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Katinki graciously edited this story.

Chapter 3

I regain consciousness with a start and attempt, not very successfully, to open my eyes.

It takes me a second to realize that the godawful noise threatening to blow my eardrums is the sound of people applauding and shouting.

Has the opera ended already? Did I sleep through it?

Oh, no.

I do a quick mental check of my body. Thankfully, I'm no longer nauseous. My head still aches, but it's nothing like the horrible pounding in my temples from a few minutes ago.

Or was it hours?

My cheeks burn as I imagine myself snoring through the intermission. Or worse… leaning on the next person and drooling on their shoulder while people walk over me. I shudder. Hopefully, it's just the end of the first act. The curtain is closed, so there's no way to tell.

The curtain looks a little different though.

Or maybe a lot.

My head's still fuzzy, like after a long afternoon nap, but if I didn't know better, I'd say it's a different stage altogether. The curtain is a velvety red fabric… I'd have sworn it was dark blue before. The proscenium is heavily gilded, like a frame of an old painting. I don't remember it looking like that at all, but maybe I just wasn't paying attention?

The noise and clapping reach a new decibel level as the singers come out for the curtain call. I do a double-take and shake my head incredulously.

These are not the same singers!

Norma, who's standing in the middle, wears the same silver gown, but she's not the same Norma that had morphed into a nightmare before I blacked out. This Norma is tall and blonde, with a statuesque figure and a regal posture that makes her stand out. James's lookalike is nowhere to be seen. Instead, a short brunette in his 40s stands beside Norma. He's sweaty and happy as he sends enthusiastic kisses to the audience. The rest of the singers look just as unfamiliar.

I lean back and close my eyes. I must be still sleeping. Morpheus must have heard my prayers and righted the wrongs of the casting. I've never had such vivid dreams before, though. According to Alice, her dreams are like movies, full of bizarre details and suspenseful turns, but unfortunately, I've never been able to relate. Even if I do occasionally dream, I never remember much in the morning.

I debate opening my eyes again because the noise is getting unbearable. When did the good people of Seattle become so voracious? They're cheering and whistling, and shouting bravo! like there's no tomorrow. Clearly, the show was amazing, not that I'd know anything about that.

I stretch my back and open my eyes again, and this time I know that I'm in a different theatre.

I've been to La Scala in Milan. This isn't it, but it's similar. There's the stage, the orchestra pit, the stalls, and then there's what seems like a million boxes. And my chair is in the front row of one of these boxes.

I focus my eyes on the people in the audience and I instantly forget how to breathe.

Instead of designer dresses and suits, they're dressed in period costumes. All of them. Every last one.

Panicking, I lower my gaze to my own attire.

Instead of the black top and black pants I came in, I'm in a dark crimson gown made of some heavy fabric that's cut under the bust into an elegant empire waist. My square neckline reveals quite a bit of skin, too. It's the kind of dress Madame de Rênal would wear. I'm too chickenshit to look behind me. What I see in front of me is more than enough to either faint or start screaming. The latter's probably preferable because nobody will hear my screams in this noise anyway.

So, I just sit there and stare, trying to make sense of my surroundings and doing my best not to hyperventilate.

What in the world has happened to me? Have I died? Have I gone mad?

Somehow it doesn't feel like it.

But then again, people with mental illness don't always know that they're sick.

Or maybe Alice took me to some period movie set, dressed me up, and then I somehow lost my memory? Maybe I had a stroke. Hmm, that could work for now. I try to relax the muscles of my shoulders and rub my eyes. I'll deal with the whole memory loss part… later. Yes, that's it. Later.

The applause calms down a little as the singers walk off stage, and the spectators begin preparing to leave. Somebody gently touches my shoulder from behind, and I nearly jump out of my seat.

"Isabella, are you well, my dear?"

I spin around and see a middle-aged couple, dressed to the nines. The man's somewhere in his early fifties, and his wife – somehow, I instantly decide that she's his wife – is a few years younger.

Whoever she is, she looks so worried that I attempt a smile and reply, "Yes, I am fine, thank you."

Only what comes out of my mouth sounds like perfect British English.

Like the kind you hear on BBC that makes you feel irrationally jealous because no matter how much you try to imitate it, the result sucks.

Well, I guess I've just figured it out, woohoo!

Clearly, I'm mad after all.

"This isn't weird at all… zero weirdness," I mutter to myself and discretely pinch my left arm. Hard. Which hurts but doesn't help things one bit.

The woman's searching gaze suggests that she wants to ask me something else but decides against it. Instead, she says in a gentle, soothing voice, "That is wonderful. Alistair is about to fetch our carriage. Would you mind walking out with me then? What a lovely evening…"

She trails off, still looking at me like I might collapse any minute.

Swallowing, I nod, this time unable to produce a sound. Forget the film set and amnesia, I'm clearly inside a period drama because these people are not acting. And I can't see any cameras or light equipment.

Now that I think about it, I'm even not sure where the light's coming from, but there's a distinct smell of candles. The air's hot and stuffy. Blackness begins creeping into the edges of my vision.

Not again!

The woman grabs my arm and directs me to the exit. "Alistair" has vanished, and we're on our own now, left to find our way through the crowd. There are so many people, and halfway to the exit, I abruptly realize that they smell. I have a fleeting thought that the last time I was so overwhelmed by different scents, I was in my middle school gym. Before I can dwell on that, we're outside on a cobblestone driveway, and the cold wind is like a slap to the face, refreshing and sobering.

An actual carriage, with horses and a coachman, waits for us. The man called Alistair holds the door, and the three of us get inside.

I don't question if I should or shouldn't be getting into a moving vehicle with people I don't know. How does that fake Lewis Carroll quote go?

"If you don't know where you are going, any road will get you there."

Yeah, I guess I'm in Alice-in-Wonderland mode right now. I doubt if anything could further rattle me at this point… Okay, maybe if a flame-throwing dragon descended from the skies, I might be slightly bemused.

Also, this lady did call me "Isabella," which is my name, so maybe she knows… something.

Rationally, or irrationally, I decide that I need to stick with her.

I glance out of the window as someone shuts the door from the outside. The square in front of the theatre is a mess of people, horses, and more people. Street lamps glow above, lighting the area.

Suddenly my eyes land on a man standing just outside of the opera house doors. He impatiently checks his pocket watch.

"Just like the White Rabbit," I silently snicker, but then my jaw drops.

Okay, clearly, my ability to be surprised isn't completely lost after all.

The man looks exactly like Mr. Cullen, my gorgeous, unattainable boss.

For a fraction of a second, our eyes meet, and my heart pounds. I have the strangest compulsion to throw the door open and jump out, but the carriage is already on the move, and I lose sight of him quickly.

Well-well… Curiouser and curiouser indeed.

Too bad I don't keep a diary, or I'd casually write: "Briefly saw Mr. Cullen dressed like Mr. Darcy. He looked good."

Nobody speaks until the carriage stops at a beautiful three-story house. "Alistair" looks exhausted, just like I feel. He helps me and "Maggie"– that's apparently his wife's name – out of the carriage, and disappears inside. Not sure what to do with myself, I stand at the entrance.

Maggie gives me another smile, concern evident in her eyes, and then calls, "Jessica! Help Mrs. Dwyer, please. She is feeling unwell."

"Jessica" appears out of thin air. She's young, maybe 20 or 22, and quite pretty, with curly brown hair, rosy cheeks, and plump lips. She's dressed like a maid (so many costumes, this production must cost a fortune!). A quick curtsey, and she stares at me expectantly, bouncing on her tiptoes, just like Alice does sometimes.

"Um, Jessica?" I clear my throat. "Would it be possible to just go to bed? I am exhausted. Please take me to my room."

I just hope that there is a "my room" in this house.

Jessica looks puzzled. This probably isn't how you build sentences here. Maybe I should have said, "I feel indisposed. Show me to my quarters, wench!" That would be hilarious.

"Oh, madame, would you not like some supper?" Jessica's voice is high-pitched and too cheerful for my liking. "I shall serve it in your room. And you ordered a bath after the opera, but that can be arranged tomorrow, of course?"

Jessica has an accent that I can't place, but then I could never tell British accents apart. So, I agree to have a small meal. And a drink, too. After the last few hours, I so need some water. Better yet, something stronger.

It's almost completely dark in the house, but the room where Jessica brings me has a few candles that make it look cozy. It's relatively small, with a tiny fireplace, a twin-size bed, a dresser, and a cute wooden desk with a chair. There's also a pitcher of water and a large metal basin on the dresser. The window's open, but I can still detect a pungent, foreign smell in the room. Probably a chamber pot … ew.

I shove that unpleasant thought to the very back of my mind. There are far more pressing concerns right now.

Jessica brings a platter of what looks like bread and cold meats, as well as a mug of yellow liquid. Then she proceeds to ask me if I want to change, and I can only nod. The less I talk, the better. She removes what seems like a thousand pins and ribbons from my hair, and then helps me out of my red dress and a few undergarments I don't even try to figure out. Finally, she pulls a nightdress that smells strongly of lavender over my head, then wishes me goodnight, curtsies, and leaves.

I chug the yellow liquid that winds up tasting like cider and collapse onto the bed.

I feel utterly empty and adrift, and it's not a good thing.

Right now, I need to think.

Jokes aside, there's no way around the fact that I've somehow found myself in what looks like a different place and a different time. Although I've still not ruled out some kind of medical emergency. After a moment, I get up to splash some water from the pitcher on my face and then return to the bed.

The smart thing would be to do some kind of inventory, right? That's what time travelers in books and movies always do. They learn about their surroundings and they survive. At least until they return home or decide to stay where they are (usually with some hot duke or a Highland warrior for a husband).

So, I start making a list of the facts.

1. Where. The best I can tell, I'm most probably in London. I've never been to London but I've seen enough of it in various TV shows. This place looks like London. I think. What other major city would have a grand opera house like that, and an English-speaking audience? I dig my memory for any information about London's opera houses. The British aren't exactly famous for their operas, but they've always done a good job of importing music and musicians. So, there must have been a sizeable opera house, and now that I think about it, I can almost remember reading about it in one of my earlier classes.

2. Now that I've decided on the location, let's move on to "who". Who am I? It's obvious that nobody's surprised by my sudden arrival. I'm someone they've known for a while. I quickly jump out of bed, grab a hazy, slightly chipped round mirror that stands on the dresser, and take a peek.

Whew. I look like me. My hair's marginally longer, and I'm white as a ghost, but at least I'm not inhabiting somebody else's body.

Interestingly, in this world, I have the same first name (at least the same as it's written on my state-issued ID; nobody actually calls me Isabella in real life), but my last name is different. Mrs. Dwyer. Am I married?! Widowed? Divorced? Who and where is Mr. Dwyer? The thought of an unknown husband is disturbing, but then again, so is everything else.

Who are Alistair and Maggie? What's my relationship with them? Do I live with them or am I just visiting? That's something I need to carefully figure out.

3. And finally, the million-dollar question: when. What's today's date? Or at least, what year is it? Decade? I think it's safe to say that I'm in the nineteenth century. And if I truly attended Norma tonight, then it can't be earlier than 1831 because that's when the opera was written. Thank heavens for the leaflet they gave me before the performance in Seattle… Where is that, by the way? My purse has disappeared, along with all my credit cards and my phone… Oh, crap.

Anyway, back to the question at hand.

Based on what I know, I figure I'm probably in the 1830s… And here my mind goes blank. Is that still Regency or is Victoria already the Queen? Are there wars or epidemics going on? This is not the period that I studied closely, and my general knowledge of British history is spotty at best.

Oh, how I envy those time travel heroines who, being thrown in the past, seem to remember every important person and every historical fact of consequence. I guess I'll just have to see if I can get by on my natural charm and of course, my irresistible sense of humor.

Nope, I'm not losing it at all.

My body's so worn out that it takes a titanic effort to get up for the last time and use the chamber pot. Trust me when I say, it's every bit as terrible as I thought it would be. Seriously, if I had to time-travel, why couldn't I go to the period with indoor plumbing?! This is just… mean. Nonetheless, I shove the window closed and crawl back between the sheets.

As my eyes slide shut, my last thoughts return to the man with the pocket watch standing outside the opera house… Mr. Cullen in Mr. Darcy's wardrobe.

How does he fit into all this madness? Is he a time traveler, too?

I must find him.

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Notes: Madame de Rênal is a character from the novel The Red and The Black by Stendhal, published in 1830. If you read Maupassant's Bel Ami (1885) or watched the movie, these two stories have a lot of similarities but Stendhal's male protagonist is actually likable. I absolutely loved this book when I read it, but it's been decades and I'm not sure how it "aged".