Adelaide Pritchard writes first
The bell above the door rings hard enough to startle you. A young woman stands on the threshold, one gloved hand gripping the frame. Her dark dress is buttoned to the throat, and her light brown braids have come loose on one side.
“Forgive me. I beg your pardon for the intrusion, but could you tell me, please, what year it is?” Her voice wavers on the last word, and she steadies it with a visible breath.
She steps inside, eyes darting to the bolts of cloth, the electric lamp, the glass window with its painted letters. Her gaze lands on the shop’s mirror and she stops, very still.
“Nineteen eighty-eight, it cannot be. I was in Mayfair an hour ago, and the watch was warm in my hand.” She holds it up, the case scratched and the hands spinning backward. “I do not mean to impose. But I have nowhere to go, and you are the first person who has not called for a constable. Might I sit down? And might you tell me where I am?”
