What if a sword-wielding, outspoken time traveler found herself stuck in Regency England?
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Clara Eaton has a secret: she's a member of an elite time-travelling society, concealed in the heart of London.
Clara has spent the last six years learnin...
"Those women that are troubled by what this author generously refers to as 'curiosity' should – and indeed, must – be chaperoned with a careful eye."
-Andrew Hamilton in 'A Treatise on the Duties of the Female Sex' (1797)
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Clara's mother was trying to kill her.
Not like, outright. Even though she'd taken part in the Crimean War — a story that still came up at every family Christmas, usually after several bottles of red wine had been drunk — Marie Eaton still cried when she killed a beetle in the shower with a plastic flip-flop. She simply was not the type to murder her daughter. But Clara was convinced that, right now, her mother was trying to kill her via hairbrush.
Her mother gave a vicious tug. Clara winced.
"Mum," she said. "Shall I do it?"
Marie's lips were pursed in concentration. "I'm almost done."
She yanked the hairbrush again, uprooting a clump of blonde curls. Clara bit down hard on her tongue. Jesus.
She pulled a face. "Can you leave some of it on my head, please?"
Marie met her gaze in the mirror. "You'll have to cut it, anyways. It'll be too hot in Greece to keep it long."
She was right, of course, but Clara wasn't about to admit that. She tugged at her sleeve, trying to ignore the way her hair felt like it was being pulled out of her skull. She was dressed in black cargo trousers and a black vest today: the usual outfit for final exams. The examiners had given her a black leather jacket too, and Jack had explained yesterday that it was bullet-proof. Although, Clara reflected, there was a good he was winding her up; Jack had once managed to convince her that carnivorous frogs lived in the Thames, preying on unsuspecting birds and squirrels.
Clara frowned. "Mum?"
"Hmm?"
"What happens if I don't get Greece?"
Her voice was even. Deliberate. Then again, Clara thought, she'd been trained to speak without any inflection or accent in her voice; it was one of the things that made a great time traveller. Her mother stopped brushing.
"You're top of your year," Marie said. "Of course you'll get Greece."
"But what if I don't?"
Her mother set down the brush. "Then I know a wine bar that does a great merlot." She dropped a kiss on the top of her head. "You're my daughter, Clara. I'll love you no matter what. You don't need to prove anything to me."
A swell of emotion filled her. Relief? Love? It was difficult to tell sometimes, Clara thought; she'd become so accustomed to playing a role — a distressed Tudor peasant, an elegant French prostitute — that wearing her own face felt strange. She turned away from the mirror, reaching for her black trainers.
