And then I slump to the ground. Town was supposed to be my saving grace. I was supposed to find a telephone, or a taxi, or something that would make sense. Because since the moment I tripped in these stupid heels, nothing has.

I pull my legs up around me and bury my face in my knees. The skirts of this peach dress are scratchy on my face, hut I don't care. The fabric dampens with my tears.

Emily stands next to me. I can just make out the hem of her skirt in my glittering vision. "Rebecca?" she says, her voice concerned. She's shifting back and forth on her feet; I can see her dress sway with the movement.

I want to yell at her, "Collie! My name is Callie!" But I can't. What if I'm really stuck here? What if I have to be Rebecca forever? Of course, that won't work. The real Rebecca will arrive. In a month, according to Emily. And then what?

God, when did everything turn upside down? I go on a summer trip abroad, and then I start running two hundred years behind schedule?

Somehow I doubt that's quite what they had in mind when they said we'd be studying European History.

How does something like this even happen? It's not like I jumped in a black hole or tried to invent a time machine or... anything. Just BAM, and I'm here. My throat aches and my arms and legs are now a thousand pounds. I don't want to move. Ever.

"Er, Rebecca?" she says again.

I don't want to be Rebecca. I want to curl in a ball and close my eyes, and I want to see cars and smog when I open them up again.

But if I keep acting like this, Emily's going to be watching me. Closely. And I can't let her do that, because she'll start to think dear old Rebecca belongs in the loony bin. I've heard way too many horror stories about old asylums to allow that to happen. So she can't know I'm really Callie Montgomery, twenty-first-century high school girl. Telling everyone I'm a time-traveling freak will only make things worse.

"Uh, yeah, sorry," I say, my voice hoarse. "I'm just worn out, I think. I guess town... uh... changed more than I remember." I climb to my feet and try to wipe all the dirt from my skirts.

"Oh! I'd not thought of that. Yes, it's certainly grown, hasn't it? My home is nearly a full day's ride from here, and I'm afraid I don't visit as often as I'd like. I was quite impressed by the growth in the last few years." There's a note of pride in her voice, like she wants to brag about how large the town is when I'm pretty sure I can see all the way to the end of it from where I stand.

I nod but I don't speak again because I can't swallow the lump in my throat.

I want my mom, to be honest. Even though just thinking that makes me feel like I'm five instead of fifteen.

Emily turns and heads back to the carriage, but I just stand there, firmly rooted to the sidewalk. We can't just go back. Not yet. I'm not done here. There has to be something or someone who can help me.

I take one step and my heel catches on a cobble. I barely manage to stop myself before I face plant.

Oh God. These shoes! What if it's the shoes? That's exactly what happened before.

Maybe I could buy a new pair of shoes and wear them, and maybe that would fix everything.

I turn around and look up and down the walk. It's not like I'll find a Prada shop. But they obviously make shoes somewhere, right?

I stalk past several stores, peering in the windows. Someone makes shoes. They have to.

"Rebecca?" Emily's voice calls after me as I pass another shop. The shoes will fix everything. I'll put on some of those weird slipper-style things and once I walk out of the shop, I'll be back in London. The Prada heels are just cursed or something.

I pass another store. This one has little teacups in the window.

This is ridiculous. Don't girls like shoes here?

Oh. Wait. Even if I find a shoe store, how am I supposed to pay for the shoes?

Maybe I don't need the shoes, per se. Maybe I just need to take these stupid ones off. I unbuckle the straps over my foot, pick up the heel, and fling one shoe down the walkway.

Liberated, I pull the other heel off and fling it down with its mate.

Now what?

Should I fall over? On purpose?

That's how it worked before. I had to knock my head on the sidewalk. I eye the big cobbles beneath my bare toes. They look so hard.

What if I have a real concussion? Last year, Mike Lange, star quarterback, had to sit out two games because he had a concussion. We lost both games because of it, but supposedly if he got another one within a couple weeks of the first, his brain could swell and he'd get brain damage.

Which doesn't really sound that fun.

Emily clears her throat.

I chew on my lip and look down the walkway at my shoes. What am I, crazy? I just flung four-hundred-dollar pumps down the street.

"Shall we shall return to Harksbury? Your journey must have tired you more than you expected. You need proper rest, yes?"

She's looking at me like I've gone a little loco, her cute button nose wrinkled up and her wide hazel eyes narrowed to tiny little slits.

How am I going to return to Harksbury after telling them all off? Maybe knocking my head wouldn't be that bad.

Stay calm. That's what everyone says about emergencies. You have to stay calm and everything will resolve itself.

"Yes. Let me, uh, let me go grab my shoes." I hobble, barefoot, down the walk and retrieve my pumps, jam my feet back into them, and then follow her back to the carriage.

The servants are silent, but I know they're staring at me when my back is turned. I have to pull it together. I can't just lose it like that, throwing my shoes like I'm in a shot-put competition.

If I think clearly, maybe I'll come up with a real plan.

But until then, my name is Rebecca. I am a prim and proper Regency girl. I wear dresses and I curtsy.

I belong here.

Chapter 8

I've been sitting in a window seat in my bedroom for twenty minutes, my forehead pressed against the cool glass window, when I see Alex. He's standing in what I guess is the backyard, facing the stables and talking to a servant. How many servants are there? These people must be really, truly rich. I've already seen close to twenty so far, between the gardeners, the maids, the butler, the grooms... and I'm assuming they have a cook or two.

I study him, knowing he has no clue he's being watched. His hair is a little longer than I realized, sort of an Orlando in Pirates of the Caribbean kind of look. His jacket has actual coattails, which I hadn't noticed this morning, and even from here, I can tell it's well fitted.

Even though he's pretty hot, he also kinda looks like he's one of the Village People. I snicker to myself and that's when he turns around and looks up. There's no way he could have heard me, but I feel as if I've been caught red-handed, and I recoil so quickly I fall backward off the window seat. There's a rug on the ground next to the seat, but even so, I land with a hard thud that knocks the wind out of me. Even though I'm trying hard to be Rebecca, I just pulled another Callie classic. For a long moment I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, catching my breath and wondering if he knew I was watching him. He knows which room I'm in, right? Even if he hadn't seen my face, he'd know it was me. My skirts are fanned out around me, and I twist them in my fingers while I try to decide if I should be embarrassed.

I crawl back toward the seat and peek out over it, but I realize with some degree of disappointment he's gone. The expansive lawn is empty. Is it pathetic if I wanted to check him out some more? He might be a jerk, but at least he's good eye-candy.

I get up and walk back over to my bed, plopping down on it with a heavy sigh.

I'm smart, right? I should be able to come up with a solid plan as to how I can get back to the twenty-first century.

The trouble is I'm lost without Wikipedia and Google. I know all sorts of things, of course, but none of it is useful: the periodic table of elements, how to factor a math equation with four different variables, the symbiotic relationship between the great white shark and the remora fish. Completely useless, random information.

Even a year of advanced chemistry isn't going to do me any good; it's not like there's a chapter in there about time travel.

I get up off the bed and creep to the door and peek out. No one is around.

I'll just explore the house. Maybe there really is a phone hidden somewhere that will prove Emily is lying about 1815. Or maybe I'll find a servant in some Old Navy jeans.

My room is on the second floor of the west wing, at the end of the hall, so all I can do is go toward the front entry. There are doors on both sides of the hall, so I walk toward the first one and press my ear to it. Silence.

I ease the doorknob around and push it inward, cringing as the hinges creak. It's just another bedroom, slightly smaller than mine. This one has hideous red wallpaper with flowers swirling up and down in vertical stripes, and carpet in the exact same shade of crimson.


Ugh. This is definitely not going to help me.

I exit the room and continue down the hall. I poke my head in a couple of rooms and see more beds. How many bedrooms does one house need? I haven't even seen Emily, Victoria, or Alex's rooms. That makes at least seven or eight bedrooms . .. and that's without seeing the other 90 percent of this place.