A Rip Through Time (A Rip Through Time #1)

by Kelley Armstrong

Then there’s a flicker. The shifting of light. A flash of cornflower blue, hovering like a haze. The haze becomes a dress. A long dress, half-translucent. A glimpse of light hair. Then another gasp, as the wisp of a figure falls back against the wall, only to disappear as she strikes it.

I wheel just as something swings toward my head. I spin out of the way and catch a glimpse of rough rope gripped in a man’s hand. Synapses fire, a connection made. An article glimpsed in passing. Edinburgh. Two bodies found in the past month. Strangled. Old rope around their necks.

I spilled a few drops of coffee on some suit in a crowded shop, and now he’s in this alley, dressed in a black hoodie, with a length of fraying rope in his hand. It makes no sense, and that is where I fail.

The man yanks again, as if growing impatient. I am taking so long to die. I twist, and down the alley, two figures shimmer. A young woman with honey-blond hair, in a cornflower-blue dress, as a shadowy figure has his hands wrapped around her throat.

My ribs feel tight, as if they’ve been bound. Nothing else hurts, though. I’m wearing what feels like a hospital gown, tugging at me when I move. The room is chilly and damp. When I breathe in, there’s the smell of … camphor? That’s the word that comes to mind, though I’m not even sure what camphor is. Something medicinal. Definitely a hospital, then.

The victims had been a middle-aged man killed midday in his car and an elderly woman murdered in her garden. While the murder weapon—old hemp rope—suggested a connection, the police suspected the victims themselves would end up being connected. Targeted killings rather than the thrill-motivated actions of a serial killer. A visitor out for a jog was in no danger at all … unless she spilled coffee on the killer.

I have critical information on a serial killer. A face, emblazoned in my memory. A motive, as mind-boggling as it might be. A potential location, as the man’s jacketless dress shirt had suggested he worked in a nearby office. I know what he looks like and how he chooses his victims and where police can start canvassing for an ID. It’d be much more impressive if I learned that as a cop, rather than a victim. No matter. At least I hadn’t actually died.

Am I wearing a corset? Holy shit, I’m wearing a corset and a nightgown. Also some kind of wig—I can feel hair against my back where it normally falls on my shoulders. I’m not safely in a hospital. My attacker has taken me hostage.

Twelve-year-old girl with brown hair and eyes, a smattering of freckles, and a thin frame. Her hair was swept up under a strange little cap, one that matched a dress that looked like something out of a historical drama, simple and blue with a matching white apron.

My gut squeezes, nausea rising. I’ve been kidnapped and thrown into someone’s sick fantasy version of a Victorian home, complete with a poor kid forced to play the role of maid.

As I straighten, my gaze lifts to the mirror, to my reflection in it, and … The blond girl from the alley stares back.

Bruises dapple her neck, and there’s a dressing on her temple, as if she’d been struck there, and my mind goes instantly to the alley, hearing her gasp and fall back, seeing hands around her throat.

Who puts an injured young woman to bed while wearing a dress and corset? I almost laugh at my outrage, as if this “young woman” is a stranger and I’m incensed on her behalf. This stranger is me.

“Are ye certain she’s awake, Alice?” the woman asks. A girl’s voice says, “Aye, ma’am. She were on her feet ’n’ talking, though what she said … Her mind must be addled fae th’ blow.” The older woman grumbles. “We dinnae need this.”

“I-I fear I am unwell, ma’am,” I say. “Might I lie abed awhile longer?” I wince. I sound like a community-theater player in a period drama. Even my voice isn’t my own. It’s the higher pitch I heard earlier, with a thick Scottish brogue.

“What the devil are you doing out of bed?” he says. “Get back in there now.” “Like hell.” The words come before I can stop them, and his dark eyes widen.

“Apologies,” I say, in a tone that doesn’t sound very apologetic. “I appear to have been struck in the head, and I am not quite myself.” Understatement of the century. “Pray tell, who might you be?” “I might be your employer, Catriona.”

“And this place? It is your house, I presume. But the city? Edinburgh, is it?” Mrs. Wallace continues to glare, as Alice watches me with that mixture of horror and admiration. As interrogations go, mine is downright civil. Probably still not quite appropriate for a Victorian housemaid.

“And the date, sir?” “May 22.” Before I can open my mouth, he adds, “Eighteen sixty-nine. Today is May 22, 1869.”

On May 20, 1869, Catriona Mitchell had been enjoying a half day off, only to be discovered that night in a lane, where she’d been strangled and left for dead … exactly one hundred and fifty years before I was strangled in the exact same spot.

Wait. Where’s the crotch? I have two leg pieces attached and open at the crotch. Did I rip it? No, that seems to be the design, and I think I have indeed found a logical hole … until I need to use the chamber pot with layers of skirts and I realize why my underwear would be crotchless. Okay, that I did not expect.

we’re in a town house. In Canada, that would mean a relatively small home adjoined to others. This is as big as any suburban mini-mansion, at least four thousand square feet. Three stories plus a finished attic, where the maids sleep, and a finished basement, with the kitchen and Mrs. Wallace’s quarters.

Also, the decorating is … I don’t want to say “ghastly.” That oversells it. Slightly. There’s too much of everything—from paintings to bric-a-brac to furniture—and Victorians obviously never met a bright color they didn’t want for their sitting room. I’m saved from eye trauma by the gas lighting, which combines with the heavy drapes to keep the garish colors muted. I imagine the day when Victorians will get electric light, suddenly see their rooms in their full glory, and run screaming, retinas scarred.

Gray’s not actually a doctor. Well, yes, technically he is—I found diplomas for a bachelor’s degree in medicine plus a master of surgery from the Royal College. But rather than keeping people alive, he takes care of them after they’re dead. He’s an undertaker, which seems to be an inherited family business.

Two women were strangled a hundred and fifty years apart. On the same night. In the same spot. I don’t think I heard and saw an echo of the attack on Catriona. I think I saw the attack itself—through a rip in time. I heard her cries. I came running. And when I was attacked in the same manner, time tangled, and I fell into her.

Once I’ve accepted time travel as the answer, I head straight to the front door before realizing I have no idea where I am and how to get back to that lane.

Playing housemaid is a necessary evil if I want to avoid being tossed into a lunatic asylum for my odd behavior.

“Apologies, ma’am. I seem to have misplaced my alarm clock.” Her broad face scrunches up. “Your what?” “My…” I cough. “My, um…” How do Victorians wake up, if they haven’t invented alarm clocks? “Apologies, ma’am,” I repeat. “’Twill not happen again.”

Mrs. Wallace is not a Catriona fan. I don’t know whether it’s a personality clash or simply a product of the times, where women have so little power that they wield it against one another with unnecessary vigor.

And for God’s sake, do not mention things before they were invented. Of course, the problem is that I don’t know when they were invented. For the thousandth time in two days, I find myself reaching for my phone to look it up.

I do know one thing that hasn’t been invented. Central heating. As I discovered last night, while the house is mostly heated by coal, there are still a couple of wood-burning fireplaces. In my room, there’s a small coal one—a brazier—which I’m sure will do a lovely job once I figure out how to use it.

Dental hygiene is not as dire as I feared. Catriona has a bristled brush in her toiletries and a powder that I use to brush with while hoping I haven’t mistaken its purpose and will drop dead of arsenic poisoning. Of course, having no idea what’s even in Victorian tooth powder, I might still drop dead of it, but at least my teeth will be clean.

Shit! I mean, drat. Er, no, pretty sure that isn’t historically accurate either. In fact, I have the very strong impression that demure young housemaids do not use profanity, at least not out loud. I race into the hall, only to hear a squeak of surprise and turn to see Alice blinking at me. Okay, apparently demure young housemaids do not tear down halls either. I bend a quick curtsy in apology, and her eyes widen in shock. Right, housemaids wouldn’t curtsy to other maids. That’s for the master and mistress of the house. Or is curtsying even a thing in 1869?

When I glance over, her gaze goes to the meal tray. I glance from it to her. “You want me to take this to Dr. Gray.” “No, I’d like it to fly up to him on pixie wings, but as you’re the only one here, I suppose you’ll have to do.” I fix on my most contrite look, lashes lowered. “Apologies, ma’am. I know I’m being a trial. My mind is still a wee bit fuzzy after my accident.” “Oh, is that how you’re going to play this?” She raises her voice to a falsetto. “I’m a wee bit fuzzy, ma’am. If I could just have an extra day or two to rest…”

The Old Town. If I remember correctly, in this era, that was the slums. So what was a housemaid from a prosperous household doing there?

Yep, my first day as a housemaid, and I’m already reduced to stealing the dregs of my master’s coffee. Also, “master”? Is that really what he’s called? I suppose it’s the alternative when we can’t refer to him as “His Lordship” or whatever. Still, I hope to hell I’m not expected to call him “master.”

I think I’m supposed to knock first. Either way, that seems safe. I pause to pull on my best speaking-to-the-lord face. Demure. That’s the key. I’m a Victorian housemaid. Keep my gaze down and my expression meek. Be seen but not heard. Or is that for children? Close enough.

“Oh! You want me to light the fire.” “No, Miss Catriona. I want you to warm the room with your sunny disposition. Yes, I want you to start the fire. Preferably before I freeze to death.” Well, if you’re cold, maybe you could finish getting dressed. Or light your own damn fire.

then he says, dryly, “I don’t believe you’re supposed to clean the hearth with your skirt.” I look down. I’m wearing a uniform—a white apron over a dark blue dress. That apron is no longer white. Neither is the surrounding fabric. I could argue that he’s not one to judge—I already see ink spatter on his collar—but I suspect rejoinders are not permitted in this relationship.

Tread carefully. Do not treat these people like primitive cave dwellers. Do not think you can easily fool them because you’re from the future.

His gaze shoots to me, suggesting my tone might have been a bit impudent. I almost chuckle. “Impudent” is a word no one has ever applied to me. I suspect it’s used a lot here, though, particularly when dealing with uppity women. I bite my cheek not to laugh. I could become an uppity woman. It’s tempting, in a life goal sort of way. It’d probably land my pretty ass on the sidewalk, though.

Wait, did he say research? What sort of research does an undertaker, well, undertake? I glance toward the papers, tempted to inch closer. Then I remember my breakfast awaits, and I resume my retreat.

He mutters under his breath. I take the breakfast tray and eye the straight razor. I’m going to need to figure that one out. How hard can it be? Worst I can do is leave him lying in a pool of his own blood, and after a day or two, that might not seem like such a bad idea.

Still, hard work never killed anyone, right? By midday, I decide that whoever coined that phrase never toiled as a nineteenth-century housemaid. I don’t mind the cleaning. Don’t mind the hard work. But it never ends. Scrub this. Polish that. Haul hot water. Empty dirty water. Make the beds. Sweep. Dust. Clean. Oh, and don’t even get me started on the chamber pots.

She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “You’re supposed to drop yourself off there. It hasn’t been cleaned in days, that being your job. Dr. Gray has two appointments in the morning.” “You want me to clean it now?” “No, I want you to clean it tomorrow night, after his appointments. Let the grieving families discuss their dearly departed amidst the dust and cobwebs.”

I dust and sweep the reception area and showroom. Those take up more than half the floor space. There’s no area big enough for loved ones to host the visitations and services. I check, in case there’s a small chapel or viewing room. There isn’t. Odd. Services must be held elsewhere.

It’s only as the two men move inside that I see the wagon in the courtyard. And a foot hanging out of it. Oh, my. This is interesting.

So Catriona had some romantic entanglement with the young constable? That’s awkward, and I kinda do hope they have had a falling-out, for my sake. Catriona can fix that once she’s back.

A midnight corpse at a funeral parlor. Delivered by a police detective and his young constable. That hardly seems proper procedure, and I have a very good idea what they’re up to. Body snatching.

I’m not hiding to judge Gray by confirming my suspicions. I’m hiding because he isn’t the only one who likes a puzzle. I think I’ve solved this one. Now I’m flipping to the back of the book to double-check my answer.