Time Travel With a Rude English Boy from the Nineteenth Century.
Chapter Three
PAYTON’S POV
“Okay, Dacre, I’m waiting,” I drawled impatiently. “When is this ground-breaking device going to show me what it can do?”
“Patience, Miss Smith,” Dacre replied breezily. It was eleven the next morning, and we sat in my living room, awaiting the perfect time for Dacre’s broken watch to ‘amaze’ me. He was wearing the same clothes he’d met me in, despite the fresh clothes I had offered him. “Everything in due time. Patience is a virtue.”
Basil—I was still upset that Dacre had named my dog for me—nudged my hand with her cold nose and I chirped, “Speaking of dues, where’s mine? You were going to pay me handsomely, remember?”
“Now.” Dacre, with a sudden jerk of his hand, twisted a knob on the watch and pressed some buttons in the back. “2:45 PM, September 3rd, 1906, Billingsworth Ave., London, England, the attic.” He murmured as he twisted the watch’s gears, and the unbelievable happened.
A blinding white light emitted from the watch, along with the sound of a faint ticking. An aggressive wind whipped my hair in all different directions. Basil howled and whined, clearly uncomfortable with the magic occurring in my living room. Pictures fell from the wall, and papers fluttered spasmodically in the sudden gale. Through the madness, Dacre grinned at my wild expression and said, “It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Smith.”
My money! Ignoring the wind and blinding light, I gripped Dacre by the collar. “You owe me, Mr. Dalton. Don’t think you can skip out on me.” I gasped but held my grip on his collar as our feet began to disintegrate, followed by our legs and the rest of our bodies. “What the hell are you pulling?!” I exclaimed as Dacre shouted, “You fool!” Before we blipped out of existence, Basil leapt into us and we were gone.
“Oof!” I proclaimed as Dacre landed on top of me, followed by Basil. The pavement was wet and light grey, made of smooth stones. They were surprisingly sleek and smooth for asphalt. Hold the phone, that is definitely not asphalt. Cobble stones? I thought bewilderedly. I’m not in San Diego anymore…
Dacre rolled off of me and threw a glare, “You were not supposed to come, Miss Smith,” he hissed. “You’ll ruin my plans.”
The sky was a vast ocean of grey, as far as the eye could sea. I recognized the bitter scent of an ocean nearby, but this definitely wasn’t the smell of the Pacific. “You should have just paid me,” I retorted.
We had landed in an alleyway, but the buildings were different here. Everything here seemed muted: the sky was grey, the buildings were grey, even the people walking down the street were grey. They were certainly wearing strange clothes… “Are we at a history reenactment? Am I being Punk’d? What the hell did you do, Dacre?”
Dacre was already standing at the mouth of the alleyway, peeking onto the street. “I told you: I am Dacre Dalton, the best pickpocket from London. I have traveled through time. The watch needs to rest another forty-eight hours before it can work again, speaking of which, my plan needs to start into action, now. You and your dog stick out like a sore thumb, and you’re costing me time.” With that, he ducked out of the alley and into the street. Uncomfortable with being left alone in a place I was not familiar with, I called out, “Wait!” and chased after him.
Dalton was swift, I’ll give him that. He dodged through the crowd as if he’d done it all of his life, stealing a few wallets out of unsuspecting people as he did so. “Wai--,” I called, but was interrupted by a firm grasp on my upper arm.
“Where do you think that you are going in trousers, Missy?” a drunken man slurred. I tried to twist out of his iron grip, but he noticed and tightened it even more. “If you’re not going to be proper, neither am I,” he whispered in my ear. There were whispers echoing behind us, and a groan was heard from a voice I was familiar with. “Do I really need to…” Dacre started walking to us, but I used this distraction to twist the man’s arm behind his back and shove him into a nearby cobblestone wall. “Do not,” I hissed, “try that again. I’ll do much worse than this next time.” I released him and he scurried away. Looking at Dacre with a quirked eyebrow, he stared back with a bewildered stare. Shaking his head slowly, he said, “Follow me, you may be useful after all.”
Smirking, I followed him into an alley as we hurried through the back streets of this foreign town. Basil jogged beside us loyally, and I couldn’t help but feel proud of the canine. “Why are we going the back way?” I asked, not caring that I had no clue as to where we were. This was the most fun I’d had in years.
“Well,” Dacre said wryly, “If you weren’t wearing such dismally different clothes from the rest of London, I wouldn’t have to hide you. Do not fear: I’m certain that Azalea owns a few dresses to spare.”
“Who in the world is Azalea?” I asked as we sneaked into the back door of an old house and climbed the stairs to the attic. After glancing at the living room, I asked, “No T.V.? What, are you guys Amish?”
“If you are referring to the witch-craft box that projects images, I would prefer it if you wouldn’t speak of that here. This is a Christian household,” Dacre huffed before climbing the stairs. I followed him as he went to the end of the upstairs hallway and pushed open the door leading to the attic. We climbed up the entrance into the musky room.
“Dacre, I see you’ve brought a—Holy Lord that woman is wearing trousers!” a muscular, pale young man around my age exclaimed. His hair was a sleek black and his green eyes were open wide in shock. A female version of the man across the room from me retorted, “I don’t think that’s a lady at all, but instead a feminine man.”
“Nice to meet you, too,” I said wryly. Dacre rolled his eyes and announced, “This is Miss Smith—,”
“Payton,” I corrected.
“—as I was saying, Miss Smith is now a member of this plan. I tested the time machine out, and it led me to a horrid place called ‘San Diego’ in America, where the youths wear tight-fitting clothes and the women wear trousers and live by themselves. It was quite unorthodox.”
“Quite, quite,” the siblings nodded in a sympathetic agreement. Dacre nodded once, acknowledging their sympathetic glances before he continued, “Miss Smith is quite the excellent fighter. Not to mention, I owe her money that I cannot repay her right now. Azalea, please lend her a few dresses so that she can prop—,”
“What?!” I hissed. “What do you mean, ‘owe her money that I can repay her right now’.” Basil whined from the corner, and Dacre announced loudly, “All in good time, Miss Smith! After this plan, we will all be billionaires. Just you wait and see.”
I eyed him warily and crossed my arms. “What exactly is this magnificent ‘plan’?”
“That’s easy,” The girl—Azalea, I’d heard Dacre call her—chimed, “We’re going to kidnap the Duke and hold him hostage. And you're going to help us.”
“Okay, Dacre, I’m waiting,” I drawled impatiently. “When is this ground-breaking device going to show me what it can do?”
“Patience, Miss Smith,” Dacre replied breezily. It was eleven the next morning, and we sat in my living room, awaiting the perfect time for Dacre’s broken watch to ‘amaze’ me. He was wearing the same clothes he’d met me in, despite the fresh clothes I had offered him. “Everything in due time. Patience is a virtue.”
Basil—I was still upset that Dacre had named my dog for me—nudged my hand with her cold nose and I chirped, “Speaking of dues, where’s mine? You were going to pay me handsomely, remember?”
“Now.” Dacre, with a sudden jerk of his hand, twisted a knob on the watch and pressed some buttons in the back. “2:45 PM, September 3rd, 1906, Billingsworth Ave., London, England, the attic.” He murmured as he twisted the watch’s gears, and the unbelievable happened.
A blinding white light emitted from the watch, along with the sound of a faint ticking. An aggressive wind whipped my hair in all different directions. Basil howled and whined, clearly uncomfortable with the magic occurring in my living room. Pictures fell from the wall, and papers fluttered spasmodically in the sudden gale. Through the madness, Dacre grinned at my wild expression and said, “It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Smith.”
My money! Ignoring the wind and blinding light, I gripped Dacre by the collar. “You owe me, Mr. Dalton. Don’t think you can skip out on me.” I gasped but held my grip on his collar as our feet began to disintegrate, followed by our legs and the rest of our bodies. “What the hell are you pulling?!” I exclaimed as Dacre shouted, “You fool!” Before we blipped out of existence, Basil leapt into us and we were gone.
“Oof!” I proclaimed as Dacre landed on top of me, followed by Basil. The pavement was wet and light grey, made of smooth stones. They were surprisingly sleek and smooth for asphalt. Hold the phone, that is definitely not asphalt. Cobble stones? I thought bewilderedly. I’m not in San Diego anymore…
Dacre rolled off of me and threw a glare, “You were not supposed to come, Miss Smith,” he hissed. “You’ll ruin my plans.”
The sky was a vast ocean of grey, as far as the eye could sea. I recognized the bitter scent of an ocean nearby, but this definitely wasn’t the smell of the Pacific. “You should have just paid me,” I retorted.
We had landed in an alleyway, but the buildings were different here. Everything here seemed muted: the sky was grey, the buildings were grey, even the people walking down the street were grey. They were certainly wearing strange clothes… “Are we at a history reenactment? Am I being Punk’d? What the hell did you do, Dacre?”
Dacre was already standing at the mouth of the alleyway, peeking onto the street. “I told you: I am Dacre Dalton, the best pickpocket from London. I have traveled through time. The watch needs to rest another forty-eight hours before it can work again, speaking of which, my plan needs to start into action, now. You and your dog stick out like a sore thumb, and you’re costing me time.” With that, he ducked out of the alley and into the street. Uncomfortable with being left alone in a place I was not familiar with, I called out, “Wait!” and chased after him.
Dalton was swift, I’ll give him that. He dodged through the crowd as if he’d done it all of his life, stealing a few wallets out of unsuspecting people as he did so. “Wai--,” I called, but was interrupted by a firm grasp on my upper arm.
“Where do you think that you are going in trousers, Missy?” a drunken man slurred. I tried to twist out of his iron grip, but he noticed and tightened it even more. “If you’re not going to be proper, neither am I,” he whispered in my ear. There were whispers echoing behind us, and a groan was heard from a voice I was familiar with. “Do I really need to…” Dacre started walking to us, but I used this distraction to twist the man’s arm behind his back and shove him into a nearby cobblestone wall. “Do not,” I hissed, “try that again. I’ll do much worse than this next time.” I released him and he scurried away. Looking at Dacre with a quirked eyebrow, he stared back with a bewildered stare. Shaking his head slowly, he said, “Follow me, you may be useful after all.”
Smirking, I followed him into an alley as we hurried through the back streets of this foreign town. Basil jogged beside us loyally, and I couldn’t help but feel proud of the canine. “Why are we going the back way?” I asked, not caring that I had no clue as to where we were. This was the most fun I’d had in years.
“Well,” Dacre said wryly, “If you weren’t wearing such dismally different clothes from the rest of London, I wouldn’t have to hide you. Do not fear: I’m certain that Azalea owns a few dresses to spare.”
“Who in the world is Azalea?” I asked as we sneaked into the back door of an old house and climbed the stairs to the attic. After glancing at the living room, I asked, “No T.V.? What, are you guys Amish?”
“If you are referring to the witch-craft box that projects images, I would prefer it if you wouldn’t speak of that here. This is a Christian household,” Dacre huffed before climbing the stairs. I followed him as he went to the end of the upstairs hallway and pushed open the door leading to the attic. We climbed up the entrance into the musky room.
“Dacre, I see you’ve brought a—Holy Lord that woman is wearing trousers!” a muscular, pale young man around my age exclaimed. His hair was a sleek black and his green eyes were open wide in shock. A female version of the man across the room from me retorted, “I don’t think that’s a lady at all, but instead a feminine man.”
“Nice to meet you, too,” I said wryly. Dacre rolled his eyes and announced, “This is Miss Smith—,”
“Payton,” I corrected.
“—as I was saying, Miss Smith is now a member of this plan. I tested the time machine out, and it led me to a horrid place called ‘San Diego’ in America, where the youths wear tight-fitting clothes and the women wear trousers and live by themselves. It was quite unorthodox.”
“Quite, quite,” the siblings nodded in a sympathetic agreement. Dacre nodded once, acknowledging their sympathetic glances before he continued, “Miss Smith is quite the excellent fighter. Not to mention, I owe her money that I cannot repay her right now. Azalea, please lend her a few dresses so that she can prop—,”
“What?!” I hissed. “What do you mean, ‘owe her money that I can repay her right now’.” Basil whined from the corner, and Dacre announced loudly, “All in good time, Miss Smith! After this plan, we will all be billionaires. Just you wait and see.”
I eyed him warily and crossed my arms. “What exactly is this magnificent ‘plan’?”
“That’s easy,” The girl—Azalea, I’d heard Dacre call her—chimed, “We’re going to kidnap the Duke and hold him hostage. And you're going to help us.”