Challenging Abigail

By Allison Winton

Peter Marquart, former assassin for the crown, is tired of watching his back, bad food, and sandy deserts. He just wants the world to leave him alone while he spends his days raising horses.

Until he meets Abigail.

Thirty four year old geeks have no business starting over in the nineteenth century. That's what Abigail was explaining to fate when a blue eyed stranger interrupts her tirade and mistakes her for another man's mistress. Intrigued by the idea, she embarks on a journey to find out what it's all about.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Allison Winton
• Release date: Apr 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301583768

Allison Winton

I can’t remember a time when I wanted to be a writer. I wanted to be Wonder Woman, or a veterinarian. What happened? Well, strapless bra’s in sixth grade put to rest that first dream, chemistry and North Carolina the second. Physical Chemistry is totally beyond the realm of normal comprehension. I got married instead and moved with my husband to North Carolina where I became a traffic manager. Freight and Logistics management. Not a person decked out in an orange day glow vest and directing cars to the nearest parking space in an amusement park. (and yes, I have to explain that a lot.) It was in this occupation that I happened to overhear the butchered expression; “...he shouldn’t oughta did that.” Once I recovered from the wince and ascertained the damage to my neck wasn’t permanent, one thing became immediately apparent: there was something wrong with me. At least that’s what my stunned coworker assumed when I directed his unblinking countenance to the words “shouldn’t, have, and done” with the dulled end of my pencil. But that’s another story for perhaps another time. Nonetheless, it was my turning point. From that point forward, I was incurably fascinated with the language I’d spoken for most of my life. Never lacking for subject matter, I restricted my writings to opinions, and anecdotes on marriage and child rearing. A simple clicking of a few buttons and these were easily shared with friends and family scattered about the globe. Rarely do I receive a greeting from any of them that doesn’t end with a request for me to share “anything good that’s happened lately”. Not so very long ago, a young couple paid a visit in my mind, and for weeks begged me to write their story. They wanted life. They craved the eternal immortality that exists only in the printed word. They wanted to simply... be. The only problem was they didn’t exist. Yet. So I sat down, put pen to paper and wrote down their story. And you know...I can’t remember ever wanting to do anything else.

Book preview

Prologue

London 1862

"Surely we don’t need to remind you of the consequence?"

Consequence? Cautiously easing into a sitting position, Abigail wiped her mouth with the corner of a leaf. Don’t take this the wrong way, please don’t, but you promised to leave me alone. It’s only been…

"Ten minutes," commingled voices chimed. You claimed to want a second chance.

I did…I do. Without hesitating she’ accepted their offer. Big mistake. Huge. Fate didn’t easily forgive ignorance. How was she supposed to know their second chance meant taking over someone else’s life?

"You are quick to reject. Need we reiterate there are others who will gladly take your place?"

Using the bush for leverage, she angled unsteadily onto her feet. Reject? When did…?

"You shunned the dinner guests."

Shunned? I was…

"You spoke to no one. The voices scolded. Need we express how disappointed this makes us?"

As she’d only known their disappointment, Abigail brushed a silent apology across the bush’s tender leaves. Death by proximity; such a sad way to go. Fate was never picky about their aim, and had a tendency to annihilate anything within a ten food radius of their intended target. You poofed me into a room full of strangers, and then I puked all over the place.

"All over? We are not impressed with drama, or exaggeration. They are not strangers? They know each other."

What kind of logic was that? Me. Though it hurt, she thumped her chest. I didn’t know any of them.

"Immaterial. Your predecessor knew them. How have you failed to process this? We were led to believe you were extremely intelligent. Perhaps we were misled."

Condescending fate was eerily unpredictable. Abigail braced for the impact.

"Additionally, you were not poofed. If you’ve changed your mind, simply say so. We are sending someone to hear your decision. You may whine to her all you want."

Whine? I’m not whining, and I most definitely was poofed… She trailed off when the disorderly illuminations merged into a narrow band of light and inched across the sky like a massive glow worm. Great. She muttered miserably. I hate worms.

"You do?" The light chirped.

Her unsettled stomach lurched. My someone, I take it?

"The one and only. Another chirp. Catch me up to speed here. I haven’t read the notes on your case yet. I say, you don’t look very well.

Spend ten minutes chucking out the contents of someone else’s stomach and I dare you to look better. What was it she ate, anyway? Abigail glanced down and frowned. Why did the shoes peeking from beneath the long skirt seem so much closer than usual?

"Laudanum, I think. I told you, I haven’t read your case yet. Ewww, disgusting. The light scolded. Can’t you do that later?"

No I can’t do this later, She yanked another handful of leaves to wipe her mouth. Is this your idea of a consequence; to make me die over and over again?

"You’re not going to..."

This can’t be good; Abigail gagged when the heavy pause dragged out.

"…at least I don’t think so. I really won’t know for certain until I’ve read your file. Our department was recently restructured. We’re extremely shorthanded at the moment."

Spectral downsizing? Seriously? For the record, she inserted testily, I do not want to know when I’m going to die.

"Good, because it would only stress you out."

I’m already stressed. She gritted. What happened to my predecessor, and don’t go all supernatural on my butt for asking.

"Supernatural? Someone’s a little testy? Your attitude could benefit with adjusting.

Yeah, and The Powers That Be could benefit from a little physics lesson too, though she didn’t see that happening anytime soon. My attitude, she explained, is a direct result of cause and effect. Maybe if you guys quit initiating the trigger happy effect, before the cause, I might not be so grumpy.

"I’m not entirely convinced. I was told you’ve been irritable since the beginning. Your predecessor is not your concern. The switch has already taken place; remember when your face landed in the soup?"

Remember? Gaining consciousness inside a bowl of bouillabaisse isn’t something I’ll forget. Besides it was only ten minutes ago.

"Twelve, to be exact. There’s fish in your hair, if you care."

A single brown eye peered upward. I don’t, particularly. There was fish on the obscenely long skirt, the weird looking shoes and in the hallway, several hallways to be exact. The place was huge and not an exit sign to be found. What’s with the bizarre museum costume party anyway? Is it some sort of charity event?

"Museum? I’m not sure I understand."

What kind of guardian angel are you? I thought you guys knew everything.

"Oh, I’m not a Guardian. I’m a transition counselor. Guardian angels are for special people. By the way, expect your foot to hurt tomorrow when the laudanum wears off. It might be broken, I’m not sure yet."

Special people. Yeah, this day just kept getting better.

"Also take care not to grind your teeth." The light cautioned when the woman’s jaw clamped shut. "Medical science isn’t quite the standard to which you were accustomed. Dentistry, for example, is almost… barbaric.

Abigail went very still, very still; the clothes, the weird museum, laudanum, barbaric, hold on there, this isn’t Chicago is it?

"Have you any idea the red tape required to poof, your word, someone to the twenty first century? Why, just breaking into the social security database requires an act of God, and He doesn’t like it when we involve Him in our cases. Forget all about Chicago."

I don’t want to forget about Chicago. Abigail pressed tightly.

"Well," Flickering with scattered impatience, the narrow beam illuminated the tightly clenched jaw then turned off. Obviously, since you’re not interested in taking my advice, there’s no reason to stick around.

Nothing Abigail said brought it back, and she said a lot.

Chapter One

His sheets were wet again.

Nanny said he was old enough to use the chamber pot. Nanny also claimed there was no such thing as wardrobe monsters. But he knew better. There were monsters in his wardrobe, scary monsters that jumped out at him whenever he tried to leave his bed.

Sitting up, he rubbed his left ear. It still hurt from when Nanny dragged him downstairs and made him stand still while the earl scowled down his pointy nose and told him to stop being a baby. Then the earl scrunched his eyebrows together until they reassembled the two woolly caterpillars that crawled across his windowsill the other day, and ordered Nanny to remove the lamp from his bedroom. He could have told the earl the monsters weren’t picky about lamps, except the earl scared him more than the monsters, so he didn’t

Careful not to disturb the monsters, he lowered one foot to the floor, then the other. The giant woman who used to live under his bed believed him about the monsters. She didn’t think he was a baby. Technically, she explained, the noises he heard weren’t monsters in his wardrobe, but rather a drunken bacchanalia. He didn’t know about technically, or blackened aliens, but he did wonder why the monster who popped out of his closet one night just staggered around instead of making growly monster noises.

Growly monster noises or not, a monster was a monster, and it was in there right now stomping around. Sometimes it stopped. Like it was taking a nap, or getting ready to gobble up a small child. Certain he wouldn’t like being gobbled up, he tugged the sheets off and quickly shoved them under his bed. Later, when nanny took a nap, he’d wash them.

He was good at fixing his own breakfast and hid really good when scary Lord Davenport came looking for him. Maybe he was good at washing too.

Today, he refused to sit on Lord Davenport’s lap and made the man angry. He always made the earl angry. He probably made the old lady who took him from the orphanage angry. He didn’t know what he did, but she locked him in the cellar for it anyway. The giant woman liked him then she went away. Maybe he made her angry.

He wished he knew what he did to make her leave, because he really, really didn’t like being alone with the monsters.

Wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his nightgown he quietly climbed back to the bed and begged dawn to hurry. Dawn didn’t have monsters. In the dawn there was only the earl, and Davenport and nanny, when she was awake, and Raymond, who worked for the earl.

Earlier, while nanny slept, he heard the earl tell Raymond, It was time to fetch the other boys. They both, the earl continued in his frightening tone, can’t be, sickly frightened little shits like the one Davenport foisted on me.

He didn’t know foist, though he did know sickly frightened little shit. The earl said it often enough, usually with the back of his hand. He touched his cheek. All he’d wanted was a lock on the closet to keep the monsters out.

A noise came from the window. Window monsters! And they were coming in.

Wedging himself into the corner he… let out a shocked gasp. In all his five and a half years of extensive monster research, he’d never, ever heard a monster use those kinds of words.

Evidently, window monsters knew a lot of those words.

Those aren’t very nice. He admonished when the monster paused to finger the back of his head. Are you a monster?

There were a hundred ways to answer, none good. Straddling the windowsill the man put more truth into his reply than he intended. Sometimes.

Just so you know, the boy whispered fearfully. I don’t like monsters.

Who did? Tell me, are you Gavin?

The little boy hesitated. Not if you’re a monster. I don’t…

A long drawn out breath interrupted the denunciation. …like monsters. Yes, we covered that already. What if I’m not a monster? Plausible, because today, inside a loosened floorboard of his rented cottage, he found a contract sealing this child’s fate and meant to change that.

What is the earl to you?

For twelve years, he wasted neither time, nor breath on a response. Now, he had an answer. Brownshire? He’s a piece of shit whose values test even my wobbly principles.

A shock of white blonde hair dipped below a pair of eyes the color of trapped moonlight. The boy pushed it away and responded hesitantly, then… I might be Gavin.

Well then Gavin, I’m Peter.

Lady Summers paused just outside the door to take a slow deep breath. Brownshire wasn’t supposed to be home until tomorrow, and he was a man who did not accept presumption into his personal life. Masking her fear, she pushed open the secret door of the hidden stairway and entered his study. Raymond, I presume? She asked, focusing on the yellow coat draped across a pair of well-formed thighs rather than the man’s face. Less than ten minutes ago she threw that very coat out window along with the rest of the man’s clothes. Childish perhaps, but satisfying nonetheless.

Raymond, the earl’s pet goon, must have gathered them from the lawn.

Leave off the innocent act, will you? I for one know you lost that claim years ago.

Rude was Brownshire’s norm. Lately he’d surpassed that, becoming downright offensive. Belinda gave him a dirty look that only made him smile. Of course he knew. He was the one who took it from her the day she turned fifteen.

Where is the owner of this atrocity? He held up the coat.

The attic. You might consider oiling some of the equipment up there. They have turned quite rusty since you stopped having those, um.

Call them what they were, Belinda.

She cocked her head. I thought orgy a bit extreme.

Why exactly, he asked, noting the tightened skin around her lips.

No idea, come to think of it. She took the seat next to him, and fussed with her shirtfront. Damn fool drooled all over me. As though his muttering wasn’t bad enough? Are you aware some men have a special name for their penis?

The masculine chuckle evoked the delicious year she’d spent under the earls’ tutelage. The pulleys and lifts in the upstairs playroom were a testimony to his creative immorality. So, why the rust? Perhaps at fifty and two Brownshire was slowing down. He called it Garguantu-man. I am accustomed, she grumbled at the earl’s interest, to a certain level of fulfillment and this, thumb and forefinger made a small spread between them, isn’t it.

You won’t be frustrated long. Raymond is waiting.

Though supremely well endowed, Raymond was a disciple of indiscriminate bathing. He was also the earl’s idea of punishment. He doesn’t meet Summers stipulations. She volunteered hoping to dissuade the earl. Of anyone, Brownshire understood requirements. His own were ironclad; under eighteen, and untried. His reply; a single raised brow, merely irritated. If you must know, Summers demands an heir. Damn the man for changing his mind. Laugh if you must, she gritted. He is quite adamant and gave me until the end of the year.

And if you don’t? He already married you.

The money Belinda, don’t forget the money. Citing adultery, he shall leave me penniless. Penniless. Her nose wrinkled. Truly, I don’t care for that word.

You do understand what he is, don’t you? David asked.

Oh I understand. Summers bedroom peculiarity was the only reason she married him. He waited only until the ring cleared her knuckle before making his demand, and listing his requirements. But money talks and people comprehend the language of currency with much more clarity than the dialect of a penniless, former demimonde. His mistress has him convinced I won’t comply. Summers has cut back my pin money until, she patted her stomach, irrefutable proof.

"Mistress? Is that what you call him? Pray tell does he dress in your clothes. Don your shoes, perhaps?" A knock at the door sounded. They both turned when Raymond ducked his head inside.

The man is stirring. What shall I do with him?

Who is he?

Belinda shrugged. Black hair, six feet tall and blue eyes and exactly what Summers wanted, though not precisely the man Summers wanted. She knew that now. No idea. He won’t recognize me if that has you worried. I wore a mask the whole time."

Tugging off his cravat, David tossed it atop the yellow and blue eyesore. "I don’t care if he takes an ad in the Times and describes your ass to the entire country. This is my home. For a full moment the two regarded each other. Belinda was the first to look away. Make it look like an accident. He ordered with a dismissive wave. And Raymond, those deep set eyes flicked with interest when David called him back. Please bathe before you return. Belinda has a gift for you."

"Does he meet any of Summer’s requirements" David asked with a chuckle. Raymond was a rather enthusiastic sort. Belinda would be busy the next couple of days.

One. Belinda replied without protest. David was letting her off easy. He could be quite unconscionable at times. She’d survive Raymond. She had before.

Summers wants a stupid child?

He’s tall. She muttered. Summers just might get a stupid child after all. Raymond’s seed was rather potent and took root easily. She’d rid herself of his fruit on more than one occasion. Summers requires the baby’s sire to have black hair, blue eyes and stand no less than six feet tall. Thank you very much for feeding him that idea. I’ll never understand how you managed to convince seven women to let you impregnate them. I suppose I ought to thank Summers for marrying me first.

How the hell do you know this? Only one other knew. The two of them scoured the local orphanages for weeks searching for the right women.

Penjy, Belinda confirmed with a succinct nod, talks in his sleep. All those poor orphan girls forced to sleep with the big bad earl. I hope they enjoyed themselves.

I know I did. David chuckled. So very easy to manipulate they were, believing in the prize of his ring upon a successful birth, and the pampered life he provided during their gestational months were the best of each young woman’s hastily abbreviated life. Does Summers know Penjy only stands about this high? David leveled his hand to eye level. Gray hair, grey eyes? When Belinda refused to reply, he asked, what else did you learn from Penjy’s somnolent dialogue?

For one, he knows about your son. Brownshire’s unmasked surprise almost made up for Raymond. Almost.

Tiresome brat. His fate was sealed the moment Davenport found him. I don’t have a son." Not yet. If either of the two boys met his own requirements, then and only then would he claim an heir.

Belinda laced her hands together and described the man she’d seen through the peephole in the hidden stairway. The man Summers intended for her to seduce. Black hair, blue eyes, over six feet tall. No wonder Summers was so adamant. Brownshire would spit nails. Ringing any bells?"

David’s blood went cold. Alive? Impossible. Raymond took care of the bastard years ago. If the little shit survived, he’d have shown his face long before now.

Nevertheless, Penjy believes you have a son? Sometimes, I think you do too. Remember last winter when you saw Simon? He was such fun, and so eager to please. It was too bad you, ow you’re hurting.

Hell yes he remembered. Mistaking Simon for the damn gypsy by-blow he’d, well it was no use rehashing. Dead mistakes didn’t talk. I can do much worse, David warned resolutely. "I remember Simon, you don’t. So, where has this hypothetical son of mine been all this time?"

I don’t have all the details. I only know he’s been off continent. Now he’s back. Penjy sent a missive to him weeks ago.

He released her hair. To where did Penjy send this missive?

He’s renting the Danby cottage, has twenty four of the most beautiful Arabs. Payment, rumor has it, for saving the life of a sultan’s son. I’m surprised you didn’t know. A quick glance about the sparse furnishings established Brownshire did not have the financial position he led others to believe. Another painting was missing, and all but two bedrooms upstairs lacked furnishings.

Danby cottage? David was beginning to get a sick feeling. Clovis is living there.

She shook her head. The Constable arrested him weeks ago. He’s set to hang in the morning. Don’t look so pained, you can’t know everything. By the way, he goes by the name of Marquart.

Marquart? Bloody hell. Marquart was the man who bought Compton. If he’d handled the transaction himself he’d know this, and now there were only two days left before he was to evacuate.

None of the men you sent after the buyer returned. Did they? Brazenly, Belinda read his thoughts. She and Penjy shared a hearty laugh over Brownshire’s failures. How many so far, four? Perhaps if you offered more for his head. Oh, did I forget to mention, he has your son.

Chapter Two

You might reconsider taking that direction.

Though softly spoken, the words shot through his skull with the force of a lightning bolt. Hugging a nearby tree for balance Charles, Lord Bailey, asked breathlessly, Why, pray tell?

It’s straight uphill, you can hardly walk, and you don’t have any clothes on.

He was rather unsteady on his feet and what the hell happened to his clothes? Is that all? Slowly, he lowered to the ground.

No. There’s a demented woman up there wearing only a shift and yelling at the sky.

A woman? He repeated woodenly?

Up there. A lone digit escaped the shadows directing his attention up very steep hill. Wearing a shift and shouting at the sky.

Shouting? Either his brain was damaged, or this was a very stupid conversation. Carefully, he pressed his throbbing head against his upraised knees and took a slow calming breath. He simply didn’t have time to be addlepated.

I’d be surprised if you weren’t. Christ, he hit you hard enough to fell a horse. How’s your jaw by the way?

Uneasy, he fingered the swelling on his jaw. Was the man a mind reader?

Not a mind reader. Back to the woman, apparently she hates her name and thinks it’s cruel to be saddled with it a second time. I think that’s what she was going on about. Credit me for being a little distracted. Saving both your lives didn’t allow much time for questions.

Lives? He glanced up. Ahhh, Damn. His head protested the sudden movement. But yes, he remembered the woman. A tiny thing, pale skin, light brown hair so long it feathered the back of her hips. In the moonlight the strands shimmered like trapped fairies, and when a gust of wind compressed her gown flush against those pale unfettered breasts, the goon who’d tied him up practically drooled all over himself. You yelled at her.

For running around in her unmentionables, someone needed to.

Who is she? Tomorrow was time enough to learn her name and what she’d seen. In the moonlight he saw the other man’s shoulders lift.

"Smythe’s mistress perhaps. We are on his property. It would explain the underwear. A gasp of feminine offence traveled uneasily between the pair. Christ, is she entirely stupid?" Leaving Charles to nurse his throbbing head, the man chased after her.

If she is indeed Smythe’s mistress, Charles began when the man returned, you can expect to pay dearly for the insult you just shouted at her.

Smythe can shove his bloody insult up his ass for all I care. The man said sitting. She’s alive, isn’t she?

A sound argument. Charles demurred, adding a visit to Lord Smythe into his already overloaded schedule. Slowly, he checked his surroundings. Um, what happened to Raymond?

Something bad happened to his face.

The indifferent retort made Charles head pulse with heightened dissention. Shit, more paperwork. He scanned the motionless body a few feet away. "What exactly?"

It broke when the tree trunk hit it. Here, put these one.

A bundle landed at Charles feet. They were his clothes. The ones he was wearing when he allowed Lady Summers to lure him to Compton which fortuitously, was his original destination. Had she known? She seemed remarkably unconcerned with anything outside a sexual nature, and what a sexual nature, he thought donning his pants. He barely made it out of there.

Where’s my coat? He looked around finding it on the ground covering a bundle of some sort.

You can’t have it right now. The man said, and when he pushed the hair from his face, Charles suddenly knew his rescuer’s name. Oh bloody hell. He cursed. Peter Marquart. I should have known.

The stark moonlight exposed a profile of blunt determination. How should you have known?

Reputations do have some center of truth, Charles picked up one of his boots, as evidenced by the trail of bodies strewn about. Removing the heel, he upended the contents onto the ground. I found two. Raymond makes three. How many total?

Five. I’m beginning to get the impression Brownshire wants Compton back.

Charles got the same impression eight days ago when he learned of the sale, and found the first body twelve hours after the transaction was confirmed. How much is he offering?

Two hundred

Two hundred pounds for a man of Marquart’s talents was a veritable insult.

My thoughts exactly. Marquart swept his hair from his eyes and regarded the shocked countenance of his companion. Still not a mind reader. You’re muttering.

Charles glanced away, passing over the twisted corpse to dig though the items on the ground. Some things, he’d recently begun to appreciate, were best omitted from his daily report. Here, take this.

Suspiciously, Peter eyed the item dangling from thumb and forefinger. Why do you have string?

You never know when it might come in handy. He eyed Marquart’s unruly hair. Don’t you carry things on your person others might find peculiar?

Only if you consider a knife peculiar. Tying his hair, he subjected the lime green atrocity to a thorough scrutiny. I give up. Where do you hide your weapons? Those pants are so tight I can count the number of kids you’re going to sire.

And everyone thinks you don’t have a sense of humor. Charles made a clicking sound with his tongue. My seed is mine to count I’ll thank you to remember, and all progeny shall be determined at a later date. With a serious apology to his manhood, he managed to dodge Lady Summer’s inability to process this fact. Besides, who needs pockets?" He asked, returning the heel to his boot.

I don’t have a sense of humor. The dark brows scowled. Did someone say I did?

Relax. Charles chuckled, and then grabbed his head because laughing hurt like a son of a bitch. I assure you no one is under the impression you do. Now may I have my coat?

Marquart walked over and lifted it off the ground. The bundle beneath rolled over and instantly rumor, gossip and naked eavesdropping from inside a hidden stairwell collided with remarkable speed. Shrewdly, Charles examined the sleeping blonde head. Bloody hell, he growled. She would have him in the dungeon inventorying the royal cockroaches over this.

Where did he come from?

Chapter Three

Abigail dear, I realize it’s only been a few weeks since your guardian, my brother passed, and you came to live with Martin and me, still you must know the rules of London are considerably different than in Upper Biddle County. You cannot go running around outside in your unmentionables. Simply, you cannot go running around outside at all.

No, she did not know any of this. The dark haired man said much the same thing. He said a lot of other things too, none of which she appreciated. No time Prudence, she called out and raced up the stairs. Her new guardian wouldn’t appreciate the mental breakdown she was about to have. For this, she needed the anonymity of a private room and a locked door.

Two and a half weeks she’d worn the other Abigail’s clothes, lived with the other Abigail’s family, or whatever they were, and all she knew so far; her predecessor arrived one morning and Abigail the second threw up all over everyone that same night.

Nice.

She raved, she ranted, she even begged. Not one single thing brought the glowworm back. Hey you, guide person, she called out throwing the bolt to her bedroom door. Get your but down here. We need to have a nice little chat. She had questions, it was about time someone answered them.

"Show some respect. Or I will turn you into a worm."

I spent two days puking up my guts over a stubbed toe. I’m a hundred plus years in the past and living with two people I don’t know, who by the way the other Abigail didn’t know either. I just saw someone get thrown into a tree, and I wore underwear outside. A worm would be a promotion. Did you see what almost happened out there?

"Yes, very romantic."

Romantic? You have got to be kidding. Did see any of it?

"Not exactly."

What part, didn’t you see, exactly? Abigail pressed tersely.

"There was a sale at Bloomingdales and..."

She so didn’t need to hear this. He pulled the thug off me and tossed him head first into a tree, then he …

"He saved your life. That part was romantic."

Abigail caught the reflection of her unmentionables in the mirror, and grimaced. Splattered blood isn’t romantic.

"You know this, how? You’ve never been on a date."

I’ve been on a … how is that relevant to very nearly being raped?

"To clarify, you’ve been on one date. You spent the entire time searching the web on your cell phone."

I thought you hadn’t read my file. She accused pulling something from the closet and holding it up. Dress? Or unmentionable? Was there an easy way to tell?

"I took a few minutes yesterday. It wasn’t very long, or very interesting. Although there is something you should know. Do you recall the question Terry in sales asked you?"

Terry? She stopped struggling with the outfit. "Brown hair, lots of teeth? The Terry who sold my decoding program to the government? The program that was about to make me a very wealthy woman, which by the way, I would love to go back and experience. That Terry?"

"You’re not going back. Stop asking." The beam snapped. The question: how many engineers does it take to change a light bulb? Remember that? It was a joke.

How is that a joke? People need to be more conscious of alternate power sources and…

"Sit." A chair slid across the floor, stopping at the back of her knees.

Dutifully, Abigail sat. It seemed the only way to stop the chair from following her.

"The source is implied. The humor is in the engineer’s inability to grasp…"

Humor? I don’t get it. What’s funny about a dark light bulb?

"Seriously? Are any of the synapses in that super brain of yours connected? Don’t tell me you’ve never heard light bulb joke?"

You tell me. Abigail grumbled, drumming her fingers on the chair’s arm. "You’re the one who read my, not very interesting, life in only a few minutes.

"There’s a light bulb joke for just about every profession. The punch line signifies the negative stereotype."

The drumming stopped. Engineers have negative stereotypes?

"Pocket protectors. Anal-retentive qualities. The inability to hand your boss his green cup."

It was a glass.

"No need to get defensive. When he asked, there was only one cylindrical green object in front of you. It was seven inches tall, and full of ice water. That you failed to process and give it to him is telling."

I process just fine. He’s the one with the communication problem. He specifically asked for a green cup. There was no cup. There was, however, a glass.

"Semantics is not your strong suit, is it? Now, if you don’t need me anymore, I have to get back"

Yes. Abigail answered, with an airy wave. Bloomingdales. Don’t let me keep you.

"Precisely. It’s so nice to have a kindred spirit in one of my charges. All my others have been rather intolerant about my passions."

I’m beginning to appreciate their attitude. How many of them were almost raped?

"I wish you’d move on. You could have fought him."

With what, words? Abigail gripped the chairs’ wooden arms. If you haven’t already, read the notes on my physical characteristics. I was over six feet tall in the twenty first century. What am I now, five feet?

"Four feet