“We have reached the end of the tour,” Marjorie said. “Your complimentary sweet.” She presented them each with a small brown disc furnished with a crooked silhouette, which, when Jane squinted, resembled her own head.
“Cheers,” Sofia said. She popped the brown disc in her mouth.
Jane observed Sofia and did the same. The solid disc dissolved to cream on her tongue. Jane closed her eyes and rocked backward.
“Are you well?” Sofia asked.
“What do I consume?”
“Chocolate.” Jane had heard of chocolate but never had the funds to procure it. “Do you like it?”
“It is the highlight of the tour,” Jane said.
They exited the building. Jane reflected on the events of the morning and found that her self-diagnosis of insanity perhaps deserved deeper scrutiny. Was this all truly a hallucination? She began to falter in her certainty. Her own current experience differed from the examples of madness she had observed in the known lunatics of her acquaintance. While the gravy-stained poet of Stall Street, for example, spoke only to herself in her own world, Jane conversed with others of flesh and blood. While the same woman possessed no awareness of the stench of the fish that rotted two feet from her in the gutter, Jane had tasted that chocolate as it melted in her mouth. She had touched the books and felt the fabric of their covers. She had smelled the vanilla in their pages. All five senses remained alert and intact. No one she talked to indulged her as one did a child or patted her head; no one offered her a carriage ride to Brighton. Each person interacted with her in a manner befitting someone who retained control of her senses; they treated her as though she were lucid and sane.
She allowed herself to consider that there might be some minuscule chance lunacy had not taken her, but rather, with a sound mind, she had indeed cast a spell that had moved her through time to the year 2020, where her reputation as an author was such that museums were now built in her honor. It was pure fiction, surely.
Chapter Sixteen
They left the museum. Sofia listened to the Jane Austen impersonator detail her alleged journey from 1803 to the present, about travelling to London to visit a witch in a falling-down house, of her mother burning her manuscript, of the witch’s fondness for cabbages. The saga enthralled her, and while Sofia didn’t understand why the actress went into such detail, at least she felt entertained. The actress remembered great chunks of dialogue, names, facts, and dates. She had done her research. Sofia had read every Jane Austen novel as a teenager. She loved them and confessed to being something of a secret bonnet-drama fiend, so despite the whole thing being contrived for an elaborate candid-camera prank, she thoroughly enjoyed listening to it all and threw herself into her own part.
“This was all houses before,” Jane said. She pointed to a row of convenience stores and dress shops that lined the street. Brutalist boxes of concrete had replaced the famous Bath-stone buildings.
“Bath was bombed in the war,” Sofia said, taking her cue.
“Which war? Did the Little Corporal finally invade? The French are never to be trusted.”
“The Second World War. Bombed by the Nazis. We like the French now. Sort of.”
“The whole world was at war?” Jane exclaimed.
“Ask my brother to fill you in when he gets home. He’s a history teacher, among other things; he’ll have some dusty doorstop of a book to put you to sleep with.”
A rusty black sedan drove past. “Where are the horses?” Jane asked. “To pull it along?”
“Inside,” Sofia said, waving to the car. “There’s a machine that does . . . something.” She squinted, trying to appear wise without having to explain how a car worked.
Jane looked confused but nodded. “I like walking,” she said. “I walk every day, even in the rain.”
“There’s no chance of that here,” Sofia said. “It hasn’t rained in six months. England is in a drought.”
“Is this the apocalypse?” Jane asked.
“Maybe,” replied Sofia with gravitas. They walked onward. Sofia strained for something else sophisticated to say to keep the conversation going. The Jane actress had remained subdued since the “I am now a famous novelist” scene. “What else have you observed about the present?” Sofia asked her.
“The world smells of paraffin.”
“Paraffin? You mean gasoline? That’s concerning.” Sofia snorted. “Sounds about right, though.” She was keen to move on from science and history; they would bore her husband to tears. “Tell me more about the witch,” she said, changing the improv to something juicier.
“Her name is Mrs. Sinclair. I visited her at her house in London. Is there still a London?” Jane asked.
“There’s still a London,” Sofia said. “And this ‘spell’?”
“I still have it,” Jane said. She reached into her pocket and retrieved a piece of paper.
Sofia examined it. Someone—the props department, likely—had scrawled blobs of black ink across a charred, yellowish piece of paper. “I can’t make this out.”
“She had terrible handwriting,” Jane said.
Sofia held the page at all angles, looking for any type of clue or inspiration. She could not decipher the words. “Did props make this for you?”
Jane slumped. “I was hoping that this occurred often. That you would know what to do.”
Sofia shook her head. “I don’t know what this is. Sorry.” She handed the paper back.
“Am I stuck here?” Jane asked.
“I don’t know,” Sofia said. “Maybe. Are you fainting again?”
The Jane actress possessed a knack for physical stunts, it seemed. Her knees buckled and she fell to the ground. Sofia rushed over and grabbed her under the arms. It all seemed a bit over the top for this scene, but the actress fainted convincingly, so Sofia let her have her moment. She glanced at another CCTV camera above them and shifted the woman’s shoulders toward it
