TL *Humaning the Best She Can*’s Reviews > The Deadly Life of Diana Penn (Cheviot Hills Time Travel, #1) > Status Update

The platform below was transformed. Gone were the usual commuters and empty tracks. Instead, hundreds of East Enders had made the space their nightly residence. Blankets and makeshift bedding covered every inch of the floor. Families huddled together, some attempting to sleep, others sharing mugs of tea from vacuum flasks.

Diana nodded, keeping her expression neutral despite the sickening knot of foreknowledge in her stomach. The Blitz would intensify over the coming days and weeks, with East London enduring the Luftwaffe’s attention. How many of these people would survive? How many of the streets she’d driven through today would still exist by Christmas?

What does this Watcher have up her sleeve 😳?

I see where this character's mind is and why but all this animosity over men?

*shakes head * that other girl needs to stop listening to her mother so much and not be so quick to assume.

Picturing Teresa Palmer as a young Diana

This resurrection thing was getting out of hand. No wonder Jesus only did it once.

Sleep claimed her, dragging her down into its depths with the same relentless power that had pulled her back through time. Her last conscious thought before surrendering was that, whatever else happened, she would not waste this second chance.

Time and the pallid December light rendered the once familiar landmarks strangers. At the end of the lane, the red painted telephone box stood out as a bright spot on the landscape. The fingerpost that should have marked the crossroads had disappeared years ago—an early precaution against German paratroopers who might use such signage to navigate.

Diana took another sip of tea, her eyes drawn to the peculiar way the workers were now backing away from whatever they’d found. Her intelligence training kicked in, evaluating the workers’ body language. Something wasn’t right.

She leaned forward, squinting through the bay window. The excavator had unearthed what appeared to be metal canisters caked in soil and corroded with age.

The phone fell silent. In its wake, she heard the rumble of machinery against frozen soil and the murmur of workers’ voices. The excavator had stopped, its bucket poised mid-air as several workers gathered around something in the freshly turned earth. Perhaps they’d found a body? That would give Nancy Robbins another reason to gossip at church this weekend. Such an evil harridan.