The Ainsworth Chronicles, Book Two, the Mystery of Ms. Teak

By Frank Talaber

The Ainsworth Chronicles, Book Two: The Mystery of Ms. Teak

Detective Carol Ainsworth really has her work cut out this time! Agnes at her craziest best.
She discovers a secret that she can't reveal to anyone, including herself, and how does one psychic stop another from hunting her down?
Meanwhile, Carol has her hands full with pissed-off Russians, the reborn builder of much of Victorian Victoria (yes, the Sir Francis Rattenbury), a young girl claiming to be our aforementioned psychic and there's something very wrong with Nathan, Carol's nephew that they saved from death. To top it all, why is Agnes' behaviour so weird? Even for Agnes!
But in traditional English fashion High Tea is, of course, still being served.

Reviews

Do not read this book! Seriously, do not read this book - unless you are prepared to deal with a rift on your personal timeline. You will find that this book causes you to postpone activities that you would otherwise be doing.
You will be transported into a world of history and mystery, crime and grime, Spirits and other worldly time travel, with the delectable Detective Carol Ainsworth.
An amazing tale, which I thoroughly enjoyed.
Paddy Kopieczek

Fasten your seatbelt as Frank Talaber takes you on a multi-dimensional trek through time where history comes alive to reveal buried secrets and tortured souls. From the stately tea salons of old Victoria to the haunting desolation of British Columbia's rugged West coast waters, The Mystery of Ms. Teak will both entertain and invite you to confront the demons that live within us all.
Michael deJong

I want the author to take me to their world. I love the adrenaline rush I get from reading a book that scares the crap out of me. You know, the ones that have you screaming to the characters in your head or out loud. It tells me that the author did his or her job by getting me emotionally involved. I give up on books if I don't feel something. This book isn't one of those.
April Wolfgong

As a weaver of books you're beyond compare.
Greta Olsson

Frank's Writing Style? Write like your soul is on fire and the pencil is your voice screaming.
Literature written beyond the realms of genre he is known to grab readers; kicking, screaming, laughing or crying and drag them into his novels.
A natural storyteller, whose compelling thoughts are freed from the depths of the heart and the subconscious before being poured onto the page.
Or as is often said: You don’t have to be mad to be a writer, but it sure helps.
Enter the literary worlds of Canada's Foremost Off-Beat Author, Frank Talaber

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frank Talaber
• Release date: Dec 31, 2021
• ISBN: 9781777526962

Frank Talaber

Author Biography –A natural storyteller, whose compelling thoughts are freed from the depths of the heart and the subconscious before being poured onto the page.Literature written beyond the realms of genre he is known to grab readers; kicking, screaming, laughing or crying and drag them into his novels.Or as he has often said: Write like your soul is on fire and the pencil is your voice screaming.You don’t have to be mad to be a writer, but it sure helps.Writer by Soul.Canada's Foremost Offbeat AuthorEnter the literary worlds of Frank Talaber.My newest Author interview: https://youtu.be/OM3yVBThhYoMy Newest Reviews:Ainsworth Chronicles, Book Two: The Mystery Of Ms. TeakI hate you, I can't put this book down. Every page gets more interesting, suspicious, wondering what is going to happen next. I sit down to only read one more chapter but end up having to read two more, because I need to know what happened in the past. Each chapter keeps you wanting more and now I hate it even more since I can’t get to it before Long weekend coming up. I just read the last six chapters, clinging to every word, every sentence thinking I know what is going to happen next. Oh no, you take me in a completely different direction. Great book.Sandy StrebeStillwaters Runs Deep, Book Two: The LureA spooky beginning drew me in, making me feel part of a scary, 3:00 am crime scene. It turns even more surreal when Charlie, an Indian shaman, appears out of the fog like a bad hallucination. I am of the Seneca-Cayuga and Cherokee tribes, and I'm intrigued by the use of the beliefs and legends of the Canadian tribes to carry forward the characters' actions. The plot has many timelines: Carol, the head detective, has to solve several murder cases: with many twists and turns. There's Shamans, Animal Spirits, and "The Lure" thrown in for good measure. No wonder, Carol wanted to resign! I laughed out loud when Charlie admonished his fellow shamans with a knock-knock joke since it was so unexpected. Yes, this novel is a roller-coaster ride, with the Author cleverly hinting along the way, ending with a roller coaster ride! Read this book. It is different. It's as if Elmore Leonard has risen as a shaman, to guide others to write about Indian lore. This one's a keeper.Nancy BridgemanThe Joining, by Frank Talaber, is a captivating read, set in surroundings that all who have visited Victoria, B.C. Canada can identify with. My visits there will never be the same as my imagination revisits the colorful characters and settings/places portrayed so vividly within this book. A great read!GailStrong of fibre with an elegantly polished finish. Introducing Ms. Teak, the mysterious octogenarian with the double entendre stage name. Discover her hidden past and her penchant for present day danger in this latest chapter chronicling the adventures of Detective Carol Ainsworth. Together they confront Lekwungen, Woden and the Russian Mafia with a little help from a winged protector who "Flies with Butterflies".Fasten your seatbelt as Frank Talaber takes you on a multi-dimensional trek through time where history comes alive to reveal buried secrets and tortured souls. From the stately tea salons of old Victoria to the haunting desolation of British Columbia's rugged West coast waters, The Mystery of Ms. Teak will both entertain and invite you to confront the demons that live within us all.Michael deJongDo not read this book! Seriously, do not read this book - unless you are prepared to deal with a rift on your personal timeline. You will find that this book causes you to postpone activities that you would otherwise be doing.You will be transported into a world of history and mystery, crime and grime, Spirits and other worldly time travel, with the delectable Detective Carol Ainsworth.An amazing tale, which I thoroughly enjoyed.Paddy KopieczekI hate You! My wife who is off on medical leave, won't get out of the bathroom. Can't put your book down. LOL. Bruce W.Just when I was beginning to wonder where the next great Canadian story teller would emerge from, Frank Talaber has written a modern crime mystery with a twist. In “Thunderbird’s Wake” Talaber weaves the richness of Canada’s west coast aboriginal spirituality into the science of modern forensics. CSI comes to Haida Gwaii as the shaman and the detective conduct an investigation that will take them and the reader on a journey to a place where murder, redemption and ancient mysticism intersect.Michael G de Jong, QCMinister of Finance, Government House Leader,Province of British Columbia

Book preview

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The Mystery of Ms. Teak: The Ainsworth Chronicles: Book Two

Copyright @ 2021 by Frank Talaber. All rights reserved.

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

ISBN: 978-1-777526-97-9 (Print version)

ISBN: 978-1-777526-96-2 (ePub version)

Cover art and interior layout by Miblart

Content Warning: This novel is intended for adult readers and contains scenes of a sexual nature and depicts violence towards minors along with portrayals of drug abuse. This author in no way, shape or form, endorses such behavior, yet due to the nature of this novel, this material had to be included. My heart goes out to those who have had to live through such horrors and I have tried to be as empathetic as I could to those who have suffered through such abuse.

Dedication

I’ve met a couple of friends in my life that have gone through the worst kind of hell in their upbringing yet have managed to come out with a constant smile, sense of humor, and positive energy.

Jean L. is one.

To my wife, Jenny,

who was brave enough to stand up for herself

and not go through the hell others did.

In Memoria

Another is Bruce W.

Maybe it was those early trials and tribulations

that brought out the goodness in his soul.

May your heart and soul now rest in peace, Bruce.

To those that didn’t know him, read the review he left me below, and maybe you’ll understand a little of him

and some of what I saw in this person.

"I Hate You!

My wife, who is off on medical leave,

won’t get out of the bathroom.

Can’t put your book down. LOL."

Bruce W.

Frank Talaber, Writer by Soul.

A natural storyteller, whose compelling thoughts are freed from the depths of the heart and the subconscious before being poured onto the page.

Literature written beyond the realms of genre he is known to grab readers; kicking, screaming, laughing or crying and drag them into his novels. 

Or as he has often said: 

Write like your soul is on fire and

the pencil is your voice screaming.

You don’t have to be mad to be a writer,

but it sure helps.

Writer by Soul.

Canada’s Foremost Off-Beat Author

Enter the literary worlds of Frank Talaber

My heartfelt thank you

to the prereaders, artists, and editors

for taking the time out of their lives

to make this a better novel

Jenny Talaber

Paddy Kopieczek

Gerry McCadden

Greta Olsson

Sandra Dalglish/Lisa Costello

Michael de Jong

Cover Artist: Rachel Vaudry

Cover Design and interior layout: Miblart

Editor: Melanie Cossey

Polished and Precise Editing Services

https://www.polishedandpreciseeditingservices.com

Other Novels

Urban Fantasy Genre

Stillwater Runs Deep Series

Book One: Raven’s Lament

Book Two: The Lure

Book Three: The Awakening

Urban Fantasy/Crime/Mystery/Paranormal

The Ainsworth Chronicles

Book One: The Joining

Book Two: The Mystery of Ms. Teak

Short Story Anthology Series

Volume One: What I’d Say To Buddha If I Met Him In The Pub

Volume Two: What I’d Say To Einstein If I Met Him On The Dance Floor

Volume Three: What I’d Say To Agatha Christie If I Met Her In The Knitting Club

Spiritual/ Science Fiction Genre

Seeds Of Ascension

Book One: Spirits Awakening

Foreword

While this novel is a work of fiction, several existing business locations are mentioned, including the Fairmont Empress Hotel and Munro’s Books in Victoria. Two other authentic businesses dear to my heart are also mentioned that aren’t in Victoria: Younies Restaurant and Sea Wolf Adventures.

The Fairmont Empress Hotel site

(home of their world-famous High Tea)

https://www.fairmont.com/empress-victoria

Munro’s Books

(voted one of the most beautiful bookstores in the world)

https://munrobooks.com/

Younies

is actually located in downtown Chilliwack, BC, and run by a unique manager named Joel Hill.

Check it out if you’re out that way. Great food.

https://www.facebook.com/Younies-299357263456070

Sea Wolf Adventures

is owned and operated by Mike Willie in Port McNeill

on Northern Vancouver Island. If you want an amazing

experience whale and bear watching, check them out:

https://seawolfadventures.ca/

"I have sometimes wondered

if it were possible that unrecognized forces

of the past, or present,

or even the future,

work through the thoughts

and actions of living men."

December 14, 1933

Robert E. Howard

"The only thing necessary for the triumph

of evil is for good men to do nothing."

Edmund Burke

"I stand before the doorway

between all that is and all that was.

Each breath takes away from those left remaining.

Wondering where is the truth in all that

truly matters.

Or does anything ever truly matter?"

Agnes Van Lunt

Prelude

Bass drums thunder into the roiling madness

of hell torn asunder

While screams coalesce into whispers of wants.

Angels shimmy seduction on stilettos and

guitars shriek like sirens in heat,

Yet on the edge of darkness, I linger patiently.

As the devil snaps his fingers

In time to the chaotic symphony of his creation

I lurk in the shadows, along with those

unlucky enough to venture within.

Sweating, I inhale nicotine’s

deep addictive essence.

And sit,

Waiting.

Flicking discarded ashes about me

like spent lives.

Knowing my time will come again.

As the band plays on.

Chapter One

Victoria, British Columbia, 1862

Agnes I’m going to fricking kill you, Carol blurted under her breath as her high, black leather boots with lace inserts sank into the thick slop of Government Street in downtown Victoria, when I get out of this.

A chestnut-colored draft horse whinnied as it approached pulling the open carriage, the smell of manure ripe in the warm summer air. She glanced at the front page of the Victoria Colonist newspaper in a nearby stand. What? 1862? I’m supposed to be in October 1929.

As the carriage passed by, a stinking mixture of manure and mud flung up from the oversized wheels to land on the high pleated hem of the lacy ankle-length dress Carol was trying to keep clean.

Bastard! She stepped onto the wooden sidewalk and swiped at the fabric with her dainty gloves. It’s going to take hours to hand wash this.

Taking a seat on the cast iron bench next to her, she clutched her shawl around her as tears threatened.

If I ever get out of this and get back.

One Week Ago, Present Day.

There are two heat signatures in water. Dimitri glanced at the navigation screen of his darkened luxury cruiser, disguised in the black waters of Victoria’s Inner Harbour. Swing back. Eject clean-up crew. No one to be knowing what happened here tonight, da? he spat at Ivan, his second in command and the other men in the control room.

My bosses back in Moscow not going to be liking this one bit.

He reached for his wireless mic. Starboard ninety degrees. Preparing units one to five. Silent Run.

A rumble rolled through the ship as the visor door in the side of the hull raised into the night sky. From above, Dimitri eyed the five shadowy Sea-Doos, armed by men in scuba gear, as they sped towards the fire still blazing from the exploded cruise ship. Sirens screamed in the gloom. The Victoria Fire and Naval Rescue would be here in minutes.

"Blyat, Dimitri swore as several blips winked on his radar screen. What the hell is that, Ivan?"

Through his earpiece, Ivan strained to identify the sounds the boat picked up via its external mic. "Call them back, seychas."

Dimitri studied his screen. Why?

"Distant motors off the port side. Moving extremely fast. Da." He glared up at Dimitri next to him.

"Po Hooy, take them all out. There must be no witnesses." He watched the burning drug ship they had boarded and taken down only an hour before, as instructed by his Mafioso contracts. They were supposed to invade it and appropriate the vessel’s drugs, not sink the damn thing.

They came from this ship here. Ivan jabbed at the screen.

"What ship? Lisus Khristos! Where that be coming from?"

Like us, they’re using jamming equipment. I’m getting typical American signatures.

"Fucking Pindos. Okay, da. Call men back! We not tangle with American authorities in Canadian waters. Mob not paying enough."

Ivan straightened up in apparent shock. Too late. Units one and two are gone. I hear rapid gunfire. He held his hands over his ears, trying to focus on his wireless.

A substantial blub erupted from the middle harbour as the bombed ship dipped below the surface of the inky tide. Slicks of oil and flame rippled over the broiling waters as Dimitri watched from his viewing window on the command bridge.

More machine-gun fire roared into the night. I think we lost another, and Canadian signature vessels are heading our way. Pulling open a cover, Ivan flicked three switches, and three bright lights erupted in the Inner Harbour’s pitch dark waters. There wouldn’t be enough equipment or body parts remaining to identify. Dimitri’s undercover men would make sure of it.

The last two are returning. No pursuit in sight. The Yankee bastards must also not want to be found out. Ivan cursed as he caressed the unshaven stubble of his face.

Good. Back us up, and be keeping main guns and missiles trained on vessel’s signature. They approach? Engage, Dimitri ordered as he turned from the captain’s window, running his hand over grey hair, which suddenly felt greyer.

"The ship these men came from is an American ship. Only one of that size is registered in this harbour, The Sea Horsey. The structure of its jamming would indicate American, possible FBI Ops," Ivan spat out.

Damn! In briefing, they said Americans interested in Mafia being here, but said no expecting armed naval presence, especially with advanced weapons they maybe have on board, da? Dimitri thought quickly. But how they knowing about drug shipment? We release drone to follow ship.

"Would appear everyone is heading back to The Sea Horsey, including the two earlier heat sources that jumped from the boat moments before it exploded. They were picked up by the operatives that came from it." Ivan grimaced as the three comrades flicked switches, allowing the survivors on board.

"Ivan, have undercover backup units be calling all hospitals and emergency clinics, and get our men to hack into nearest hospital and access records too. If anyone be checking in within next two hours—for water inhalation or any wounds or hypothermic shock—I wanting them to be tracked down and dealt with, da?

As for us, make for the San Juan strait. Keep in Canadian waters until we be finding out what the hell going on here. No one must follow us. Be hitting Americans with full-on jamming signal. Now, Dimitri ordered and closed his eyes as, at nearly full throttle, the dimed luxury cruiser lurched for the open waters of the Salish Sea.

"Pizdets." A glimpse at their radar screen told him they weren’t being followed.

His bosses were going to be out a lot of money from the shipment going down, and he knew whose head would roll. "Blyad, why I giving up smoking before voyage? Have Victor bring another bottle vodka to my quarters."

Present Day

Hello. What can I do for you, young lady? The female constable addressed the strange-looking young girl from behind the protection of her plexiglass shield.

Agnes brought a hand up the flannel nightdress to pull at the high neck, which threatened to choke her. Clutching the counter, she blinked to bring the officer into focus. Sorry. I got the zorros and felt dizzy. I just got here, Agnes said as she shook her head.

Where did Jeanie go?

She looked around the police station and noticed there was no dial phone on the desk. She caught her reflection in the large mirror. For the first time, she was as solid as her surroundings, but Jeanie wasn’t to be seen.

This doesn’t look like 1952, so I must be in the future again. But at least I’m not in those grody sewers this time.

Her gaze flicked back to the woman behind the shield, to the cell phone in the officer’s pocket and the tiny camera on her chest, before settling on her badge. ‘Constable Travis, Victoria Police,’ it read.

So I am in the future, and there’s only one person I need to talk to. Why I know this, I have no idea, but I do. A memory from my past that I haven’t lived yet. Golly, this time-travel stuff is confusing. I’m sure my Jeanie would be giggling about these phantasmagoric contradictions.

Just got here? From where, miss?

Don’t know actually. Got yanked from where I was, she lied. This is Victoria, 2019, isn’t it? she said for effect as she stared around.

Give me a second. The female officer raised an eyebrow as she pressed a button below her counter for help. She retreated a couple of steps and spoke softly over her internal mic. Young female, bearing emo or steampunk retro clothing. Looks out of it. Ten or eleven, possibly smacked out.

She returned to the young girl before her. You are correct on both. You okay? Been taking any drugs? Mushrooms? She studied Agnes, waiting for the expected answer. I will ask again. Who are you, and have you any ID? I’ll need to contact your parents.

The dark-haired girl patted her pockets.

Parents? Don’t have any here. Long dead.

I don’t have any ID, and my parents aren’t here. Say, I’m looking for a detective named Carol Ainsworth. I need to speak to her. She held her hand to her head trying to stay conscious as a wave of nausea washed over her.

Popping up here does take its toll on one’s stamina. She patted her pockets. Oh yeah, way too young to be packing my flask of bourbon. Darn.

Sweetie, I don’t know what’s happened to you or why you’re dressed in that…Victorian garb, if you’re part of a school play or are lost, but I do know there’s no officer Ainsworth in this detachment. Now, come inside. She pressed the button to open the door to the precinct as two male officers arrived. Let us get you some water and contact your parents. I’m sure they must be worried about you.

"No. As I said, they are not here. Probably been dead for a long time. Carol isn’t an officer, she is a detective, and I need to talk to her."

Constable Travis looked more puzzled than ever as the two men escorted the girl into a holding area. I’m afraid you’re mistaken, young lady. That is quite the story. How, may I ask, did you think of this crazy story and a make-believe police officer?

The girl looked up at her, eyes blazing. Not ‘officer.’ Detective. Undercover at the Empress. She’ll want to speak to me. Tell her I’m Agnes.

Travis stared at Agnes as she sat before her in the interview room. One of the male officers looked her over and whispered back to Travis, No wonder you called. Why’s a young girl wandering the streets in only a nightdress and lace-up black leather boots? I agree, she should be drug tested, or we at least wait to see if she comes down off her high. Might be able to get some sense out of her then.

Agreed, Travis replied. Only I don’t get why she’s telling such a bizarre tale. She turned back to Agnes. Now, sweetie, who did you say you are?

I am Agnes. Agnes Van Lunt.

Chapter Two

Present Day

Something’s afoot? I’ll tell you what’s afoot. You!

Carol poked Sir Francis Rattenbury several times in the chest as they stood on the corner of Hillside and Shelbourne Streets in Victoria. What the hell are you doing here, and how?

Ms. Ainsworth, I can assure you I am quite real and solid. He smiled back at her. And, while normally I am a gentleman, prod me one more time, and I shall have to return the favor.

Sorry. I knew Agnes chatted with you and although we met in my dreams, to have an actual person from the early nineteen-hundreds standing, alive, in front of me is something else, so I’m a bit freaked. Can you explain to me how this is even remotely possible? You are supposed to have been dead for nearly a hundred years. Carol shut her eyes tight.

I’m not really bloody believing this am I? What kind of shit has she pulled off this time? I thought working with that insane shaman, Charlie, in Vancouver last year was nuts. I’ve been chased by lovesick mobsters, and an equally obsessed FBI agent. Recently, I’ve been blown off the side of a drug-laden ship and still got saltwater sloshing around in one ear. I’ve been whipped by some loonie satanic woman and…

Carol paused.

And to top it all off, I get to meet the strangest psychic stage show woman: Agnes, aka Ms. Teak. Or at least she keeps telling me I called her there. I called her like a brick upside the head.

Carol glared at Francis. And what’s worse, I haven’t got a clue how I am going to explain this to Big Dan, my boss, or if he’ll even believe me. But I know where I’m taking you: to see Our Dear Friend, Agnes.

Ah, I passed away in 1935, to be precise, and it would be a pleasure to visit with Ms. Van Lunt again, quite the character. How is she doing for someone of her years?

Carol’s eyes shot heavenward in mortification to the autumn dew hanging from the spruce trees overhead. Why am I not surprised that you know exactly who I’m talking about! Look, dead people don’t just get up and travel to the future, so don’t get too comfortable with being here. Get in my car, now! Carol shook her head as she held open the door.

Maybe I shouldn’t be so cynical. It might not be Agnes’ fault. Wait, who am I kidding?

Just then, a baby-blue vintage car with oversized rear tires came barrelling around the corner and squealed past Carol as she closed her car door. The driver punched the throttle, downshifted once, and hit it again. Headers throbbed loudly in the night as a rubbery chirp from the tires struggled to hold the vintage car on the road. She memorized the plate number as it sped by.

I’ll deal with you later, buster.

What is that?

Rap music blared from the open window. Weird. She’d expected to hear some deafening seventies or eighties rock band with guitar riffs howling into the night.

A muscle car, er, automobile. That one is fifty years old now and obviously restored with a lot of money put into it.

Which will be a shame once I fine him and impound it.

Gorgeous! I say, times have changed rather a lot since my day.

Carol climbed into her more sedate Toyota Camry hybrid and put on her seat belt as Francis gawked at the car and his surroundings. Put on your seat belt.

He looked from her to the buckle dangling beside him as the ground still shuddered from the muscle car throbbing by.

I rather enjoyed racing cars in my day. Owned a Ford Model A. Had a top speed of thirty miles per hour and a mighty forty horsepower. He clicked the belt into place and raised an eyebrow. Very confining, this is.

It’s designed to protect you in case of an accident.

Well, I’ll be. How ingenious, he said as his eyes panned up the various buildings before them.

Carol laughed. That belt is mandatory. Saves a lot of lives, and that car is also a Ford, I’m guessing a 1969 Mustang GT. My dad loved fixing old cars, and I loved helping him. He taught me a lot. Probably has three hundred horsepower or more, and that’s nothing compared to some of the new machines out there. Carol suddenly recalled those times growing up. Because Dad never had any boys, sharing his love of cars with his daughter was a chance to get closer to her.

Francis shook his head in disbelief. I think there are some aspects of this timeline I may rather like.

Like I said, let’s not get used to it, buster. I need to get you back to your era as soon as possible. We’ll find Agnes at a hotel next to the buildings that got you famous.

The parliament buildings? Oh my, I’m shocked that they are still standing. But then again, I did build them to withstand a tropical hurricane. Solid stone. Ah, yes, Agnes. Looking forward to seeing the old girl.

Yeah, so am I. I’ve a few questions to ask her. She lit up a cigarette and took a few quick puffs to clear her head.

Like how had my nearly finished undercover case, involving Mafia drug cartels, hot American agents, and Italian ones too, devolve into escorting a man, long dead, back to the hotel he built.

Agnes, that’s how.

And how did she know to show up with all this crazy shit that happened over the last couple of weeks during this investigation?

Oh yeah, what was it she said? I called her? Called her, my ass. I only want to call a shot of whiskey straight and my life back to normal chasing criminals.

1952

Tears eased their way down Margaret Van Lunt’s cheek as she closed the book she’d been reading to her daughter, Agnes. She stared at the title, A Thousand and One Arabian Nights. Embossed on the cover was an image of the magical genie’s lamp with a wisp of smoke coming out the spout. A single beam of sunlight streamed into the bedroom along the elegant red velvet curtains where the shades parted. Agnes gasped, the sound low and weak. Her cheeks glowed bright red as sweat adorned her lace pillow.

Margaret dabbed her eyes with a hanky and placed her hand over the book’s cover at the sound of her daughter’s wheeze as if Death’s evil grip was reaching for her.

Oh, Lord, if you are listening, grant me an angel or a genie to help my daughter live. Please! I shall be forever grateful and will come to church every Sunday to show my gratitude. She recited the Lord’s Prayer as she clutched the cross around her neck and reached for the blue pendant at her daughter’s throat.

A blue static charge zapped her hand as she rubbed her daughter’s pendant, thinking of God and wishing for a miracle.

Was that a sign or is it just my tears creating an illusion with the sunlight?

Oh, it is so dry in here. She pulled her hand away and put the book on the small nightstand. Leaning over, she kissed her daughter, Agnes’, forehead and again fingered the blue pendant she’d recently given to her as a gift.

While Margaret believed in God and Jesus, she also believed in mystical matters and attended many séances with her husband. She’d gone to the fair looking for something special for Agnes for her birthday and had come upon the stall of a strange mystical lady. The woman had seemed to speak some truths and swore if Agnes wore this pendant, it would protect her from evil and save her life.

Sweat caressed Margret’s lips as she touched the stone, and another blue charge of electricity surged between them. Her daughter’s hands shook and were cold to the touch. She’d lost many pounds over the days she’d been in bed with this severe flu, face hollowed, dark shadows under her eyes, and all color drained. Only gaunt pallidity remained.

Margaret had her maids change the sheets every morning and afternoon before darkness set in. Each time they were soaked in sweat.

How much longer can she last under this fever? Most children barely survived a week with the scarlet fever virus raging through them.

She rang the bell to call up the maids again. Agnes had already managed to live two days longer than most. Keep fighting, my girl. I love you. Keep fighting. I know you can beat this. I know you can. I love you.

She rose as she heard her two maids coming up the stairs and kissed Agnes on the forehead again. She drew back in shock at the blue spark erupting from her lips on Agnes’ brow, watching it intensify a moment before fading into her head.

Maybe the mystic is right. It is helping her. Please, dear God, let her live.

Victoria, British Columbia, 1862

Moisture streamed down Carol’s face as she crossed through the mud of Douglas Street, heading for the nearest cool spot to relax in before deciding what to do next.

God, I hate 1862, especially wearing these damn petticoats in the summer heat. I don’t know how women do it. Or why. In a hundred years, they’ll be strutting about in miniskirts and crop tops. To top it off, the bloody person I’m supposed to be looking for probably isn’t even born yet. Crap.

She turned at the sound of a slap, accompanied by a feminine cry of shock and distress. A man wearing a suit, tie, and black bowler hat stood over a woman in a pink dress with a crenellated hem, bulging from the petticoats under it, much like Carol’s. She was bending to pick up her dropped parasol as he berated her, her face red from the smack he’d inflicted.

Again, you do as I say, and walk behind me. I am your husband. He grabbed her arm and forced her backwards. The woman slipped on the slick surface, stumbling and falling in the street.

Carol’s eyes widened in rage. A memory flashed, like déjà vu. She’d stood there once before, watching a woman being brutalized, and had done nothing. She gritted her teeth.

Don’t interfere! Don’t do anything to affect the timeline. Be as inconspicuous as possible.

Agnes had drilled this mantra-like rule into her head before she’d sent her back in time through the vortex.

The man smacked the back of the woman’s head again. Her lacy hat fell forward, and tears lapped her cheeks as she struggled to get her feet under her. Now, get up. You are embarrassing me, and look at yourself, so filthy.

That’s it, 1862 or not, I ain’t putting up with this kind of dehumanizing bullshit, especially against a woman.

Carol stormed over and offered a hand to help the lady up.

Release my wife, woman. She belongs to me, and I am about to miss my ship. He scowled at her as a young, well-figured woman stood quietly by, luggage in hand, eyes averted. Carol supposed her to be the maid.

You son of a bitch! You have no right to abuse anyone, particularly your wife.

His eyes opened in absolute shock, as did his wife’s. Abuse? I’ll treat her how I like. How dare you talk to me in such a manner! He furrowed his thick eyebrows down at her. I will not be confronted like this, and certainly not by a lady.

Yeah, you will, only I ain’t a lady by this century’s standards, nor do I take crap like this. And neither will she.

He sneered in sheer contempt. I beg your pardon! I shall inform your husband of this mortifyingly outrageous behaviour and leave him to deal with such a brazen woman. And if you have no husband, I can only conclude that you must be a whorehouse madame. And as for my dear wife, I’ll treat her like the bitch she is. He grabbed the woman’s arm roughly, and she cried out in agony.

Okay, screw timelines. Man, I shouldn’t do this, but I can’t, in all honesty, let him do that to her and call myself a self-respecting modern woman.

Eat this, fucker. Carol threw a punch with all her anger behind it. His eyes opened in shock as she cracked him in the nose. Blood spurted and he fell backwards into the mud of Douglas Street. She grimaced as pain surged in her fist, and she tried to shake it out.

I’ll fix you, you bitch. He started to get up, blood streaming down his face, but before he could react, Carol decked him again and laid him out flat on the ground.

Then she took his wife by the hand, pulling her from her shocked state. Come with me. I need some help, and it is obvious you do too.

The woman smirked and put her hand over her mouth. You just punched my husband in the face!

He slapped yours.

But it is acceptable. So many husbands do, and more, without protestation.

Lady, hang the laws of eighteen-whatever. Where I come from, this is totally unacceptable behaviour and, in fact, against the law. Follow me. We need to talk.

Carol pulled her around the corner, and with a final glance, she saw the maid trying to stem the tide of blood running from his nose as he coughed.

Louisa Townsend, don’t you dare leave with that whore, he spat as he clutched at the maid’s sleeve, trying to pull himself up.

With a smile spread across her face and her chin high, the woman never even looked back as they