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She was quiet for a long moment, then said, “It's a horseless carriage. Powered by an engine—a machine that burns fuel to create motion. No horses needed. They can travel faster than any horse, for longer distances, and they're everywhere in my time. Millions of them.”

I tried to picture it and failed. “Millions of horseless carriages?”

“On every street. In every city. Some families own two or three.” She watched me carefully. “They're loud. They produce smoke. Though different from coal smoke. And they're dangerous. Thousands die in car accidents every year.”

“And yet people use them anyway.”

“Because they're convenient. Fast. They change everything about how people live, where they work, how far they can travel in a day.” Her voice turned wistful. “I used to drive one. Had a little blue sedan that I bought with my first paycheck. It was freedom, in a way. The ability to go anywhere, anytime.”

“And now you're trapped in a hansom cab going ten miles per hour.”

The hansom hit a rut. Lily pitched forward, and I caught her elbow, steadying her. She looked up, close enough that I could see gold flecks in her blue eyes, the faint freckles across her nose.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

“City hazard.” I didn't release her immediately.

She didn't pull away either.

The moment lengthened. Dangerous. Wholly inappropriate.

I was supposed to be using her. Not noticing the gold flecks in her eyes. Not wondering what she'd do if I closed the distance between us.

I released her abruptly, forcing space between us. “Tell me more,” I said, needing to fill the silence. “About your time. What else is different?”

“Everything.” She turned to the window. “We have machines that can send messages across the world in seconds. Boxes that show moving pictures and sound. We can fly⁠—”

“Fly?”

“In machines. Airplanes. Some can cross the entire Atlantic in hours.” She glanced back at me. “We've been to the moon, August.” She paused, letting that land. “Humans walked on the moon and came back to Earth.”

The sheer impossibility of it made my head spin. We already lived in a city choking on its own growth—soot, disease, endless noise. Yet she spoke of a world that had taken it even further.

“Your eyes catch what most would miss—the wrong width of a street, buildings that no longer stand. You see the scars left behind,” I said at last.

Her expression shifted. “I read about the fire that swept these roads years ago. The records mention destruction, but not how the city rearranged itself afterward. I suppose that part was lost to history.”

A part of me wanted to tell her that history was always rewritten by the victors, that what she knew was only the version deemed worthy enough to survive. But I held my tongue as Mother’s pendant tapped against my sternum. A cold reminder of a story that had been written in blood.

“Here we are, sir,” the driver called out as the hansom slowed.

The Copper Kettle glowed with warm light. Respectable enough to avoid gossip, common enough that no one would look twice. Perfect.

I climbed out first, handed Lily down. Her gloved fingers curled around mine as she descended with more grace than this morning.

“Remember,” I said quietly as we approached the entrance. “You're Adeline's cousin from Yorkshire. Nothing scandalous, nothing remarkable.”

“Decoratively vague,” she murmured. “I remember.”

“And Lily?” I paused at the door. “Try to look like you're enjoying yourself.”

“Everything with you is performance, isn't it?” she said softly.

“Everything in this world is performance, Lily. The sooner you master it, the safer you'll be.”

Inside, the warmth hit us immediately. A handful of patrons glanced up: university types hunched over books, a trio in modest office coats, an elderly couple bundled close together. Their gazes swept over us with mild curiosity before returning to their plates.

Nothing remarkable. Just a gentleman and his friend, sharing a meal.