//CLARA//

We ducked into a nearby tea room. The place smelled like stale rosewater and heavy-handed judgment. Casimir’s minions parked themselves at the table directly behind us, trying and failing to look like they weren’t hanging on every word.

My chaperone, however, wasn’t even trying to be subtle. She was currently throwing literal daggers at me with her eyes, her mouth set in a thin, bitter line.

Apparently, Aunt Cornelia is like a virus that’s gone airborne. She’s multiplied and evolved into a Version 2.0 in chaperon form and I’m pretty sure she’s currently trying to infect my entire existence.

"So, let me get this straight," Gary whispered, leaning so far across the table I thought he’d face-plant into the scones. "You read a diary, hit a cliffhanger, and poof? You’re the lead in a period drama?"

"Basically. Except the drama involves a lot more corsets and a lot less rights," I muttered, stirring my tea so hard the spoon clinked against the china. "And the guy I told you about... Mr. B? He’s our paternal ancestor. Like, the direct line. And Gary, he’s a complete dick. The absolute final boss of gothic narcissism. But mind you, he’s got the face of a pretty boy from a Calvin Klein ad. It’s infuriating, really."

I dipped my head toward him.

"And here’s the kicker. In the original timeline, since he was married to Eleanor. That means I’m currently stuck in the middle of some twisted historical do-over. I’m basically trying to navigate a marriage with our own great-great-whatever-grandfather without accidentally erasing us from existence. It’s a total mess."

"That’s really fucked up. And the guy who... you know... your guardian?" Gary winced, his face twisting into pure confusion and mild horror. "Casimir? You said he’s your step-uncle? Clara, that is some high-level What Are You Doing, Step-Bro nonsense."

"It’s complicated! And technically, there’s no blood relation, so shut up," I hissed, feeling my face heat up. "He’s... he’s the only reason I’m still standing. But he’s possessive. Obsessive. Feral, even. You have to be careful when you meet him."

"Great. My cousin is dating a Gilded Age John Wick," Gary blew out a breath, looking overwhelmed. "So, who else am I supposed to be dodging? Is there like a wicked stepmother lurking in the wings of that mansion?"

"Close. There’s this ghastly old spider called Aunt Cornelia," I said, careful not to be too loud so the chaperone couldn’t hear what I was saying.

"She’s the gatekeeper of high society, and she’s currently trying to marry me off to the human equivalent of a wet rag just to secure the family fortune. She spends half her day measuring the purity of my reputation and the other half plotting my social execution. If you think the shadows following us are bad, just wait until you meet her. She’ll have your blood type and your net worth calculated before you can finish saying hello."

Gary shuddered, looking genuinely concerned for his safety.

"Lovely. I’m definitely staying on the other side of town. Meanwhile, I don’t even know who I am. Some guy literally throws a rock at my window every morning around six—apparently, that’s how human alarm clocks work here—and yells, ’Wake up, Mr. Russell!’"

He let out a long, weary sigh, looking completely drained. Exactly like a man who had been through the emotional ringer and was just done with the whole performance.

My poor cousin.

"And it’s not just the rock-throwing. I’ve been getting these letters slid under my door. Hand-delivered by some kid in a newsboy cap. All of them are addressed to Elias Russell, Esq. I haven’t opened half of them because I’m afraid I’ll find out I owe a literal ton of coal to a chimney sweep or something. But yeah... that’s how I caught the name. Between the shouting and the mail, I guess I’m Elias now. Whoever that guy is."

"Elias Russell," I mused. "We need to find out why Eleanor chose him for you. Or why the ring did."

"That’s the thing," Gary said, his eyes lighting up with that old nerdy geek spark. "The diary for you, the ring for me. Clara, what if Eleanor Thorne wasn’t just a socialite? What if she was... you know. Into the craft?"

I blinked, grasping his words. "You think she was a witch?"

Funny, I thought. My mind immediately flashed to Aunt Cornelia. Honestly, the description fit her so well I was surprised she didn’t come with a broomstick.

"Think about it. The Thorne family line goes back to Massachusetts. I saw the family tree records back at the manor while we were looking for you. What if there’s some Salem bloodline voodoo happening? We’re descendants. Maybe she’s pulling us from the great beyond to fix something... like a temporal rescue mission."

I let out a snort, despite the goosebumps on my arms.

"So what, I’m the Chosen One and you’re the sidekick with the better gym membership?"

"Hey, I’m just saying! It’s either magic or we’re both in a shared hallucination caused by carbon monoxide poisoning."

We lost track of time. We joked about the lack of Wi-Fi, the tragedy of 5G-less existence, and the sheer horror of 19th-century dental hygiene. It was the first time in months I felt like Clara again.

"What I wouldn’t give for a Quarter Pounder with cheese," I groaned, leaning back as the scent of fancy, overpriced tea mocked my soul. "Gary, I’m serious. I’ve been eating pheasant and jellied mystery meats for weeks. I would literally sell my soul for a greasy bag of McDonald’s. Just one salty, soggy fry. That’s all I ask."

"Don’t even start," Gary sighed, looking misty-eyed. "I was thinking about a Wendy’s Baconator this morning. And a spicy nugget. Or even just a lukewarm Taco Bell burrito that I’d definitely regret twenty minutes later. I missed the convenience, man. You want food? You hit a button. You don’t wait three hours for a cook to pluck a bird in the basement."

"And pizza," I whispered, the craving hitting me like a physical ache. "Thin crust, pepperoni, so much grease you need a napkin to soak it up. Instead, I get... consommé. Which is just fancy French for salty water with a vegetable’s ghost in it. Only the steaks are great here. Medium-rare—chef’s kiss."

However, the sun didn’t care about my nostalgia or my desperate, dying wish for a Coke with the good ice.

I glanced at the window and my heart dropped. The golden glow of afternoon had turned into pitch black. The sun was completely gone. The only thing you can see are the flickering gas lamps on the street.

I looked back at my chaperone. The woman had sat there for hours, watching the sun go down in total silence, just waiting and obviously judging me.

How useless. She hadn’t even bothered to give me a heads-up.

"Shit," I whispered, standing up abruptly. "I’m late. Beyond late."

"Wait, how do I find you?" Gary asked, scrambling up.

I fumbled in my silk reticule.

"Write to me. Seriously. It’s our only lifeline. Use this address, but remember I’m Eleanor here."

I pressed a thick, embossed calling card into his palm like it was a contraband handoff.

"And Gary? For the love of god, stay out of trouble. I don’t think Elias Russell has a get out of jail free card."

He nodded, looking genuinely horrified at the prospect of a gilded age jail cell. I threw my arms around him for one last hug before I turned and scurried out into the cool evening air.

The carriage ride back was a blur of anxiety. By the time I stepped into the foyer of the Guggenheim mansion, the silence was deafening.

And the atmosphere felt tense and heavy.

Shit.

I moved toward the drawing room, my heels clicking like a countdown on the marble floor. I stopped in the archway, and my breath hitched.

They were all there.

Aunt Cornelia sat in her high-backed chair, her face perpetually frozen with fury.

Damn, even Bartholomew was here, standing by the fireplace, his eyes narrowed, looking at me like I was a bug he was about to squash.

And Casimir.

He was leaning against the sideboard, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He didn’t look angry. He looked cold and deadly. A version of him that I have no interest in crossing.

"Dinner was served at seven, Eleanor," Aunt Cornelia’s voice sliced through the room like a piano wire. "It is now half-past nine."

"I was... I lost track of time with Oliver," I started, but my voice failed as Casimir’s dark gaze locked onto mine—unreadable, and terrifyingly focused.

"Oliver has been home for two hours," Casimir said in a low, dangerous rumble.

He set the glass down with a click that sounded like a hammer cocking on a gun.

"So... tell us, Eleanor. Who were you really spinning around with on Fifth Avenue?"

I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat feeling like shards of glass.

Oh, god. I’m dead.