I was never much for gossip. Especially when said gossip concerned the lives of people buried about two hundred years before I was even born. But, well, when in Rome—or Regency London, as the case happened to be. If that meant feigning interest in small talk with Mr. Thomas Pickering as we floundered around the ballroom, so be it.

Unfortunately, I knew 19th century social politics about as well as I did 19th century waltzes. Not exactly something they teach you in European History class, believe it or not. Let's just say I found myself winging it on both fronts.

A faux pas was inevitable.

"Do you care much for Ms. Lovell's singing?" Mr. Pickering asked. Kairos had done a good job with him. He was certainly handsome in a 'Jane Austen romantic lead' sort of way. (The movies, I mean; I couldn't get into the books.) Wavy hair, classical features, endearingly crooked teeth. I just wish his personality had been up to par. Since the music had started, he'd done nothing but regale me with rumors regarding half of the party's guests.

If I had been introduced to a Ms. Lovell, I certainly didn't remember her. Scanning the edges of the ballroom, I tried to glean which of the blushing, chignon-wearing girls might've been her. None of them stood out to me.

"I find it lovely." An embarrassed, happy giggle bubbled out of me as Mr. Pickering spun me once. As he took my hand to lead me through a line of waiting dancers, I hope he didn't notice that my steps were just a beat too slow.

His laughter joined mine, but there was something patronizing about it that I didn't like. "Perhaps we have listened to different Ms. Lovells, then. The one I heard last Tuesday sounded like one of my hunting dogs."

"Perhaps I subscribe to the old adage." When we emerged from the other side, the heel of my slipper came down on the toe of Mr. Pickering's boot. I'd like to claim that particular misstep was intentional—a gentle push for him to mind his manners—but that'd be giving myself too much credit. Our hands linked as we joined the arch. "'If you cannot find something nice to say...'"

"Suppose that is true, yes." The humor dropped from his face like a reprimanded child. I felt bad for ruining his joke. "I hear that Mr. Hennicker is giving her lessons in the art of singing during her season in London."

"Maybe she ought to get a new tutor then." I'd learned from my first response that Mr. Pickering wasn't looking for pleasantries.

But it was immediately apparent that this, too, had been the wrong thing to say. Mr. Pickering's expression was stony. "If anyone can improve that awful crowing, it will be Mr. Hennicker. My good friend has quite the ear for music."

The promenade through the line of dancers was finished. It might have been my imagination, but Mr. Pickering seemed to spin me with much less care as we reformed the circle. His gloved hand caught mine roughly as the waltz resumed. At least now I was getting the hang of it.

The sounds of the string quartet filled the gap in our conversation as I searched for a less-offensive subject. There were no answers in the glittering chandelier above us, nor consolation in the slow drip of its candles. Though we were upstairs now, the smell of roast turkey had followed us from the dining room. If there was anything universally understood, it was food. "What did you think of dinner?"

"It was fine." It was more of a begrudging grunt than an actual reply. "I liked the trifle."

I hoped there wasn't too much victory in my smile. "I thought that it was good, too. A little heavy on the port, but one can never have too much of a good thing if you ask me."

Mr. Pickering's green eyes wandered. He broke into a rakish grin. "Yes. Yes, I can see that."

I could feel the good humor drain from my face. He was either ogling me or calling me fat. Maybe both, though I couldn't recall if Regency was one of those eras where the two intersected. For the moment, I decided to let it slide. "Of course, that's just my thoughts on it. For what it's worth, the kitchen is as comfortable to me as I suspect a place on horseback is for you."

We had reached the part of the evening where we exchange outrageous lies about ourselves. While I might've received a constant IV drip of food porn via Food Network, my culinary expertise was right at the box cake level. It was definitely a skill I wanted to pick up, though, so it wasn't a total lie.

"Can you read me so easily?" The warmth of his breath made me shudder, fine hairs of my neck on edge.

Ogling. He was definitely ogling me.

"Like a book." That much was true, at least; I was so close that I could smell the hay and grass and sunshine on his copper tailcoat. "Men like you are my favorite subjects to study, Mr. Pickering."

His lips were still dangerously close to my skin when he laughed a few dark notes. "Forgive me for being so forward, Ms. Blum, but I suspect you are not who you claim to be."

My heart nearly stopped.

I couldn't break character. It was part of the Terms of Service. "I am quite unsure of what you mean."

"I have watched you since your arrival. You struggled through dinner and now you waltz like a young girl first learning her steps." Mr. Pickering's fingers laced through mine and closed with a sense of finality. The dance seemed to speed up in my panic. I tried to look for the exit but everything bled together; a ring of excited faces, emerald green wallpaper and velvet fainting couches. Around and around we went. "But perhaps the most obvious clue is the atrocious way you speak. Ms. Blum, you are no more from Yorkshire than I am."

Perhaps my put-on accent was less believable than I initially thought.

I stared, jaw working, but no words came. My thoughts raced through the contract I had signed with Kairos, trying to remember the protocol for something like this. Would I be fined? Or Retconned on my very first outing?

"Are you a Yankee?" His self-satisfied smile put a dimple in his right cheek.

The question pierced the mounting tension I'd felt since first arriving to the party armed with little more than some acting classes and a deep appreciation of period films. I smothered down a relieved giggle—I still needed to play the part of someone who was sorry, after all.

"Yes," I admitted, dropping the accent entirely as I ducked my head. "Yes, that is true, Mr. Pickering. From Virginia. I am the retiring sort and wish not to call attention to my foreign status, so I thought it might be better if I played a game of make-believe tonight. My deepest apologies for deceiving you during our short acquaintance. It is wholly within your right if you no longer desire to speak to me again after this dance."

Applause erupted as the song came to an end. An older gentleman in a puce coat called above the din of murmured conversation for the other male guests to join him downstairs for port. I drifted away, nodding my thanks to my dance partner.

"Perhaps I am not the only one who is so easily read," Mr. Pickering murmured. He swallowed hard before speaking up. "Would a certain Yankee lady care to take a few turns in the garden?"

I have heard an innuendo or two in my day—and that was definitely an innuendo. With my best approximation of a demure expression, I looked up through fluttering lashes. "A certain Yankee lady would, yes, so long as you can guarantee Miss Lovell will not be serenading us."

Using the flurry of activity to mask our departure, Mr. Pickering took my hand and guided me through the townhouse; first, down the steps, then through a well-appointed study on the ground floor that smelled of leather and old books. He opened a back door, peering into the blue of night for any potential onlookers.

"The garden, as promised," he said as he drew the door to a close behind us. The night air felt cooly wet from the recent rain, a welcome reprieve from the drowsy warmth of the full ballroom. "Quiet and without a single bar so much hummed from Miss Lovell."

The sight of the garden removed any doubt I'd had left of Mr. Pickering's true intentions. Small and boxy—it was in the heart of London, after all, where space was precious—the garden was decidedly ill-suited for a moonlit stroll. There was a small square of fresh dirt that I assumed was a vegetable patch. A sundial was completely eclipsed in the shadow of a young willow, and the walls were laced with climbing roses. Though it left something to be desired in terms of size, I had to admit it was very romantic.

"How lovely."

"Yes. Yes it is." Mr. Pickering nodded, but unless a stray rutabaga had found its way into my cleavage, his eyes were nowhere near the garden. He took a step closer, a hand inching towards a boob before redirecting to the jeweled corsage pinned to my dress. "Forget-me-nots in sapphire."

I smiled down at them. "They were given to me. Do you like them?"

"I find them exquisite, just like you." The damp stone soaked through the back of my dress as Mr. Pickering pushed me up against the wall. Our lips locked in a kiss that I probably would've enjoyed a great deal more if I had been anticipating it—or if there had been anything resembling build up. All I could do was focus on the unpleasant moistness of his lips and the notes of garlic lingering on his breath from dinner.

"Are we just—" I was cut short as he planted a hand on the back of my head and pulled me in again hungrily. "—Mmmf."

It was probably a good thing his eyes were closed, so he couldn't see mine as they rolled hard in their sockets. Well, there were much worse ways of ending a dry spell. And it had been a very long, very dry spell.

My fingers tangled in the knot of his cravat. I worked at it desperately, not out of any real want but a hope that exposing Mr. Pickering's neck would give me respite from his mouth. As the last of the fabric came undone, it fell somewhere in the grass. My teeth grazed him experimentally. His skin flushed with goosebumps. He gasped.

Mr. Pickering shoved all of his weight against me, pinning me in place. The hemline of my dress slinked upwards under greedy fingers. "Your thighs are so wonderfully creamy."

Since it was clear we were wasting no time, I grabbed a handful of his backside and pulled him closer, mentally thanking whoever invented fall front trousers.

Then I heard a shriek.

A young woman stood in the doorway, mouth agape. By the small beauty mark on her lip, I recognized her as one of the servants tasked with clearing away dinner—a process that was still ongoing if the bucket of kitchen cast-offs was any indication. Her face was a kaleidoscope of expressions, shifting from surprise to hurt to anger, before it finally hardened in resolution. She hurled the bucket's contents at Mr. Pickering. "Scoundrel!"

We were both soaked with what smelled like soured chicken stock. Mr. Pickering sputtered in disgust. A slick stump of a chopped carrot slid down his face.

Something dangled into my vision. I tore it from my hair, only dimly processing it as a curling potato peel before throwing it to the ground. "What's going on?"

"Nothing, not a thing," he managed, which got the bucket pitched at him as well. It smacked him in the face as he staggered back. "She is little more than a discrepancy—"

"Nothing?" the servant echoed. "I mean nothing to you? How could you—"

Suddenly it was clear. I studied her heaving shoulders, the betrayal etched into her eyebrows, and smiled sympathetically. "Nice shot."

***

"Oh my God. No. You didn't." The brunette was practically broadcasting her phone conversation to the entire waiting room. Once or twice, I tried to make eye contact, hoping she'd get the hint, but so far I went unacknowledged. A merciful beat of silence passed as she leaned into her phone. I sighed in relief. Then she squealed. "Oh my God! You did! I can't even!"

A headache was definitely in my future, and it wasn't from switching to fluorescent lights after an evening in the lamplight of 1816 London, though that certainly didn't help. I glanced around the room searching for someone to commiserate with, but after the last call from the receptionist desk, it was just the two of us.

The lobby was sparse and uncomfortable, lined with flimsy chairs that dug into my thighs. Unlike a visit to the doctor's or dentist's, there wasn't much to distract from the wait. Not a single magazine rack to be found, since a three-year-old Christmas issue of Good Housekeeping for one person could actually be from the future for someone else. I could only imagine the trouble there'd be if a television was installed. So many spoilers.

There were only two real points of interest. The first was the presence of music, piped in from a small speaker. While media might have been time-sensitive, The Girl from Ipanema was forever, apparently. The second was the far wall, the only one with any real decoration or adornment.

, the words read in black, elegant letters. Beneath it was the agency's motto: . The whole thing was framed by a laurel of forget-me-nots, painted in pale blue.

I wasn't sure when time travel had become a thing. Once it was invented, there wasn't anything preventing big business from bringing the technology back in time, as it meant a whole new means of undercutting their competition—not by price or by product but by whole years.

Money, of course. It always came back to money. Time travel, as it turned out, didn't come cheap. It was well beyond the budget of most of the middle class, which left it as a playground for the one percent.

While business was was newly regulated by the Twenty-First Century Fiscal Retroactivity Act, time travel for personal use had always been tightly controlled. The long-term effects of historical revision hadn't been thoroughly studied due to outcry from moral watchdogs, citing a potential butterfly effect. Visitation to Nazi Germany was completely outlawed—Code Black—for just that reason.

Vacations were possible, of course; packages to predetermined times and places based on popularity. Temporal immigration was much more affordable, but there weren't just legal hoops to jump through—it was a proverbial gauntlet, on fire, overlooking a tank of hungry sharks. Virtually impossible.

But there was a loophole. And I intended to exploit it.

"Ew. Hold on a sec, Jen." My heart stopped as the brunette sniffed the air. Her face scrunched unpleasantly as she looked at me. "Do you smell something?"

There wasn't any point in lying about it. I flashed my best approximation of a good-humored smile. "It's me."

Mercifully, I'd already changed back into my street clothes, but there were no shower facilities in Lockers and Wardrobe. That left me washing off chicken stink in the ladies' room with paper towels and hand soap. Though I'd done the best I could, I swore I could still catch whiffs of something rancid on occasion. Guess it wasn't just my imagination.

The woman looked at me like I had no less than nine venereal diseases.

"Gross." She scooted her Victoria's Secret handbag closer to her chair, as though my stink was contagious. Her phone conversation resumed.

I perked up at the swish of the receptionist's plexiglass window. He opened his mouth, reading off the clipboard, but stopped again. I had seen that look of trepidation many times before—the quiet horror of a man stumped by an unpronounceable name.

"Addy-lee-ah," he sounded the word out carefully, but from the furrow of his eyebrows he was clearly unsatisfied by the attempt. "Add-a-lil—"

"Adaliah. Ah-dahl-lee-ah," I corrected him as I approached the window, but from his thousand yard stare I knew he had no intention of learning it. Sighing, I settled into a patient smile. "Just call me Ada. It's easier."

He nodded, relieved. "Ada Blum, the matchmaker will see you now."

"Thank you."

After the waiting room, the rest of Kairos was much more personable, painted in blue peppermint stripes. Though my destination was just a few rooms down, I always lingered, distracted by the framed success stories along the way. Sometimes, they were accompanied by photos, in color or black-and-white depending on the time period. Others were snapshots of painted portraits, some on display in modern museums. A few were people I recognized from my college history books, though I wasn't allowed to name names. The agency was very strict about the privacy section of its Terms of Service.

The door at the end of the hall was propped open. I hung in the threshold, feeling sheepish but I didn't want to interrupt the matchmaker, Ms. Ellis Little.

Five foot if she stood on tiptoe, the name suited her. A tiny teaset on her headband bobbed like an antennae as she waved through holographic pages of her GlassBook. It was pretty par the course for her—each time we met, Ms. Little was wearing a new outfit, and it was always eccentric but disgustingly adorable.

I jumped when the book slammed closed. She'd finally noticed me. "Right, yes, hello! Close the door behind you, if you would."

The office was comfortably cluttered, appointed with mismatched armchairs, a dozen wind-up toys and a USB tea kettle. I sat on the edge of an oil green wingback, not wanting to taint the upholstery with rancid chicken stock.

"So, what did you think?" The matchmaker propped her chin up on laced fingers.

My nails clicked on the desk with agitation. "He's not single."

Ms. Little's face fell. A drawer whined open as she fanned through manila folders. "But, but—my records—"

"—Are wrong," I said, trying my best to give her a reassuring smile. "I'm not upset, but you might want to strike him from the database. He has a mistress."

"Oh. Oh, crepes dear, I am terribly sorry." Once she had found Mr. Pickering's file, she scrawled a big X on the front with a flamingo-shaped pen, then tossed the whole thing over her shoulder. "To be fair, though, a mistress means he is technically single..."

"Mmhm." I was not amused.

The hope was snuffed out of Ms. Little's expression. Solemnly, she picked up a toy carousel from her desk and wound it. "Did you run into any other trouble? About, oh, an hour and fifteen minutes ago?"

"He suspected me."

"That certainly explains the vitals we recorded." She waved the idea away, eyes never leaving the toy as it spun in circles. "It happens to everyone on their first outing. Just learn from it. Keep your head down. There's a steep fee for Retconning timelines in the event that time travel is exposed in a protected era, per the Antiquity Protection Plan and Legislation act—"

"—APPL, yes. I'm aware," I said. "I'll make sure that it doesn't happen again."

She nodded. "Speaking of which, do you have your corsage?"

I reached into my purse, past my short-term temporal visa and pulled out the jewelled forget-me-nots. A digital timer on the backing flashed 00:00. The corsages were Kairos' way of keeping track of its customers' whereabouts and well-being while in other eras. Ms. Little took the pin and locked it in another drawer. "So, what's the next step of this process?"