Puck and Prejudice

Chapter Three

“What am I wearing? Beg your pardon, but I believe that’s the pot calling the kettle black.” The woman looked him up and down as if he were the out-of-place one.

A faint buzzing hummed in Tuck’s ears, reminiscent of standing beneath high-voltage power lines. What the hell had happened?

She was still talking, peppering him with questions, the words coming a mile a minute, but he couldn’t concentrate, not when

a wave of nausea knocked him forward on all fours, his stomach twisting as if it were being wrung out like a damp cloth. He

heaved, vomiting water that tasted of silt and algae.

“Good heavens.” The woman gave a muffled shriek. “None of that, please. Oh dear. I think I’m going to...” She spun away,

hands bracing her hips, and gagged.

“Ma’am?” Tucker sat back on his heels and swiped his mouth as a few hard truths registered: it was daytime, warm instead of

cold, he was soaking wet, and something was off about the surroundings. The old stone bridge had turned wooden, and while

that farmhouse on the hill looked the same, the streetlights and road signs were gone. So was Nora’s car.

She turned back around, her nose scrunching up. “Are you finished? I nearly cast up my lunch.”

His pits were sweat soaked. The gentle breeze carried the scent of fresh grass. A bird swooped in and perched on the tip of

a marsh weed. Gray-brown feathers? Orange chest? Some kind of Euro robin? His heart hammered behind his sternum. These were

summer smells. Summer sights. The world was too hot, too bright.

Where was the snow? The ice? The cold night sky? Was he hallucinating? Or had he died in that fucking pond?

“Are you...?” Shielding his gaze from the sun, he struggled to keep his hand steady. “Are you some sort of angel?” She

had a striking presence with her fox-like eyes, long lashes, and round cheeks.

“If you aspire to be a poet, I recommend trying harder.” Her low voice was tinged with amusement even as her expression remained

unsettled. “That dreadful phrase never works.”

Okay, at least he wasn’t dead. He mentally crossed that option off the shortening list of possibilities.

“What’s going on then?” His frustration hit critical mass. He needed to make sense of this. Of the seasonal shift. Of her. An idea flashed and he clung to it as though it might carry him back to sanity. “Wait.” He snapped his fingers. “Is this one

of those historical reenactments? You know, where you act like an old-timey cosplayer and run a blacksmith shop or whatever?”

“A blacksmith?” She flicked up her brows. “Precisely how hard did I hit you with that apple?”

A muscle twitched in his jaw. She had to be messing with him.

“I get it,” he growled. “Nice work. You’re good at your job. A ten-out-of-ten performance. But drop the act. Where’s the car?

I have to find my sister.”

“Car?” She stared blankly. “You mean a cart, sir?”

“No, of course I don’t.” He released a frustrated sigh. “It can’t be summer.” The throbbing in the back of his head mirrored

how he sometimes felt after colliding with a goalpost.

“It is Midsummer’s Day.”

The nausea returned. “What the hell happened to December?”

She clicked her tongue. “Perhaps if I fetch a doctor and—”

“No!” He threw up a hand, trying to think, trying to make this make sense. “Wait! Okay. Let’s pretend for a second that you

aren’t an actor, and it’s actually summer. This is still England, right?”

“Indeed. We’re in Hallow’s Gate, sir. Midway between Ropley and Bentworth.”

Okay, okay. The place was the same. He was going to make a fool out of himself with the next question. But he had to. “W-what

year is it?”

“Are you attempting to secure amusement at my expense?” she snapped.

“If I was, I could think of a dozen better ways that wouldn’t involve getting my ass wet while asking stupid questions.”

“Your point is well taken.” She turned over his words before giving a small shrug. “It’s 1812.”

The strange electric buzzing ceased. The world went still—nothing but wind, birdsong, and water lapping the pond’s shore.

If this was a dream, he’d better wake up real damn soon.

“You don’t appear happy with the news,” she said.

“No, I—” He released a bark of laughter—no humor in it, but better than exploding. “Can’t say that I am.”

“I need a moment to collect my thoughts.” She ripped out her bun, long waves of dark brown hair tumbling over her shoulders as she paced. “You’ve voided your stomach and are uncertain of the year. However, you don’t appear mad or in your cups.”

“My cups?”

“Pickled. Three sheets to the wind. Drunk as a lord.” She paused, tapping her chin. “Something very strange appears to have

happened.”

“Understatement.” He twisted his mouth into a humorless smile. “But yeah. You’re not wrong. I’m from more recent times.”

She digested that; he could practically hear her brain chewing through his words. “When? 1912?”

A hundred-year jump.

He snorted, scratching the back of his head. “Add another hundred years and then toss in some change.”

“Oh.” The color drained from her face before she stiffened her spine. “Prove it.”

“How?” He snorted. “Want me to pull a newspaper out of my pocket?” He gestured to his outfit. “Do people dress like me around

here?”

“No.” On this point, at least, there was no hesitation.

He threw up his hands in exasperation. “So?”

“You are indeed dressed strangely. However, peculiar clothing does not mean you’re a man from the future. You’ll simply have

to do better if you want to convince me.”

“I’m not a magician.” He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets as his eyes widened. “Wait. I know.” He dug out his phone

and tapped it, the screen lighting up. “Yes,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “My phone case is damn near indestructible.”

He chuckled. “I still have eighty-nine percent battery. No Wi-Fi obviously.” The cell connection was out too. No shit.

The woman took a step closer. “What is that?”

“A phone. You can call people on it. Hit numbers like this, and see? That’s my sister’s, Nora’s, number. If I press that green button it will call her phone and we can have a conversation. Or I can do this...” He pulled up the texts. “Type here and send her a message. We mostly do that. No one likes a cold call.”

She glanced from the phone to his face, and back to the phone. “I—I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Hold on.” He held up the phone and snapped a picture. “Look, it can do this too.”

When he showed her the image of herself on-screen, she sank down with a weak sound, her arms wrapped around her knees. “You’re

truly from the future? How did you manage to come here?”

“Yes. And I don’t know.”

They remained like that for a long moment, each staring blankly at the other. Finally, she heaved a sigh and unfolded herself

back to standing, smoothing a hand over her hair. “Well, you can’t very well remain in Farmer Pennycook’s cow pond, can you?

Best I escort you straight to my cousin. Georgie will know what to do. She always has ideas.”

The woman had a point. He couldn’t stay here.

“Wait!” She lifted a finger in warning as he stirred. “Stop. I’ll need to find you a disguise, won’t I? And where will I locate

that? Did you have to be quite so large?” Her tone was annoyed, like his height was a personal affront. “Never mind,” she

pushed on, and he wasn’t sure if she spoke to him or herself. “But you can’t be seen in those clothes.”

He glanced at his down jacket, jeans, and sneakers. So yeah. He’d stick out. “They don’t, uh, burn people for witchcraft in

1812... do they?”

“Witch what?” She gaped with utter confusion. “Get ahold of yourself. This isn’t the sixteen hundreds. Now if you don’t mind, I’m trying to come up with a plan. But if you keep interrupting me, I might be tempted to source an axe instead and become quite Henry the Eighth.”

The look she shot him packed more spice than his favorite hot sauce. But it made him trust her—she was ready to find a solution.

A long silence dragged out before she glanced over again.

“There’s nothing for it.” Her words had a tone of finality. “You’ll need to wait here until my return.”

“Are you serious? I’m supposed to stand here in the muck and do what? Watch minnows and hope for the best? No way. I want

to help.”

“You can’t be seen like this.” She waved a hand, gesturing to his clothing. “The village would never speak of anything else

again. No, you must wait and not make a sound, Mr....” She trailed off. “Pardon. I didn’t catch your name.”

“Taylor. Tucker Taylor. But you can call me Tuck. Most people do.”

“Tucker Taylor.” She spoke his name with a slight frown, like tasting a strange new flavor. “How very... American.”

It took all his will not to roll his eyes. “And you are?”

She straightened. “MissElizabeth Wooddash. My friends call me Lizzy, but MissWooddash will do fine for now, Mr.Taylor.”

She dusted her hands on her skirts and turned to leave. “I’ll return within the hour. If anyone approaches, pretend you’re

a frog and croak.”