Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

“ T hey’re always so pretty,” the man said boredly, glancing sideways at his companion. “And always in such bizarre clothing.”

Amelia had barely taken in the second man, so shocked was she by the uncanny resemblance of this actor to the Lord for whom the manor was named. He was tall and broad, dressed in black, and something in the way he was sizing her up told her she was looking at another fighter. She loosened her fists and dropped a little of the rigidity from her posture, aware that she’d been more or less squaring up to hit that other guy in the face. No sense antagonizing these newcomers in whatever game it was she was playing… though she had to admit, as time went on without any kind of explanation forthcoming, she was beginning to feel a little agitated about the whole situation. Had they mistaken her for someone else, perhaps? Had another guest at the hotel signed up for some kind of immersive, all-in roleplaying experience and the actors at the wall had assumed it was her? She’d have hoped her clothing would be some kind of giveaway… the kind of guest who’d be interested in this kind of thing probably wouldn’t take part wearing modern workout gear, complete with logos.

“What’s your name, Miss?” the man in black said now, breaking a silence that Amelia realized with a start had been stretching for longer than she’d intended.

She cleared her throat, glancing guiltily at the Weatherby lookalike, feeling like an actor who’d missed her line. “Amelia Cosgrove,” she said after a brief pause in which she considered giving the fake name she usually used for fast food orders and the like. Nobody over here recognized her — there was no need for that kind of secrecy.

“Welcome to Weatherby Manor, Miss Cosgrove.”

The man in black had a different accent to the locals, she noticed — English, rather than Scottish, though she didn’t know the place well enough to place it more specifically. The Lord, of course, spoke with the posh, polished English accent she usually associated with the upper-crust English gentry, but it didn’t seem his guard had picked it up.

“I’m Sir Baldric. May I introduce Lord Reginald Weatherby?”

“Right,” she said, hiding a smile. Of course the lookalike was playing the Manor’s namesake. “I’ve seen your portrait, My Lord. Impressive resemblance.”

The Lord looked at her with one eyebrow raised, glancing sidelong at his guard. “Another slow one, I suppose? Have we sent a messenger to the Keep yet? I don’t really have time for any hand-holding just at the moment.”

The man called Sir Baldric nodded, and Amelia didn’t miss the brief flash of annoyance in his eyes at the Lord’s rudeness. He turned back to her, speaking almost quickly enough to cut his Lord’s words short. “Miss Cosgrove, I’m afraid we’ve got some rather — major news for you. Now, you’re a guest at Weatherby Manor, is that correct?”

“I checked in yesterday,” she said, a little surprised by this sudden shift in focus. Had they received some message that something was awry — that they had the wrong person for whatever this was?

“When the men met you at the gate,” Sir Baldric continued, his expression oddly serious. “Had you been lost in the woods beyond the manor?”

“Not lost, exactly,” she said with a frown. “I went in a straight line and came back the same way, so I can’t say I was — lost. But I do seem to have lost some time. It wasn’t even midday when I left, but when I came out of the trees it was nightfall already. It’s a bit of a worry, honestly. Have people been worried about where I’ve been?”

“I daresay they will be,” Lord Weatherby muttered under his breath, examining his nails.

Sir Baldric didn’t shush him exactly, but the sidelong glance he shot his Lord told her that he was firmly suppressing that instinct.

“First of all, there’s no reason to believe anything’s wrong,” Sir Baldric said, and though the words should have been a comfort.

She felt an uneasy tingle run down her spine.

“With you, I mean. Your body, your mind — everyone else this has happened to have shown no other signs of harm, so no need to worry. About that, at least,” he added, intensifying her unease. “But you have… traveled.”

“Traveled,” she repeated, frowning a little. “Right. Okay. Sorry, I did want to play along with all this, but I should come clean — I don’t really know what’s going on here. I don’t know if you have the wrong person, but if this is some historical re-enactment thing, I’m — I didn’t sign up for it, or anything. So if you’re expecting me to know some lines or something?—”

“Oh, she thinks it’s theater! How charming.”

“Lord Weatherby,” Baldric said through gritted teeth.

To Amelia’s surprise, the Lord raised his eyebrows and fell silent, for all the world like a husband accepting a wife’s rebuke with good-natured apology.

“Miss Cosgrove, I’m afraid this isn’t theater. We aren’t players — we’re… well, we’re ourselves.”

“Right,” she said impatiently. “You’re the real Lord Weatherby. Explains the resemblance. Sorry, but I’d really like to get back to my room?—”

“I think we’d better just show her, Baldric,” Weatherby broke in, suddenly sounding more amused by the situation than exasperated. “Would you care to accompany us on a tour, Miss Cosgrove?”

And so it was she found herself walking the hallways of the hotel with the strangest tour guides imaginable — the fussy Lord Weatherby and his looming, black-clad guard. For a while, she wasn’t sure what she was supposed to be seeing. She hadn’t been to this part of the building yet, which for a while explained why it was so unfamiliar… but as they continued to walk, she felt the unease building like a low buzz in her chest. Something about the place was just… off. None of the decor was quite what she remembered, and it took her a moment to realize that the lighting was different, too.

A quick glance at the ceiling showed her why — there were no overhead lights in this part of the hotel. Thoroughly disoriented by the winding hallways, she blinked with surprise when they emerged into a rather grand little hall, at the end of which stood two large and rather familiar doors. Her eyes widened as she placed it. They were standing in the reception area. There were the stairs that led to her room — there was the side door that led to the restaurant — and through the front doors she could see the driveway where she’d walked up with the guard from the wall.

But that was just about all that was familiar. Gone were the electric lights, gone was the reception desk with its discretely placed, but undeniably modern computer, gone were all the brochures and pamphlets telling guests what the area had to offer. Gone, too, were the plaques that explained the history of the various artifacts around the room. Even the wallpaper had changed.

“How—”

She turned in a circle, staring in utter disbelief at the room around her. This kind of remodeling would have taken days, not hours — how long had she been gone? And why would they have done something like this in the first place? This room wasn’t a hotel lobby — why, it could have been someone’s home.

“How did they change all this so fast?”

“They didn’t,” Sir Baldric said softly, moving up beside her. “Miss Cosgrove, there’s no easy way to tell you this, so I’m just going to say it. You’re not in your own time any longer.”

Her mind seemed to rebel against that sentence. “Where am I?” she said slowly, grasping for some explanation. “Did you — did I get brought to some other place, somehow? Did I?—”

“No, Miss. You’re in Weatherby Manor, just as you were this morning. But you’ve traveled several hundred years back in time.”

Amelia looked up at the grave face of the man who’d just said about the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard, wanting to laugh. But something about his expression told her, as absurd as it was, that he was telling her the truth.