Trapped in Time

  Trapped in Time

  Denise Daye

  DEDICATION

  For Mom

  (Just skip over the love scenes, please)

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  OUT NOW!

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  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  W hy did I agree to this in the first place? Emma looked up at the young man, who was barely old enough to make the drink in his hand legal. This party is a bad idea; I knew it the moment Lisa invited me. Her friend had pressured her for weeks, and she had finally given in after Lisa helped her on a paper for their biochemistry class.

  "So? Would you like to dance?"

  Emma did another peek around the room. Her gaze paused for a few seconds on a group loudly cheering on a girl who was chugging down a big glass of beer. She looked about fifteen, half Emma's age.

  "I'm so sorry, but my boyfriend is just using the bathroom. He'll be back soon."

  "That boyfriend must have a bad case of diarrhea. He's been gone since you arrived two hours ago."

  Ouch. People here were young and drunk but not stupid. The young fellow took off again, back into the crowd, which was now dancing wildly to overly loud hip-hop. Emma straightened her dress at her waistline. Praise be for choosing her dark-blue, ankle-long dinner dress over the sexy red cocktail dress. That guy had been the sixth one to come over and bother her. Yes, "bother" was the right word, as the other five had been so drunk, one of them had fallen on her, and none of them had accepted a polite, "No, thank you."

  Emma was a beauty in her own way. Her strawberry-blonde hair and green eyes were not the usual colors folks saw around here, and she had a slim figure that was curvy where it needed to be. With clear and strong features, her face had a noble beauty to it that was noticed instantly by the other sex—and her own sometimes, too.

  Wait. Did he say two hours? Had she been sitting here sipping wine and fighting off drunkies for that long? Well, at least that would explain why she felt so tipsy. She'd been generous with herself from that never-ending wine supply from the moment she arrived. It was time to go home. Especially now that Lisa was nowhere to be seen. Per the norm, she'd disappeared with some handsome frat boy early on in the party. That usually resulted in unanswered texts, followed by an apology the next morning. Not that it bothered Emma. Quite the opposite. She admired Lisa's carefree attitude and was almost a bit jealous of her ability to live life like there was no tomorrow—every darn day.

  Emma hadn't been with a man in years. Not because she couldn't have one; they were lining up at her door. No…it was the fault of no other than her father. The one man who was supposed to love her and protect her unconditionally had not only let her down but was also the cause for her deep distrust of men. For years, she had watched him abuse her mother, and for years, she'd sworn to herself she would never marry and let a man treat her like that. Of course, she dated, but nothing serious. She always made it clear that she wasn't looking for anything more than a short-term encounter, and she did an excellent job at picking the kind of guys who understood that perfectly. But even her so-called short-term encounters had become tiresome; she was growing older and starting to realize that she needed a certain connection to a man in order to let him touch her. Unfortunately, that connection never seemed to make an appearance, so that was that.

  Emma wrapped herself tightly with her coat to protect herself from the cold breeze that awaited her outside. It was late, and not many people were still on the streets, but she didn't live far, so she decided to walk. The happy voices from the party started to fade more and more with every step that brought her closer to home. The good thing about living in her university's district was the proximity to everything. Sure, the rent was admittedly expensive, even with several roommates, but she didn't mind the roommate situation at all since it allowed her to live within walking distance of her school and her part-time job as a pharmacy technician.

  She'd grown up poor. Very poor. Food stamps, secondhand clothing, the constant struggle of turning every penny twice. She'd been a smart kid, so nobody was surprised when she finished her training as a pharmacy technician. Not that she had grown up wanting nothing more than to work at a pharmacy. Who does? But she did have a love for chemistry and science and enjoyed working in that field. It inspired her. And this tech position was an easy way out of her mother's poverty-ridden studio apartment.

  After her mother finally left her abusive father, they lived below the poverty level, so she and her mother had had to share a studio together. Emma sleeping on the couch, her mother sleeping on a mattress on the floor next to her.

  In Emma's quest to get out of there, she'd applied for a job at her local pharmacy and had been thrilled when she got it. It wasn't a lot of money, but it was enough to get her own apartment and pay for her own bills. Sometimes, she even had enough left over to help out her mother.

  Years passed by, and Emma lived contentedly as a pharmacy tech. Or, at least she'd thought she was content. The day after Thanksgiving, four years ago, Emma made the decision to go back to school to be more than a tech. She remembered the moment the desire struck like it was yesterday. She'd been taking over the register when the mean-kid incident happened…

  "Mean Kid," as she called him, was one of those children nobody liked. He was at the store with his father, who seemed totally overwhelmed by his unruly child. Emma watched the boy run through the store, screaming like a wild animal. He must have been eight or so but acted like he was two. He had chocolate around his mouth and was still in pajamas. Emma had just filled the mean boy's prescription—antibiotics for an ear infection—and handed them to his dad when the tornado in Lightning McQueen pajamas came running to the pharmacy counter and decided to be, well, mean.

  "Daddy, what is this woman doing?"

  "She works here."

  "What does she do?"

  Emma leaned over the countertop. "I make people better with medicine." She thought that sounded pretty kid-friendly, and even a bit like she was important. But Mean Kid totally ignored her like she didn't exist.

  "Daddy, is she a doctor?"

  "I don't know, sweetheart."

  "No, I am a pharmacy technician."

  "Then how can you make me better?" Mean Kid screamed at Emma. Some customers stopped to look at the action going on.

  "Well, I can give you this medicine, and it will make you better," she said, forcing herself to smile.

  "Do you make my medicine?" Mean Kid yelled.

  "No, but—"

  "Your work is stupid! You’re stupid!" he shouted at her and ran off again.

  Emma had accepted the father's apology, and that should have been that. But, for some reason, it wasn't. She'd lain awake that night, thinking about her job and whether it was what she truly wanted to be for the rest of her life.

  The answer was no.

  She was grateful for her job, but what about her dreams of going to college? Mean Kid had done it. The mean kid had sent her back to school. She wouldn't become a physician—odds to make it into med school were not in her favor—but she could be the person who made the medicine. She could be a pharmacy scientist. She had
always loved chemistry and was a hard worker. So, why not? Why not step it up with a PhD in pharmacy?

  So, here she was. Four years into her bachelor's in pharmaceutical science and on her way home from a college frat party. Almost twice as old as most of the other students in her class, another reason why she didn't like to hang out at these parties.

  Emma finally saw the steps to her house. She was about to get her keys out of her purse when something shiny caught her attention. Without much thought, she changed course and walked toward the shiny object, right onto the small one-way street in front of her house. It reflected the streetlights like a little disco ball. Must be a coin or something. She was right on. It was some sort of coin someone must have dropped in the middle of the road.

  "A good luck coin," she said with a mixture of humor and sarcasm. She bent over to grab it and noticed instantly it was not an American coin. It had some sort of queen on it and almost looked European. Kind of old. She held it up against the glow of the streetlights hanging above her, but the lights were too dim to read the letters on it.

  Out of nowhere, light flooded her from behind like a tsunami hitting the shores. She knew exactly what kind of light it was. Emma felt that cold flood of fear rushing through her body. She moved instinctively, but too late—no chance to shout, jump, or pray. She didn't even get to see the car.

  Everything went black with the sound of squeaking wheels and a car horn. For a few seconds, she felt pain like she had never felt before. Then there was nothing but darkness and her fearful thoughts. Is this it? Is this how people die? Then even the darkness disappeared, and she passed out.

  Chapter 2

  E mma felt a weird movement in the right pocket of her coat. She had a terrible ringing in her ears that slowly gave way to street noises, and her head hurt something awful.

  "Hey! Leave her alone, you stinking drunk!" a woman's voice shouted in a Cockney accent. Emma slowly opened her eyes. A dirty man was leaning over her, going through her pocket. His smell was so repulsive, she kicked out at him more in response to the stench than the fact that he was robbing her.

  "Get away from her!" the woman yelled again. Emma looked over and spotted her savior, a woman in her late twenties. She came barreling toward them like a train ready to run over its victim. The man jumped up and tried to run away with Emma's purse in his hand, but the purse's straps were still around Emma's neck, snapping the purse right out of his hands and back into Emma's lap. Rather than running away, the homeless man stood there for a second and stared at Emma in confusion, like he'd never seen a purse with straps before.

  "What the bloody hell?" he spat in her direction before he disappeared behind a horse carriage rattling by.

  Wait—what! A horse carriage? Emma stared at the carriage in disbelief until it vanished around a street corner.

  "Are you alright, dear? You are bleeding from your head." The woman who'd come to her rescue now leaned over her and grabbed Emma under her arm, helping her up on her feet.

  Emma touched her head wound and then looked at her hand. There was blood on it, but it looked dry. She then turned rather unsteadily to the woman. What the hell was she wearing? Her rescuer was dressed like a lady out of a period drama. Her clothes seemed to be made out of some sort of green and brown wool. It wasn't one of the huge dresses worn in the Marie Antoinette movies, but it was still a period garment. The woman's brown hair was put up into a lazy bun. She was a bit on the heavier side but not bad looking. Her makeup was way over the top, though.

  Emma promptly panicked. "We need to call nine-one-one. A car hit me. I think I have a serious brain injury or something," she said, moving her hands up and down to stop herself from hyperventilating.

  Now it was the lady's turn to look at Emma with all the curiosity in the world.

  "What is a car? And who is this 'nine-one-one' you speak of?"

  A couple walked by and scanned Emma with a strange expression on their faces. The man wore a top hat and a noble period suit. The woman was dressed similarly, their attire far finer than the woman who'd just chased away the homeless guy. Another carriage drove by.

  Emma had had enough of this! She obviously needed medical attention for a concussion—or worse—and these people weren't helping at all.

  "Fine. I'll call nine-one-one myself!" She reached into her purse and thanked God that, for once in her life, she'd left the house with her cell fully charged. She swiped across the screen, her fingers shaking, and dialed 911, but the call didn't ring through. Busy signal. She hung up and dialed again. Same problem. The cause revealed itself in the form of no bars.

  "I'll just have to restart it," Emma spoke aloud. Her hands were so unsteady, she had to push the button several times in a row. What was going on here?

  "I have never seen a music box like this before. And your dress…you are not from here, are you?" the woman asked, her brows raised high.

  Emma rolled her eyes.

  "Well, obviously, I'm American, as we're in—" She stopped talking and quickly analyzed the street again. Now that she looked closer, it didn't look like Philadelphia at all. Not even a Philadelphia in some period drama.

  "Is this still America? Twenty-first-century America?" Emma asked in total shock.

  "No, this is England. London, 1881, to be exact."

  Did she say London…in 1881? Emma tried to call 911 again, but she still had no signal. She walked a few steps to the left and held her phone up as high as she could, but again, no signal. This was too much. Emma had never been someone who cried over everything and nothing, but this was more than even she could handle. She threw her head into her hands in desperation.

  The woman put a comforting hand on Emma's shoulder. Emma wanted to remove her hand, but the gesture of kindness was appreciated, and the woman seemed sincere. Like she felt for her.

  "Well, well, now, please don't cry. It is getting dark…how about we go to my flat for now and see what we can do about all of this tomorrow morning? It looks like something terrible happened to you, and you need to rest. Maybe a coach ran into you? These bloody postal coaches almost got me twice last week."

  Emma looked at the woman. She was lost here, wherever here was, and needed medical attention but had no idea how she could make it to a hospital in the state she was in.

  "My name is Lily," the friendly woman said. "I live not far from here. This is not a place for a woman after dark, and it is getting awfully late. See?" Lily pointed to a man who was using some sort of a ladder to light the street's lanterns. Emma hated to admit it, but this Lily was right; no place was a good place for her to be out alone with a brain injury.

  "Emma," she said in a voice that sounded more like a discouraged whisper.

  "Okay, Emma. Let us go before that thief comes back with his vazey friends for that fancy handbag of yours. These rats are creatures of the night, and the police does not patrol this part of town at night. Too busy protecting the fancy folks down in Kensington."

  "Yes, of course. Thank you." She thought it best to play along for now, until things started to make sense again. Which would hopefully be tomorrow morning, after a good night's rest. The lantern man doesn't do a very good job, Emma thought as the streets in front of them grew dark within a matter of minutes.

  On the way to Lily's flat, Emma saw the craziest things. People pushing carts, horse carriages, children begging in the streets, prostitutes pressing themselves against potential customers, who either pushed them away or disappeared with them in the dark, and everybody was dressed appropriately for what Emma assumed to be the Victorian time period.

  Lily's apartment was on a street that looked exactly like those sketchy neighborhoods in period movies where people would die of some sort of bronchitis in the streets. The smell was beyond terrible, and the ground was wet and muddy, soaking Emma's feet in a brown substance she hoped was anything but feces.

  Lily unlocked the door to a room on the second floor of an old, musty building that was filled with tenants. A good night's r
est might not be happening, after all. Lily's apartment turned out to be a tiny room the size of an American master bath. It was empty—and not empty as in no cozy pictures or decor, no, empty as in there was nothing in there but a table that had a washbasin on it, a wood stove, and a small closet. Lily skipped by Emma proudly and opened her arms in the middle of her little paradise.

  "This is it! My very own flat. I just got it last month and already have a visitor!"

  Emma tried to be polite. Lily had been so kind to her…what kind of person would she be to insult her?

  "It looks—great!"

  "It’s not grand, but it is much better than those flea-infested potato sacks that the pimps and brothel owners make you sleep on." Lily put a log into the wood-burning stove that by no means would pass any inspection in the twenty-first century and spread a blanket out on the floor big enough for the two of them to sleep on.

  "If we sleep close to the stove, we shall be warm all night." She reached into the bag she had around her shoulders and pulled out chunks of bread and cheese. She handed them to Emma. "Here, you must be hungry, you poor thing." Emma accepted and tried to take a bite of the bread, but it was so hard, she was worried about breaking a tooth. The cheese was easier to chew but most likely not pasteurized. Emma almost laughed out loud when she thanked her mother silently for the many times she'd taken Emma dumpster diving at night in grocery store parking lots to look for food that was past its expiration date. At first, some of the dumpster food had given her a tummy ache, but that had gone away pretty quickly, and her system overall seemed to have gotten used to digesting expired food. And now, here she was, standing in the middle of an empty room next to a woman who was most likely a Victorian prostitute, thanking her mother for making her eat expired food so she wouldn't get sick from eating unpasteurized cheese in 1881.