, and plopped the bonnet back in place. "The fast one is called 'Light as Thistledown,' Abby…" But Abby was now scurrying to her father's side and tugging at his tailcoat, telling him they needed to hurry home so she could practice the "fast song."

JB glanced at Sam and raised an eyebrow. Sam shrugged as she followed Sarah out into the churchyard, leaving him and the Daleys to make their way back to Dorington Manor.

Sarah shook her head. "I've no idea what's stricken that child." Sam bit back a laugh.

The sky was cloudy but bright as they rode the tide of people exiting the churchyard's wrought iron gate. Though the streets teemed with people—men in top hats and tailcoats, women in high-collared walking dresses and flowering bonnets—the crowd outside exhilarated her. She wished Sarah would slow down so she could properly marinate herself in the moment, but instead she held her tongue and matched her friend's pace.

It was easy to spot Pembroke Mantua Makers since it was the only shop that did not have its curtains drawn. Mrs. Pembroke was a friend of Mrs. Daley's and had generously offered to open her shop for an hour after church. Inside the storefront's gridded window stood a middle-aged woman at a desk. She was stout, with a round face. Auburn ringlets bounced under a turban-like headdress decorated with plump feathers. Sarah knocked on the door and the woman looked up and smiled. "Miss Carr, you look delightful, as always," she said as she opened the door and ushered them inside, "as does your companion."

Sam curtseyed and tried to remain calm as she soaked in her environment. Yards of glossy satin cascaded from wooden rods and pooled across the desk, frothy lace trim spiraled down from high shelves. And the muslin—real Dhaka muslin—not the thick cheap muslin found in twenty-first century fabric stores. No, this textile was light and ethereal, like woven vapor. The textile had gone extinct by the twenty-first century and Sam had only ever seen it in museums, never felt the delicate fibers with her own hands…

"Amelia?" Sarah gaped at Sam, who soon realized that her hand was outstretched, inches from the muslin.

"I'm so sorry!" Sam stammered. "I mean…my deepest apologies, Mrs. Pembroke. I assure you, I don't usually have such poor manners."

To her relief, Mrs. Pembroke broke out in laughter and gave Sam a gentle nudge. "Poor dear, still in a bit of a spell from that mugging, aren't you?"

The mugging. Right. "Indeed, yes," said Sam. "My husband and I give our sincerest thanks to the Daleys for their hospitality, and to you, Mrs. Pembroke, for coming in on a Sunday."

Mrs. Pembroke shook her head and clicked her tongue while she rummaged through some drawers in the desk. "Such a shame, attacking an innocent young couple on holiday, stealing their coach and belongings…leaving you beaten and stabbed in a ditch!"

"Ah, but she's recovering quite well," said Sarah. "I'm certain her limp will fade before Whit Monday and the Byrons will be on their merry way…after she accompanies me to the dance at Tyburn House, that is," she added with an impish grin.

Sam had entirely forgotten about her limp. The slight ache in her left thigh had become part of her everyday life since she woke up in 1817, and by now it was no more noticeable than white noise. Of course, the Daleys insisted she and JB stay until she had fully recovered, so as long as she still walked funny, it didn't matter how she felt. Not that she had any complaints about staying until after the dance.

"Here we are," sang Mrs. Pembroke just then. In her arms was a bundle of four gowns, a pair of stays, and a clean shift. "Miss Carr says she took precise measurements, so I don't imagine you'll need a great deal of fitting adjustments. Shall we get started?"

Sam held her breath and nodded.