//CLARA//

My heart was hammering against my ribs, but I didn’t let the mask slip. I couldn’t. I wasn’t about to hand my trust over to a man who called me Clara out in public—tossing my real name around as casually as if we were at some pop-icon convention or an autograph meet-and-greet.

I channeled every ounce of Eleanor’s demure, high-society energy. I smoothed my skirts, tucked my chin, and turned around with a polite, vacant smile that wouldn’t have looked out of place at a funeral.

"I’m sorry," I said, tilting my head with just the right amount of practiced confusion. "Who?"

The man blinked, looking a little winded. He was familiar. Distressingly familiar. But the math wasn’t adding up. This man was tall, fit, and looked like he spent his mornings lifting actual dumbbells. He looked like a photograph I’d seen once and forgotten, or a movie star playing a part he didn’t quite understand.

"Oh... oh, gosh. I—I apologize," he stammered, rubbing the back of his neck.

He looked around like he was waiting for a camera crew to jump out from behind a Hansom cab.

"I thought you were someone I knew back... somewhere else. You have this uncanny resemblance. It’s wild. Wow. You could be her twin. Seriously."

He let out a nervous, breathless laugh that sent a cold chill of recognition crawling up my spine. But I kept my face blank, my features locked in a mask of polite indifference. Turns out, all those hours of being interrogated by Aunt Cornelia were finally paying off.

I could lie to a man’s face without a single muscle twitching.

"By the way," he continued, extending his hand, "my name is Gary Olsen—uhm, no, that’s not who I am in this place, damn it."

He winced, then tried again, his voice dropping to a frantic whisper.

"My name is Elias Russell. Elias. Yes. That’s me. Elias." He was rambling now, his ears turning a bright, unmistakable red. "I’m very sorry. I’m not from around here. Obviously."

Elias Russell.

I had no idea who the fuck that was, but the rambling—the way he stumbled over his own identity and the pure, unadulterated panic behind his eyes—that? That, I knew.

I studied his face for a moment. The shape of his eyes. The way his nose crinkled when he laughed nervously.

And then all of it together clicked.

Gary.

My cousin on my mother’s side. The nerdy, slightly chubby geek who used to argue with me about Star Wars lore over Thanksgiving dinner. He looked different—hell, he looked incredible in this body. But that nervous tick, that specific way he tripped over his own words... it was him.

"Gary?" I breathed, the Eleanor facade finally shattering into a million pieces. "Is that really you?"

He froze. His eyes went wide, scanning my face, searching for the girl who used to steal his fries while he was busy explaining the Butterfly Effect.

"Clara?" He stepped closer, squinting at me like he was looking through a foggy lens. "Holy shit. Clara! It is you!"

"Yes! Yes, it’s me!"

Propriety be damned. I ignored the judgy onlookers and my two stone-faced shadows as I launched myself at him. Pure, electrified joy surged through me. The kind of dizzying, breathless shock that makes your heart do a frantic little dance in your ribs. It was like finally finding a familiar face in a crowd of ghosts.

Gary caught me, letting out a laugh that sounded more like a sob, and spun me around in a circle. My skirts flared out, catching the light, as he lifted me off the ground with an ease his previous body never had.

"Gosh!" he gasped, setting me down but keeping his hands on my shoulders as if I might vanish again. "I never got to do that back in our time. I would’ve thrown my back out. My discs would’ve just... evaporated."

I laughed, a real, messy sound that felt like it belonged in another century. I smoothed my hair, my face flushing with heat.

"How the hell did you get here? And since when are you... this?" I gestured to his broad shoulders and the way his coat actually fit his chest.

He let out a long breath, running a hand through his hair—a gesture that was pure Gary.

"Okay, so. After you disappeared, everything went into full FBI mode. Your mother was on the news every night, crying, offering rewards, the whole nine yards."

He lowered his voice as he glanced at the guards flanking us.

"We went back to the Newport manor. We scoured every inch of that place looking for clues. I was clearing the attic—one of the movers mentioned you were last seen up there—and I found this small wooden box. Inside was a ring with a jade stone. It had the name Eleanor Thorne engraved on the inner band."

I stared at him, my breath hitching, confused. "A ring?"

"It was pretty. Gold band, green stone. Probably cursed, looking back on it. I thought it looked cool, so I touched it. Rookie mistake. Next thing I knew, I was face-down in a horse trough, wearing a dead man’s clothes, with a hangover I definitely didn’t earn."

I let out a shaky breath. Weird. Then again, a dusty diary had been my one-way ticket to this hellscape.

Maybe a cursed ring wasn’t weird at all. Maybe it was just the local mode of transportation through the centuries. We’ve got to figure out how this voodoo magic actually works.

"Where are you staying? And how long has it been?"

"I’ve been here for a week, Clara. Give or take. It’s been absolute hell. I can’t find a decent cup of coffee, and the plumbing is a nightmare. Right now I’m staying in this place around the corner from Gramercy Park. A bachelor’s pad, they called it, but it looks like a tomb. It’s cramped, smells like old cigars, and has zero heating. I’m pretty sure I’m going to get scurvy."

I laughed at him, the tension finally breaking.

"Well, at least you have a roof over your head and you’re not a street urchin. That’s what they call the kids on the street, Gary. Get with the lingo."

"Well, I guess you’re right, but damn. I feel like a toddler learning to walk again. Everyone talks like they’re in an Edith Wharton novel... wait."

Gary paused, his eyes squinting at me, trailing his gaze from my ridiculous plumed hat down to the lavish emerald gown.

"You never told me who you are here. I mean, you look like Clara, but you’re dressed like a princess. Or a very wealthy villainess."

Both.

I reached out, taking his hand in mine and giving it a firm, elegant squeeze.

"Well, Gary." I said, a wicked little smile playing on my lips. "I am Eleanor Thorne. Your great-great-great—I don’t know how many times—grandmother. The culprit, and in the flesh."

Gary’s jaw practically hit the cobblestones. "No way."

"Yes way," I smirked, leaning in closer. "And welcome to the Gilded Age, kid. It’s a goddamn mess, but at least the clothes are nice."