CHAPTER TWO:

WHERE IN THE WORLD?

Charlotte stumbled as she emerged from the sea, her breath laboured and her limbs heavy, as though the waves themselves were loath to release her. The saltwater clung stubbornly to her lashes, stinging her eyes, while her chest heaved with each ragged breath. Only moments ago, she had been swimming in the familiar, welcoming waters off the coast of Sanditon, where the bracing sea breeze had filled her lungs with the heady promise of adventure. But now, she stood on what appeared to be the same shore, though the world around her had morphed into something uncanny and perplexing, as if she had slipped from the pages of one cherished novel into the disorienting plot of another.

'Ah!' she winced as a sudden, blinding light cut across her vision, a sharp pain flaring in her head.

She looked up. Where once stood quaint beach huts painted in soothing pastel hues, and families picnicking on gingham blankets, there now loomed towering monoliths of glass and steel, their gleaming surfaces reflecting the dying light in a display so dazzling it seemed almost malevolent. These colossal structures, like sentinels of an alien world, overshadowed the beach, their presence both overwhelming and inexplicable. The old houses were still there—some of them, at least—but they were now dwarfed by these behemoths and appeared utterly out of place. The shrill cries of seagulls had been replaced by the distant, relentless hum of machinery, punctuated by the occasional blare of what Charlotte could only assume were some sort of strange, horseless carriages—nothing like any carriage she had ever seen.

'Where in the world am I?' she muttered under her breath, her voice trembling with both confusion and cold. She glanced down at herself—her damp gown clung to her legs, the fabric heavy and suddenly absurd in this strange new setting. It was as if she had awoken from a dream only to find herself plunged into a nightmare. She shivered, not from the chill, but from the deep unease that settled in her chest like a lead weight. Gathering her skirts with trembling hands, she hurried away from the water's edge, her shoes sodden, her heart pounding in a frantic, erratic rhythm.

What was this place? she wondered, a cold dread creeping up her spine. Where am I? As if in response, the world around her seemed to shift again, its unfamiliarity pressing down on her like a suffocating shroud.

For a fleeting moment, she glimpsed him—oh! A man! Perhaps he could help. His figure was hazy, indistinct, his gaze fixed on her. But just as before, when she turned to face him fully, he vanished, leaving her with only the unsettling sense that she was being watched. Was he even real?

The sand beneath her boots felt unnervingly smooth, as if it had been meticulously combed by some unseen hand, erasing all the familiar imperfections of the beach she knew so well. Her boots left only the faintest impressions, quickly washed away by the next wave, as though the beach itself sought to erase all trace of her presence. Yet Charlotte had no time to ponder this oddity; her thoughts were consumed by a desperate need to understand where she was and what had happened.

She took a few tentative steps towards the town, her boots clicking on the unfamiliar surface beneath her feet. The path, once a rugged track of gravel and cobblestones, was now replaced with something flat and grey—cold and unyielding, as though the ground itself had been transformed into an alien terrain. It felt lifeless beneath her feet, stripped of all its natural warmth and vitality. She spun in circles, frantically scanning her surroundings for something—anything—familiar, but there was nothing. The Parker family's house, with its whitewashed walls and blooming garden, the bustling marketplace where traders hawked their wares, and the old inn where she had first stayed upon arriving in Sanditon—all were gone, vanished as if they had never existed.

The buildings loomed larger, their sharp edges cutting against the sky like the jagged teeth of some great mechanical beast. The windows of these towering structures reflected the last of the daylight, a cold, indifferent glow that seemed to mock her bewilderment. It was then that Charlotte realised just how alone she was. This was not the Sanditon she knew, nor was it the world she knew. Everything was wrong, and yet no one around her seemed to notice.

As she squinted into the harsh sunlight, Charlotte thought she saw the man again, this time standing on the cliffs, looking down at her and waving. She raised her arm to shield her eyes from the glare, trying to get a better look at him. But no, he was on the other side of the bay now, watching her, perhaps even calling out to her. Yet when she turned to look more closely, he was gone, swallowed by the shadows.

Charlotte's breath quickened as she approached what should have been the town. But the town before her was not the Sanditon she knew. The buildings were tall and sleek, their exteriors fashioned from materials she could not name—glass, steel, and something else that gleamed unnaturally in the fading light. Strange signs hung above doorways, glowing with an eerie, unnatural light as the daylight waned. Words she did not recognise—'Mobiles and Laptops,' 'Recycle Centre,' 'Cinema'—were emblazoned in bold, garish lettering. It was English, she realised, but the words made no sense in this context, as if the very language had shifted beneath her feet along with the landscape.

People hurried past her, their attire bizarre and completely unfamiliar. Women strode by with purpose, their dresses revealing scandalously bare legs, or worse still, they wore trousers—trousers, like those of a man! Charlotte almost laughed aloud at the absurdity of it, but the sound caught in her throat, and she swallowed it down, feeling even more adrift. The men, too, were a sight to behold, their coats short and their shirts bereft of cravats. One man even had his shirt untucked, flapping freely in the breeze as though propriety itself had fled this strange place. And yet, for all the strangeness of their garb, no one seemed to notice Charlotte, save for a few who glanced at her with mild curiosity, as though she were an actor in a play, a curiosity to be observed but not engaged with. She felt herself shrinking under their gazes, her hand instinctively reaching up to straighten her bonnet, as if that simple act might somehow make her less conspicuous in this bewildering new world.

She stopped outside where the tearooms had once been, but reading the menu that was helpfully posted outside, she furrowed her brow.

What? Pizza? Chips? Burgers? Tacos? Pasta?

What sort of avant-garde cooking was this? Some new-fangled cuisine from London or Paris?

She moved forward, her heart hammering in her chest, her mind a whirl of confusion and fear. The buildings loomed above her, their windows dark and inscrutable, and the streets were filled with noise—loud, clanging sounds that made her head spin. She turned a corner and nearly collided with a young woman so engrossed in a small, flat, glowing object in her hand that she hardly noticed the near collision. The woman's eyes were fixed on the object, as if it held the secrets of the universe.

'Oh! I beg your pardon,' Charlotte exclaimed, stepping back, her voice quivering slightly with the strain of keeping her composure. The woman scarcely looked up, her expression one of mild annoyance rather than concern.

The young woman looked up, her brow furrowing as she took in Charlotte's appearance. 'No problem,' she said, her tone laced with mild amusement at her outdated politeness. Then she cast her a glance and her eyes, which were framed by thick black lines, widened. 'Are you in some kind of period drama? You look like you've just walked out of Bridgerton or something.'

'Bridgerton?' Charlotte repeated, the unfamiliar word slipping from her lips like a foreign phrase. It felt strange in her mouth, as though she were trying to speak a language she did not know.

'Yeah, you know—Regency era, fans, balls, dresses, all that jazz. Your costume's impressive, I'll give you that,' the woman replied, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Charlotte blinked, utterly lost. What was the Regency era? She knew they were in the time of King George III, and his son, the Prince of Wales, was Regent, but that would not be it. One could hardly call it an era, and besides, it was still happening, they were still living through it.

'I… I do not understand. I am staying in Sanditon.'

'Right,' the woman replied with a shrug and a smirk, her attention returning to the object in her hand, which she continued tapping with her thumbs. 'Well, good luck with… whatever this is.' With a final, mystified look, she walked away, her attention returning to the small device as if Charlotte were just a strange dream she would soon forget.

Charlotte stood rooted to the spot, her heart pounding as she watched the woman disappear. What is happening? she thought, panic rising within her like a tide. How could everything be so different, so wrong? She knew Sanditon—its streets, its people, its very soul—better than she knew herself. Yet here, in this place that was somehow Sanditon and yet not, nothing made any sense.

Her hands trembled as she clutched at the folds of her skirt, her breath catching in her throat. What was this place, this twisted version of Sanditon where nothing and no one was as it should be? The sensation of being an intruder in her own life was overwhelming, as though she had been pushed off the stage of her own story and was now adrift in some other, more modern, and infinitely more confusing play.

As she passed by a shop window, she caught sight of her reflection and paused, her breath catching in her throat. The image staring back at her was both familiar and foreign. Her gown, still damp and clinging to her form, looked absurdly out of place against the backdrop of modernity. Her bonnet, a symbol of modesty and propriety, now seemed like a relic from a time long past. It had once been a frame for her clever head and pretty face, only now, she looked quite ridiculous in it. The woman in the glass was Charlotte Heywood, but she was also a stranger in a world that had moved on without her.

Then, in the reflection, she noticed him again—a figure with dark hair and eyes, standing just behind her. He was closer this time. Tall, and dark, with black boots, a jacket and cravat that contrasted with his white shirt. Oh! He was one of her? That is, she was the same as him. They belonged together, or not together, but together in time. She reached for him, but he was gone, leaving her to wonder if he had ever been there at all.

A group of young people approached, their laughter loud and carefree, their presence at odds with the overwhelming sense of disorientation that gripped Charlotte. One of them, a girl with hair dyed a shockingly vivid shade of orange, pointed at Charlotte and whispered something to her companions. They all peered at her with mischievous gawks, their expressions a mix of amusement and curiosity.

'Check out that dress!' she said with a blurt of a snort, her hand covering her mouth that was covered in purple, as if grapes had been crushed on them. Hmm, she really ought to wipe that off and learn to be a less messy eater.

Another raised an eyebrow as she chewed an odd-looking thing that appeared to be ham and cheese wedged between two cuts of bread. 'Is there a historical festival going on?' she asked, her mouth full.

'Does she think she is in a Jane Austen?' one giggled, a ring like a bull's in her nose, her stockings ripped in a pattern like a fishing net.

'Maybe she's an actress,' a boy suggested, his golden hair spiked like the spikes of a dinosaur she had once seen a drawing of in a book. 'Or she's just really into cosplay.'

'Cosplay?' Charlotte echoed, the unfamiliar word slipping from her lips like a puzzle piece that did not fit.

The group moved on, their voices fading into the throng of equally bemusing people, leaving Charlotte standing alone once more. She felt a rising terror, her mind racing to make sense of the inexplicable.

'Ah!' she gasped, clutching her head as the ache within intensified, now a stubborn throb.

She had to find someone who could explain, someone who could tell her what had happened to her world. But the more she looked, the more she realised she was utterly alone. This was not the Sanditon she knew, nor was it the world she knew. Everything was wrong, and yet no one around her seemed to notice or care.

Thank you for your patience while I got back to this story. I was busy finishing my book. It might interest some readers here. It is a collection of 24 short stories based on the world of Sanditon called, "The Shores of Sanditon."