I stare down at the bucket. It’s made of wooden slats with iron rings, and its contents puddle on the floor, steaming water that carries one of the smells from my room—a medicinal, tar-like scent.
I lift my gaze to the hall. It’s a corridor of gold damask wallpaper, the sort I remember from my great-grandmother’s house. There’s a light right outside my room. A brass fixture on the wall, spitting white flame.
I take another step back, smacking into whatever I hit earlier. It’s a cabinet, the top holding a ceramic bowl and jug and a small pedestal mirror. The cabinet is a dark red wood, the two doors held closed by a brass medallion engraved with a Chinese dragon.
My gut squeezes, nausea rising. I’ve been kidnapped and thrown into someone’s sick fantasy version of a Victorian home, complete with a poor kid forced to play the role of maid.
The nausea solidifies into anger as I inhale again. Okay, whatever this is, I can handle it, and I can help that girl. I just need to figure out what’s going on and play along. Help the child; catch this bastard; save myself.
As I straighten, my gaze lifts to the mirror, to my reflection in it, and …
The blond girl from the alley stares back.
THREE
I stand in front of the cabinet, staring at the reflection of the blond girl from the alley. The obvious answer is that I’m looking at another projection. I don’t even get a chance to consider that, because my first reaction is to jerk back, startled … and the girl in the mirror moves with me.
Bruises dapple her neck, and there’s a dressing on her temple, as if she’d been struck there, and my mind goes instantly to the alley, hearing her gasp and fall back, seeing hands around her throat.
The girl—young woman, I should say—is no more than twenty. Honey-blond hair that curls to midback. Bright blue eyes. Average height with curves not quite contained by the corset over my chest.
Not me.
None of it is me.
I take a deep breath. Or I try to, but the corset restricts the movement. I look down to see I’m wearing a dress. A long-sleeved cotton dress, not unlike the one on the little girl who fled. When I run my hands over the bodice, I feel stiff stays beneath.
Who puts an injured young woman to bed while wearing a dress and corset?
I almost laugh at my outrage, as if this “young woman” is a stranger and I’m incensed on her behalf.
This stranger is me.
Footsteps thump up the stairs. Heavy floor-creaking steps, with lighter ones pattering along. My head jerks up, and I lunge, only to inhale sharply as the corset tightens. I gather my skirts—a phrase I’ve never had cause to use before—and race to the door, easing it shut before the people reach the top of the stairs.
A few moments later, someone turns the knob, and I brace my back against the door.
“Catriona?” a woman says. “Open this door.”
I close my eyes and lean against it, and I have no idea what I’m doing, only that I do not want to face anyone until I’ve figured out what the hell is going on.
“Are ye certain she’s awake, Alice?” the woman asks.
A girl’s voice says, “Aye, ma’am. She were on her feet ’n’ talking, though what she said … Her mind must be addled fae th’ blow.”
The older woman grumbles. “We dinnae need this.”
I struggle to follow the accents, which seem thicker than I’m used to in Edinburgh. My brain smooths their speech into something I can follow.
“Catriona?” the older woman says.
I clear my throat and channel historical-novel dialogue while sending up a thanks to my dad, the English prof.
“I-I fear I am unwell, ma’am,” I say. “Might I lie abed awhile longer?”
I wince. I sound like a community-theater player in a period drama. Even my voice isn’t my own. It’s the higher pitch I heard earlier, with a thick Scottish brogue.
As silence falls, I wonder whether I’ve laid on the “historical-novel-speak” a bit thick.
More footsteps. These ones firm, soles smacking along the hall floor.
“Sir,” the older woman says.
“What the devil is going on?” A man’s voice, clipped with annoyance, his brogue softer.
“It’s Catriona, sir,” the girl says. “She’s awake.”
“Awake?” Genuine shock sparks in the man’s voice.
The knob jangles. The door opens an inch before I thump against it, forcing it shut.
“She’s barred the door, sir,” the girl—Alice—says again. “She’s not herself.”
The man mutters something I don’t catch, and the older woman snorts.
“Catriona,” he says, firm and abrupt, as if speaking to a dog. “Open this door, or I will open it for you.”
“I am unwell, sir, and—”
The door flies open, knocking me forward as a man strides into the room. About thirty, he’s big and rough-hewn, with a lantern jaw and broad shoulders. He must work in the stables, judging by the dirt on his rumpled clothing. Tousled black hair. Dark beard shadow. Brown skin. A thunderous look on his face that has me locking my knees to keep from shrinking back.
He stalks across the room and yanks open heavy drapes, the gray light of a heavily clouded day filtering through. Then he turns on me.
“What the devil are you doing out of bed?” he says. “Get back in there now.”
“Like hell.” The words come before I can stop them, and his dark eyes widen.
I hesitate. I want to fight, to demand answers. Where am I? What’s going on? I know it isn’t what I thought at first. This is not the guy who attacked me, and this is not some sicko killer’s historical-fantasy game.
So what is it? I don’t know, but my gut says to play along. Roll with it. Get answers without making trouble.
“Apologies,” I say, in a tone that doesn’t sound very apologetic. “I appear to have been struck in the head, and I am not quite myself.” Understatement of the century. “Pray tell, who might you be?”
“I might be your employer, Catriona.”
“Name?”
A tiny gasp, and I look over to see the little girl—Alice—staring at me goggle-eyed.
“Your name, please, sir?” I say.
“Duncan Gray.”
“Dr. Gray to you,” the older woman says with a sniff. I glance at her. Her face says she isn’t over forty, but she’s steel-haired, with a glare to match.
“That is Mrs. Wallace,” Gray continues. “My housekeeper.”
“And I am?”
His thick brows knit. “You truly don’t remember?”
“I fear I do not, sir, due to the bump on my head. If you would please kindly assist me by answering my questions, I would very much appreciate it.”
“You’ll ask your questions of me,” Mrs. Wallace snaps. “The master has no time for your nonsense.”
Gray waves her off, his gaze still on me, peering, assessing. A medical doctor, then? I take a closer look at his shirt, and see that what I’d mistaken for dirt is ink stains. Also, possibly a smear of soot. Wait, is that blood?
Gray eases back. “You are Catriona Mitchell. Nineteen years of age. Housemaid to myself and my widowed sister, who is currently abroad.”
“And this place? It is your house, I presume. But the city? Edinburgh, is it?”
Mrs. Wallace continues to glare, as Alice watches me with that mixture of horror and admiration. As interrogations go, mine is downright civil. Probably still not quite appropriate for a Victorian housemaid.
If Gray takes offense, though, he doesn’t show it. “Yes, it is my home. Yes, it is in Edinburgh.” The faintest twitch of the lips. “Scotland.”
“And the date, sir?”
“May 22.”
Before I can open my mouth, he adds, “Eighteen sixty-nine. Today is May 22, 1869.”
FOUR
On May 20, 1869, Catriona Mitchell had been enjoying a half day off, only to be discovered that night in a lane, where she’d been strangled and left for dead … exactly one hundred and fifty years before I was strangled in the exact same spot.