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“You’re a guest.”

“I’m an informant you haven’t decided what to do with yet.” She moved past me, close enough I caught her sweet scent—lavender. “But sure, let’s call it being a guest. It sounds kinder.”

I didn’t stop her. There was no defense against the truth.

CHAPTER 13

AUGUST

The evening air was cool as we stepped onto the street, carrying the scent of coal smoke and distant rain. The gas lamps had been lit, casting pools of golden light along the cobblestones. Oxford at dusk had a particular quality—ancient and alive, the weight of centuries pressing against the urgency of the present moment.

Lily pulled her cloak tighter, gaze sweeping across the street with a hunger I was beginning to recognize. She was cataloguing everything. Perhaps, comparing it to memories of a world that wouldn't exist for another century.

“You look like you want to ask a question,” I noted, raising my hand to signal for a hansom.

“I have about a thousand, but I doubt you'd answer any of them.”

“Try me.”

She considered that for a moment before saying, “This street, it’s Magdalen Road, isn’t it?”

I frowned slightly. “Yes.”

“It's wrong.” She gestured at the buildings. “The width is off. It should be narrower here. And some of these buildings—” She stopped herself, seeming to realize how odd she sounded.

“Go on.”

“Some are here that shouldn't be. And some that should be here aren't yet.” She looked at me, something vulnerable in her expression. “It's disorienting. Like looking at a familiar face that's been subtly altered.”

I hadn't expected her to articulate it quite that way. Most people wouldn't notice such subtle changes, wouldn't have the reference point to compare against. But she seemed to.

“Must be strange,” I said quietly. “Seeing the past when you remember the future.”

“Strange doesn't begin to cover it.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “I know where I am, but I don't.” The words came quieter, uncertain. “It’s like I’m a ghost haunting my own life.”

The honesty caught me off-guard. This didn't seem like a performance.

Before I could respond, a hansom clattered to a stop beside us. The driver, a grizzled man with a salt-and-pepper beard tipped his hat.

“Where to, sir?”

“The Copper Kettle, near Carfax.”

He nodded, and I handed Lily up into the cab. Her hand was cold through her glove, and I found myself holding it a moment longer than necessary before letting go.

The interior was close, intimate. Our knees nearly touched, and I was acutely aware of her beside me—the scent of lavender soap, the rustle of her skirts, the warmth of her even in the cool evening air.

The hansom lurched forward, wheels clattering. Lily gripped the seat’s edge, eyes wide as she stared out the window.

“You've never ridden in one of these before,” I observed.

“I've read about them. Studied photographs. But actually being in one—” She laughed, slightly breathless. “It's different. Everything moves so slowly compared to cars. You can actually see the world passing by instead of it being a blur.”

“Cars.” I repeated. “That's what you called them earlier. When you spoke about your family's accident.”

Her expression shuttered. “Yes.”

“Tell me about them. If I'm going to believe your story about being from the future, I need to understand what that future looks like. And you said yourself—question for question. So I'm asking: what is a car?”