CHAPTER FIVE

THE BOYS' BRIGADE

Charlotte stepped out of Georgiana's house, a cool coastal gust sweeping across her cheeks, sharp and bracing as it tangled her hair, yet doing little to settle the emotional squall within her. The sky above was a slate-grey canvas, heavy with clouds, as if the very heavens bore witness to her unrest. With her eyes tightly closed, the familiar saltiness of the sea hung in the air, the cry of distant gulls swirling about her ears. It all felt like Sanditon, but even with her heart willing it to be so, she knew—by the strange undertones in the breeze and the faint, foreign scent of damp stone—that this was not the Sanditon she had known and cherished.

Rushing to the shoreline, her feet sank into the wet, firm sand, the golden grains crunching beneath her boots. The tang of the sea filled her lungs, and the rhythmic crash of the waves was still soothing, a constant against the backdrop of uncertainty. Yet, as she stood there, it was as though the town had been dismantled and rebuilt by a dreamer's hand—familiar, yet disjointed—its streets, rooftops, were facades twisted into something strange, as if Sanditon had been reshaped by the whims of a mad architect, distorted into a place no longer her own.

Opening her eyes, she forced herself to confront this new reality.

The streets were alive with coming and going, toing and froing. In place of horse-drawn carriages, strange metal contraptions rolled noiselessly down the streets, moving without the aid of beasts, their polished surfaces gleaming in the sunlight as puffs of black smoke escaped out their trunks. People, too, were transformed: women strolled openly in garments that bared their legs to an unthinkable degree—skirts so short they would have scandalised any respectable gathering. Men wore coarse, boxy jackets, their trousers ripped at the knees, some even in garish colours that seemed more suited to a circus performer than a gentleman.

Despite the madness that now surrounded her, the sea still smelled the same. The briny tang of salt mingled with the faint perfume of seaweed, a scent so familiar it stirred a pang of nostalgia deep within her. The wind, ever playful, tugged at her bonnet, a gentle yet persistent force, just as it had during those countless walks she had taken along these very streets. How many times had she welcomed its brisk caress, letting it cool her flushed cheeks after long days of bustling about the town? But now, that same wind felt different, tainted by the dissonance between what her senses told her and what her heart feared to acknowledge.

How could something as essential as the wind—the breath of the sea itself—remain unchanged when the rest of her world had been so cruelly upended? Perhaps it was because while nature was enduring, mankind was changeable. The thought gnawed at her. She had always found solace in nature's constancy, in the way the tides disappeared and arose with comforting predictability. Yet here she stood, in a town she had once known intimately, feeling as though it had slipped from her grasp, transformed into something unrecognisable, its essence distorted.

She did not belong here. She needed to find her way out.

But where? But how?

Charlotte pressed a gloved hand to her chest, feeling the rapid thrum of her heart beneath her palm, each beat quickening as the enormity of it all washed over her. Her breaths came shallow, her mind a swirl of confusion. How could everything look so much the same, and yet feel utterly foreign? Every cobblestone she had trod, every salty gust, had once been a part of her. Now, they seemed to mock her—unmoved by the chaos that had swept through her life. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them away, steeling herself. The wind continued its tug, gentle but firm, as though reminding her that while the world might shift, some things could still be relied upon, if only she could find them.

Oh! There he was again!

Her turbulent thoughts were interrupted when, in the distance, she spotted him once more—the tall, dark-haired man who had appeared on the clifftops earlier. He stood apart from the rest, a solid, still figure amidst the bustle, his eyes fixed intently on her. Unlike the rest of the town's inhabitants, his clothes were not peculiar or modern but recognisable, just like hers, the fabric of his tailcoat swaying lightly in the wind. He looked impossibly out of place, and yet, somehow, more real than anything else in the world. A tether, a lifeline to the reality she had known. Nobody seemed to notice him. Nobody seemed to mind him. The only person who saw him was her, and in turn, the only person he had eyes for, was Charlotte.

His gaze sent a chill down her spine, a kind of shiver that both unsettled and intrigued her. His hand lifted slowly, palm open, as though beckoning her to come closer. The simple gesture drew her forward instinctively as if he were the answer to all the confusion swirling in her head. She took a step, heart thudding in her chest, her breath catching in her throat. What was happening? Why did he seem to know her? More importantly, why did she feel as though she knew him… as if she had always known him?

Charlotte found herself stepping into the street. She paid no heed to her surroundings. She was utterly transfixed by this figure in the distance. Then, just as she opened her mouth to call out, her steps faltered when she collided with something solid—someone solid. Nearly stumbling into the road, she gasped, reaching out to steady herself, but she was not without aid, for a hand gripped her arm and hauled her back to safety.

'Oh! Forgive me,' she stammered, pulling herself upright, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

'Mind your step!' A smooth, familiar voice cut through the commotion around her. Charlotte had to blink in disbelief as her gaze traced a face, one that was dazed by the sunlight. It was Mr Crowe, his bird-sharp eyes catching hers with a look of mild amusement. He smiled faintly, his observation browsing up and down as if assessing her from head to toe, as he always did. In many ways, he seemed his usual self. He was lively, friendly, and carefree. However, his appearance was bizarre. His clothes were nothing like the impeccably tailored suits he usually wore. He was dressed in a dark, informal blazer with a shirt that looked too loose, too informal for a man of his refinement. The fabric, the cut—it was all wrong. He had no top hat but wore an odd-looking cap on his head with a pointed front with the words: Manchester United.

Well, Charlotte had heard of Manchester, it was a small cotton town in the north of England, but she had no idea why or what it was united over.

On seeing her discomposure, Crowe put a hand on her shoulder to steady her trembling. 'Everything top-holler, old chum?' he asked.

'I—I believe so,' Charlotte murmured, not entirely sure of his meaning, her thoughts still half on the man in the distance. She glanced over her shoulder quickly, expecting to see the dark-haired figure watching her as before. But he was gone, vanished into the crowd like a phantom.

'Hmm, you look a bit pale, Charlotte,' an unconvinced Crowe continued, his voice edged with worry now. 'Perhaps you should come with us so we can keep an eye on you.'

Before she could rally herself, let alone wrap her head around the audacity of him using her Christian name so boldly, another voice cut through the air, sharp and sudden, pulling her attention away from the bewildering moment.

'Yes, Charlotte, come with us,' said Lord Babington, stepping forward. His expression, as warm and kind as it had always been, carried an air of reassurance, a friendliness that set her nerves at ease. But as her gaze travelled over him, Charlotte could not shake the unsettling feeling that something was amiss. Like Mr Crowe, his appearance struck her as curiously altered.

Lord Babington's once fine and tailored clothes were gone, replaced by strange garments—dark trousers of a coarse, unfamiliar fabric that clung to his legs, and a shirt that seemed to be missing most of its sleeves. It was a peculiar garment, cut high at the arms, revealing his bare forearms, a style the likes of which she had never seen before in all her days. It looked as if his tailor had not finished his work. The odd attire clashed with the refined image she had always associated with him, and she found herself questioning whether this was truly the same man who had once moved so easily through the drawing rooms and ballrooms of the likes of London.

And beside him stood Mr Denham. At the sight of him, Charlotte's breath caught somewhere between her lungs and the roof of her mouth. His long hair, now loose and flowing down to his shoulders, glistened under the sun's rays. He looked entirely transformed, almost untamed, as if some wildness had crept into his appearance that left her utterly speechless.

What world had they entered, and why had her companions been so strangely transformed? Charlotte's mind raced as she tried to make sense of the scene before her, but nothing felt familiar, nothing felt right. Her surroundings were hazy, a distant echo of reality, and yet the figures before her—Lord Babington, Mr Denham, and Mr Crowe—seemed all too real, despite their strange appearance.

'Mr Denham,' she breathed, her voice quivering with disbelief. 'You... you have grown your hair so long. You... look like a lion.'

Denham laughed easily, the sound rich and full, as he ran a hand through his thick waves with a kind of casual arrogance. 'Thank you,' he replied jovially, clearly enjoying her shock. 'I am rather fond of my mane.'

The three men burst into laughter, their shared amusement at odds with the puzzlement Charlotte felt in the pit of her stomach. It was as if they were all in on some secret she could not begin to comprehend. Their camaraderie was evident, but it left her feeling more isolated by the second. However, they soon caught the drift of her unease, and their mirth settled into concern.

'You look as though you've seen a ghost,' Babington said softly, his tone gentle as he reached out and slipped his arm through hers. The gesture was meant to comfort her, and in a way it did—yet the strange fabric of his clothes, the warmth of his bare skin beneath his sleeveless shirt, unnerved her. He was not the Lord Babington she knew, not fully.

'GG did text us to say to keep a lookout for you,' Crowe mentioned. 'Come, let's get you something to drink. You'll feel better.'

'Text?' Charlotte echoed, her brow furrowing in bewilderment. The word was foreign, strange, as if they had spoken in some unknown tongue. Before she could form a question, something else caught her attention—the direction in which they were guiding her.

'A public house?' she gasped, her pulse quickening. Surely not! She had never once set foot in such an establishment. 'But… ladies do not—'

However, her protest abruptly died on her lips as they crossed the threshold. Charlotte's breath hitched at the sight that greeted her. It was not the rowdy den of disorder she had always imagined. There were women—many of them—sitting at tables alongside men, laughing, talking, and drinking with the same ease and freedom. It was all so improper, so utterly contrary to everything she had been taught. No respectable woman would ever enter such a place, and yet here they were, moving about as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And yet… it was marvellous.

She gawked, unable to reconcile the scene before her with the rules that had been ingrained in her since childhood. Her upbringing screamed at her to turn and leave at once, but something stronger—a strange, unshakable curiosity—kept her rooted to the spot. Why should a woman not frequent a public house if she so wished? The thought unsettled her, yet also intrigued her in ways she had not expected.

The three men led her to a corner table, tucked away from the bustling crowd. With a soft clink, one of them soon placed a small glass of dark liquid in front of her.

'Try this,' he said, his smile warm and reassuring. 'It'll help.'

Charlotte stared at the glass, her heart still racing. The rich, amber-coloured liquid swirled inside, beckoning her in a way she could not explain. She glanced around once more—no one seemed to care that she was there. She did not stand out like a sore thumb. She had just as much right as anyone, as any man or woman, to be there. The room pulsed with life, with laughter, with autonomy and abandon. It felt so unlike the stiff drawing rooms she had known.

But did she dare take part?

Her fingers shook as they curled around the glass. Something inside her, some unspoken question, begged to be answered. Without another word, she lifted it to her lips and took a sip.

Charlotte hesitated, the dismayed voice in her head warring with the overwhelming uncertainty she felt. And then, in a single bold movement, she downed the drink in one swift gulp. The taste was sharp and fiery, burning its way down her throat, and making her eyes water. The men laughed heartily, but the warmth from the drink spread through her, calming her nerves if only a little.

'Careful, or you'll outdrink us all,' Crowe teased graciously.

As Charlotte looked at them, she could almost swear she was seeing double—or was it double-double? Her vision swam, and her head felt light, as if she were trying to peer through a fog. Crowe, Babington, and Denham—yes, they were there, but something was not quite right. A trio of dandies, but not these three, not together. No, someone was missing. She could feel it in the pit of her stomach, a nagging sense that the picture before her was incomplete, but the missing face eluded her. Who should be standing beside them? Her mind struggled to grasp it, but it danced just beyond her reach, taunting her.

Her vacant stare must have given her confusion away because Denham, noticing her distraction, slid an untouched glass across the table toward her.

'Here,' he said, his voice softer than she had ever heard it before. He nodded toward the tumbler of honey-brown malt. 'You need this more than I do.'

Without a second thought, Charlotte lifted the glass to her lips and drank it dry, the sharp burn of the liquid surprising her, but not unpleasantly so. The warmth spread through her, loosening the tension in her chest and emboldening her in a way she had not anticipated. She stood abruptly, her need to regain control over this strange situation propelling her forward.

'I shall fetch us more,' she declared, her voice firmer now. With a sense of purpose that almost felt borrowed, she strode toward the bar.

But as she approached the counter, her bafflement only deepened. She watched in bewilderment as the patrons handed over strange rectangular objects—small, flat cards that gleamed in the dim light. The bartender would press these against a curious contraption, and with a soft beep, the transaction was complete. It was so quick, so seamless, but utterly alien to her. Charlotte frowned, unreservedly mystified.

When her turn came, she hesitated. What was she supposed to do? The cards the others used were nowhere to be found in her possession. Nervously, she reached into her reticule and fumbled for her coins, which she placed on the counter with as much confidence as she could muster.

'Four more of the same, please,' she said, her voice uncertain. She was not entirely sure what the same was, but it seemed safest not to ask. The bartender eyed the coins for a moment, and Charlotte's pulse quickened, a sputter of doubt sneaking in.

The barman picked up her coins, squinting at them. 'What's this, then? Are these foreign?'

Charlotte stared at him blankly. 'They are shillings,' Charlotte replied matter-of-factly.

The barman laughed, shaking his head in amusement. 'Shillings? What is this lass, 1815?!' he snorted. 'That'll be ten pounds, love.'

'Ten pounds?' Charlotte gasped, her eyes widening in shock. 'For four drinks?' She could not believe her ears. Ten pounds was enough to buy a plot of land to build a house. It was twice more than most of the fishermen in this town made in a year.

The bartender, though, only nodded and began pouring the drinks. Charlotte exhaled, relieved—but the sensation of being out of her depth still lingered, biting at the edges of her newfound boldness. Every aspect of this place, every interaction, felt like stepping further into a world she barely understood. But something about it stirred her, too—a thrill, perhaps, at the brashness, the bravado of it all.

The barman smiled kindly. 'Tell you what, first round's on the house. Consider it an early gift.'

Charlotte stared at him, flummoxed by his casual mention of a drink being 'on the house.' A house? His house? Was he offering his own home as collateral for her refreshment? The very idea was absurd. And why should he give her a gift? She muttered a polite thanks, though the words felt hollow, like an echo of the social graces she was clinging to in this bemusing reality. Still, the drinks were gathered, and she returned to the table, where the men were engrossed in conversation, their words whirling like a foreign breeze that carried none of the meaning she was accustomed to.

Snippets floated toward her:

'Football.'

'Stock market.'

'Swift and Kelce, will they last?'

'Marvel vs DC.'

'Presidential debate.'

'Cost of living crisis.'

'Apple upgrade.'

The terms were like fragments of another language, intelligent and unknowable. 'Football'—she supposed that had something to do with a game involving a ball at the foot, though what sort of foot or ball she could not imagine. 'Albums' sounded like letters bound together, perhaps a series of missives, but why would that be something one could 'download?' Did download mean to set down a heavy load of paper correspondence? And why had she not sorted out her car tax and insurance yet? Wait, what did that even mean? The question made her head ache, as though her mind were trying to wrestle meaning from the meaningless. Why did nobody talk in a normal, rational way?

But none of it was as disorienting as the sight of Babington, seated casually beside Denham. Babington, the embodiment of kindness and loyalty, now shared easy laughter with the man who had caused so much pain. Denham—whose actions had shattered lives—sat with a calm, cheerful demeanour as if the burden of his past had simply vanished, as though the wreckage he had left behind had never existed. Together, they sat—smiling, drinking—acting as if the history between them were no more than a wisp of smoke, insubstantial and forgotten.

This world makes no sense, she thought, a creeping dread crawling up her spine like icy fingers. Everything felt distorted, not just the place and the people, but time itself. Had the past really been so easily erased? Could such deep wounds heal so quickly? The ease with which they sat together felt like a dismissal of the hurt, a forgetting of the harm done. Was forgiveness truly that simple? Could it be given so freely, without the scars of the past aching beneath the surface?

Yet, even as the dread lingered, another thought crept in, soft and insistent. But perhaps, was it not good that men could forgive? Was it not admirable that they could look past their grievances and rebuild something from the ashes? Babington had been wronged by Denham's recklessness, and yet here he was, drinking at his side with a smile that spoke of reconciliation. Could this not be a sign of strength? Of a better way forward?

Charlotte sat, suspended between the unsettling dissonance of this new world and the familiar moral compass of the old, unsure which way to lean. The rules she had once lived by seemed to crumble beneath the weight of this strange reality, yet something about it beckoned to her, inviting her to question the boundaries she'd always known. Could it be, she wondered, that the past and the future might teach each other something? That, together, they could forge a better present? The thought flickered in her mind like a fragile spark, offering the possibility of reconciling what had been with what could be.

Still, the conversation shifted. Babington and Crowe were deep in a discussion about 'equality.' They spoke as though it were a movement rather than a moral truth, and Denham—of all people—seemed positively gleeful as he mentioned someone named Simone de Beauvoir. A woman? Charlotte's curiosity piqued. She did not know the name, but Denham spoke of her as if she were a scholar of great import. Well, that is a step in the right direction, she thought, glad to hear of a woman regarded so highly. Others were mentioned too, all names that she had never heard of, but they intrigued her greatly. Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Susan B. Anthony, Sojourner Truth, Emmeline Pankhurst, Betty Friedan, Gloria Steinem, Audre Lorde, Malala Yousafzai, and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie.

Denham's tone turned playful, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. 'Ah, women, what would we do without them?' His voice was laced with a self-deprecating humour that belied the seriousness of his earlier remark, softening the tension that had lingered in the air. Charlotte, still reeling from the surrealness of their discourse, felt an instinctive pull to engage in the conversation, her curiosity overriding her uncertainty.

'Surely a woman is just as capable as any man,' she countered, her voice regaining its usual confidence, firm and unwavering. Denham nodded sagely, as though her statement were a truth he had long since accepted. 'More so, in every respect,' he replied, his eyes twinkling with a knowing light, as if he had witnessed countless examples to back up his claim. 'We men are mortal, weighed down by our sins and stupidity.' His playful acknowledgement of their shortcomings made Charlotte smile, and for a moment, the weight of the world outside faded away, leaving room for a burgeoning sense of fellowship.

'Quite,' Babington agreed, a gleam of mischief dancing in his eye. 'As my dear wife is fond of reminding me, of course.' He took a sip of his drink, his smirk widening, clearly revelling in the light-hearted banter that had emerged.

Crowe lifted his glass with an exaggerated flourish, the ochre liquid sloshing precariously close to the rim. 'I'll drink to that!' he declared, his voice booming with faux gravitas. 'To the fairer, smarter sex!' His grin was a mix of sincerity and sardonic wit, but the solidarity among the group was undeniable, an infectious energy that filled the air.

Charlotte regarded them all with a blend of scepticism and amusement. Was this genuine? Or just their way of teasing? She arched an eyebrow, a 'er of curiosity igniting within her.

'Is this where I say 'thank you'?' she asked her tone light but tinged with a desire to probe deeper.

Denham chuckled, leaning back as if the conversation were a playful game. 'Or perhaps it's time we apologise,' he mused, casting a sidelong glance at Babington. 'For being such hopeless creatures in comparison. History has shown us, Charlotte, that women have been wronged—and frankly, it's high time they took charge for the sake of us all.'

'Good,' Charlotte replied, her heart racing at the unexpected turn of the debate. The ease of their exchange left her feeling slightly off-balance yet exhilarated. It was a refreshing change not to feel doubted in her self-belief or in her conviction that women were equal to men. 'I'm glad to hear it.' The affirmation felt significant as if they were stepping onto a shared path of understanding, however tentative it might be. In that moment, she sensed the potential for a genuine connection, a bridge across the divide of inequality.

Denham's expression sobered slightly, though a playful sparkle still danced in his eyes. 'No, really, Charlotte,' he said earnestly, 'you're worth ten of us combined.'

Crowe leaned forward, his attitude shifting to one of genuine seriousness. 'Smarter, definitely,' he affirmed. 'He always said you were the smartest person he'd ever met.'

'And kinder,' Babington affixed unequivocally. 'He admired your compassion and your courage.'

Then, in unison, and with glasses lifted high into the air, they declared, 'To Charlotte: an all-around good egg!'

Charlotte could not help but laugh, despite the absurdity of it all. Their earnestness was charming, a balm against her earlier confusion, but just as she prepared to respond, the conversation took an unexpected turn.

'So it's no wonder he fell head over heels for you,' Crowe said, a teasing glint in his eye.

'Indeed,' Denham chimed in, 'but alas, it was not to be.'

'But as they say,' Babington added, 'there are plenty more fish in the sea.'

Charlotte was on the verge of asking why anyone would fall so clumsily for her, and more urgently, who on earth they were talking about. Just as she opened her mouth to speak, a sharp buzzing noise pierced the air, abruptly snatching away her chance to inquire.

It was then that Denham casually reached into his pocket and withdrew a small rectangular object. Charlotte's eyes locked onto it, her puzzlement deepening with every second. Before she could even get a proper look at it, Denham handed the strange object to Babington, and the two men exchanged knowing looks as if this act were the most natural thing in the world.

'It's just GG checking if we've seen you,' Denham remarked offhandedly, his tone light, but it might as well have been in another dialect to Charlotte. 'I'll assure her you're safe and sound with the boys' brigade,' he said as he began hitting it with his fingertips. He tapped at the device with quick, practised movements, as though writing letters without quill, ink, or parchment—an irrationality that sent her thoughts spiralling. Is he casting some kind of spell?

She blinked, completely lost. 'What... what is that?' she stammered, her voice trembling with disbelief as she pointed at the thing in his hand. What devilry is this?

But before she could fully process the inexplicable sight before her, a loud mechanical whir drew her attention like a hook. She spun around, her heart lurching violently in her chest. The wall—no, not the wall but a vast, shining screen embedded within it—suddenly flickered to life, casting an eerie glow over the room. Moving images filled the screen, as vivid and real as life itself: miniature people talking, walking, laughing, trapped within the glass. It was as though an entire world was encased behind that display, and the sight of it hit her like a punch to the stomach.

Her breath quickened, hands flying to her chest as she struggled to make sense of what she was seeing. Are these people alive? How have they been captured in such a way? Why were they so small?

The chair scraped harshly against the floor as she jumped to her feet, knocking it backwards in her panic. It clattered to the ground behind her, but she barely registered the sound, so intent was she on the glowing box on the wall. Her heart pounded a wild, erratic tempo that echoed the frantic confusion in her mind. What is happening to this world? It was as though reality itself had slipped its moorings, untethering her from everything she had ever known and was now perilously close to being dashed upon the rocks of lunacy.

Before she could even gather her wits, the strange buzzing noise erupted once more. It came from Denham's mysterious device, which had begun to glow again with an unnatural light. The sound it made was insect-like, a rapid vibration that set Charlotte's nerves on edge. Her wide, disbelieving eyes followed Denham as he lifted the object to his ear. Surely this is some trick, she thought, clinging to reason.

But then Denham began to speak into the device, and what happened next made her blood run cold. An invisible voice responded—clear, distinct, and undeniably human—but it belonged to no one in the room. The voice came from nowhere, yet it filled the air as though speaking from some unseen realm. Charlotte's horror deepened, her pulse thundering in her ears.

'Have any of you seen her? I can't find her anywhere. Is she alright?' A deep voice channelled through the air, urgent and anxious.

Denham chuckled lightly, a mischievous glint in his eye. 'Aye, mate, she's here with us. Just needed a dram to steady her nerves.'

Charlotte's eyes widened in shock as he continued speaking, the concealed voice responding as naturally as if the person stood beside them. Denham, clearly amused by her astonished reaction, reached out to offer her a small, sleek device—something she could not quite comprehend.

'It's for you,' he said casually, as though this were the most normal occurrence in the world.

Her mind struggled to make sense of the situation, grasping for a logical explanation as the world shifted around her; logic seemed to have taken a back seat. The buzzing sensation of disbelief coursed through her veins, making her feel as though she were suspended in a surreal dream.

Charlotte shook her head, too horrified to respond, but the voice—clear and familiar—came through the device again, urgent and pleading. 'Charlotte? You there?'

Her pulse quickened, thoughts swirling in a chaotic whirlpool. This is impossible. How could a voice travel through an object? How could someone speak from thin air?

'Charlotte… it's me,' the voice continued, each syllable cutting through her confusion like a knife.

Suddenly, a wave of nausea washed over her, the drink she had consumed now churning uneasily in her stomach, a stark reminder that she was no seasoned lush like these gentlemen. She needed fresh air, clarity, and a sense of grounding. She had to go home—wherever that was.

'I... I must go,' she stammered, her voice trembling as panic seeped into her words. The urge to escape overwhelmed her, and she felt a desperate need to escape the confounding scene and find solace in the familiar, wherever that might lead her.

The men looked at her in surprise, their easy-going expressions faltering. But Charlotte could not stay a moment longer. The strangeness of it all—the lights, the voices, the moving pictures—threatened to overpower her completely.

Without another word, she turned on her heel and flew from the pub. She could still hear their alarmed voices behind her calling her back, but they faded as she fled. She ran faster, her boots hitting the cobblestones with a rhythm that echoed her frantic heartbeat, the sound of her escape fading into the wind as she rushed toward the only thing that made sense—the sea—leaving this impossible world behind.

Yet no amount of distance could stop her from thinking…from wondering…

Who was that trying to speak to her?

Who was me?

And who was that man on the cliffs and in the street?

She had to find him. He was the answer. He held the key.