But Victoria doesn't need to know it. She just looks taken aback for a moment, like what I'd said was beyond rude or something. I bite down, hard, on my lip. I need to shut up, or this is going to turn into Trisha Marks: Part 2. I'll blurt out something stupid and get myself into yet another mess. Why am I arguing? Why am I allowing her to bait me?

"But how can you possibly expect to live? I should think that would be quite a difficult life. You can not be capable of managing on your own."

I try to stop myself, but it doesn't work. The words come flooding out. "It's not difficult at all. In fact, if marriage is anything like you seem to think it is, I want nothing to do with it. I'll be happy if I remain single forever! So you can forget about planning my wedding, I don't want it!" I push my plate away so fast half the contents spill onto the white linens.

This whole surreal, crappy day is catching up to me and everything is spiraling out of control.

"You will bite your tongue!"

That's it. I shove back from the table and my chair topples over and nearly knocks into the servant who had stepped forward to grab it. Everything is crashing down around me, and I can't handle any of this anymore. "I will not! I don't know who you think you are, or what in God's name you guys think you're doing acting like this, but you don't have the right to rule my life." Before I know what I'm doing I spin around, my skirts twirling, and rush toward the door. When I get there I look back at the table. "You guys are all crazy. "

And then I turn and run. I can't even feel the pain or blisters on my feet anymore as my sight blurs with tears.

What the heck am I doing? I know I just made things so much worse. I know I need them to help me. But it's too late to stop now.

Down the hall, I find the foyer, where a man opens the door for me, and I burst outside as if reality will find me on the other side and I can leave all this craziness behind.

It's not there, of course. It's just more of the expansive lawn and the long drive. I'm still standing here in this ridiculous dress.

The door clicks open and I turn around, praying it's Emily, but it's not.

It's the duke. The second I see the toe of his leather boots, my heart leaps into my throat. My eyes travel up his long legs and over his waist and chest, until I get to his face, and my heart sinks. He's ticked. He's across the stoop in a half second, his strides so long and purposeful I have to fight the urge to just run.

"Might I remind you that you are a guest in my home?" His words come out so loud and harsh it's impossible not to wince.

I open my mouth to say something but I have no idea how I'm supposed to respond.

It doesn't look like he wanted an answer anyway, because he just surges ahead. "You may be from America but you are in England, and you'll do well to adhere to the rules of society. You will not insult the dowager again."

"Then tell her to leave me alone ! "

He takes one more step, so he's inches away. "It may be acceptable to speak as you do where you come from. But in my world, we respect our elders and our superiors."

"She's not my superior. And neither are you."

"I outrank you," he says, half spitting the words as he edges even closer.

"So? Does that make you better than me?" I put one hand on my hip and clench the other in a fist.

"Yes, it does!" he thunders.

"Ugh! You're unbelievable," I say. "I've never met anyone so arrogant in my life."

"No? Well, I've never met anyone so insolent! You are certainly not the prim little Rebecca my mother was expecting."

My lips part slightly and I stare back at him, my anger twisting with fear. Why did he emphasize Rebecca? What is he saying? Does he know I'm not her?

I grasp at the fury I'd felt just moments ago, but it's slipping away.

He doesn't explain, just spins around and stalks away. I'm left staring at the door as it slams shut behind him.

Chapter 7

I'm halfway down the stairs when the sounds of a carriage echo, and I stop, one foot on the cobbled drive and one on the stone steps. When I glance upward, I see Emily walk out the door, a mischievous grin on her cherub face. "I've never seen Her Grace look so shocked in all her life!" she giggles, and despite everything, I smile at her. I can't believe I'm actually smiling after all this.

I kind of want to take her with me when I go. She doesn't deserve to live here with these people. They're all mean and crazy, and she's just nice.

I try to shrug away the worry that the duke is setting up his dungeon as we speak and instead turn toward the carriage rolling up, two shiny black horses pulling it. I just stand there and stare for what seems like eternity, wondering if I should really get inside that thing. And then I pinch myself. For real, I reach over and pinch my arm, leaving a nasty red mark behind, but I'm still standing here. Yesterday, I was sitting in a twenty- first-century cafe in London, bemoaning my lack of friends... and now look at me: braided hair, old-fashioned dress, and I'm about to get into a carriage. A real-life, horse-drawn carriage.

"So, uh, how far is town?" I ask Emily as a servant helps me into the carriage.

"Twelve miles," Emily says. She's sitting on a bench atop the carriage, arranging her skirts.

My heart jumps into my throat.

If we're really twelve miles away, how did I get this far? The carriage takes a left out of Harksbury, so I mentally add a few more miles from where I'd woken up. Fifteen miles?

Who would drive an unconscious person fifteen miles into the woods and drop her off? And even if someone did, is fifteen miles far enough from London for the scenery to look this... rustic?

My only warped explanation is melting away, and as I watch the scenery roll by, a new explanation is nibbling at the edges of my mind.

The carriage rides roughly, every bump jarring me nearly out of the seat. There are curtains pulled open and tied to the side, so we'll have enough light to see by. I can't believe how noisy and drafty the whole thing is. We pass a couple carriages, and there are servants dressed just like the ones driving us. Emily is chatting away about the royal family, something about a ball or a mask or something, and then I get an idea.

"Wait, um, I forget... Who is the king these days?"

She laughs and playfully smacks my arm. "America is so isolated, isn't it? An entire continent away! The king is not truly our ruler, of course. Our monarch is the prince regent."

I nod and swallow the lump in my throat. Last year I had to take world history, including several chapters on the royal families of a dozen different countries. A prince regent... England hasn't had one of those since the early 1800s.

Okay, so they're really committed to their entire act. They probably have textbooks they refer to every night to make sure they get the details right.

It's a feeble excuse and it doesn't make sense anymore. Not when I watch as home after home rolls past, each of them looking older than the last. Not when the roads are so clearly prehistoric, with ruts and mud puddles.

Not when I haven't seen a single piece of ordinary trash, or a lamppost, or a broken-down car. A chill races down my spine. This isn't right. Everything is just... all off and unfamiliar.

I'm sitting in a carriage, for god's sake.

Emily must sense I don't want to talk to her because she leaves me alone as I stare at everything trailing by. It seems to be going faster and faster as the heavy feeling in my stomach grows to the size of a bowling ball.

Even if we were just playing make-believe, there would be something, right? Some clue, some overlap of the real world. But if I admit that maybe I'm not with crazy people, that maybe this isn't fake, what does that mean?

Around an hour later, as we get closer to town, the buildings become steadily closer together, until the carriage rolls to a stop near the sidewalk and I jump out so fast the servant who'd planned to help me nearly falls to the ground.

"Sorry!" I say, and then I scurry over to the shop nearest me and press my nose to the glass. There has to be something: a magazine, an orange extension cord, a Starbucks cup.

But there's nothing. I sprint down the block and look into the next store. I can feel Emily staring after me, her feet rooted to the place I left her.

This entire town... this village... there's nothing out of place. And it's not London at all. I'm far, far away from the hotel, and anything else I know.

I trudge back to Emily, my feet scraping along like fifty-pound weights. I feel as if I've just gone ten rounds in a boxing ring only to emerge defeated.

Emily is twisting a pretty ruffled parasol around in circles and staring at me with her best WTF look.

"Um, so, I have a question," I say. She already thinks I'm crazy.

And she's about to think I'm crazier.

"Yes?" Emily says.

"What year is it?"

She laughs. "Though I am sure your journey felt torturously long, it's but a month since your last letter. It is yet 1815."

1815. Right.

"I mean, not here," I say, motioning in our general vicinity. "I mean in the real world.

In the whole world, and not just your world." I wave my hands around for emphasis.

"I'm afraid I don't understand your meaning," she says.