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Chapter One

Doctor Axel Rhinehart sat behind his antique wooden desk and sighed at the mess of papers in front of him. Agitation rumbled through his stomach.

By the ghost of Margaret Mead! How could he not be agitated? The Institute, his own beloved United Anthropological Institute, had dropped a can of worms into his lap. The can? Time-travel. The worms? A philosophical debate: did humans have the right to journey into the past?

With the previously impossible now possible in this year of 2020, the Institute delegated the power to play God...to him. As Director of Sociocultural Anthropology, he got to review each anthropologist's proposal, then select the person who would travel back into the bowels of time.

Did Axel have one helluva stomach-ache!

And, not only one slot had been approved to use the new Time Displacement Wave. Two more were granted. Three golden opportunities to explore the habits and cultures of man's past.

He shook his head, displacing some of his long, grey strands of hair. Were these golden opportunities or was time-travel akin to opening Pandora's box? Why was it that he was the only one uneasy with this new technology? Everyone else at the Institute seemed to think the time slots were manna from Heaven.

He, however, feared there might be hell to pay with unimagined consequences.

Sighing again, Axel thumbed through stacks of time-travel proposals. Time to get to work weeding the eligible ones from the ineligible.

* * *

Serenity Steele paced outside the battered mahogany door. Should she disturb Axel or should she wait just like everyone else? Wait until he notified the winners of the "Back to the Past" contest.

Quit joking around, Steele.

Tongue-in-cheek, she'd renamed her fellow anthropologists' quest for one of the three Time Displacement Wave slots. Only the nickname turned out to be decidedly apt. By the number of hours spent on preparing for this project, one would've thought the prize was a billion dollars.

Competition was fierce, to be sure, but surely she was in the running. After all, she had as good a chance as that silly man, Stanhope DeVries. Conceited peacock!

If only she would win.

Serenity pulled on her ear lobe. Should she interrupt Axel or not?

A clatter of heels echoed from down the long corridor. The sound decided her. If she didn't barge in on Axel, then someone else would. Someone like DeVries. She knocked on the door.

"Come in. Come on in!"

Serenity slipped into the director's office and firmly shut the door behind her. The footsteps stopped outside the room, hesitated, then continued on their way with less decisiveness in their stride.

Good. At least she wasn't the only one waiting on pins and needles.

As she surmised, Axel was buried in papers. "Hard at work, I see. Hope I'm not interrupting--much." She helped herself to a seat on his well-worn couch.

He peered at her from behind his glasses. "Nonsense, Dr. Steele. I've been going steady for two hours straight. It's about time for a break." Cracking his knuckles, he sat back in his swivel chair. It creaked, making a noise almost as loud as his knuckles.

"Formal today, aren't we, sir?"

Axel's jolly laugh shook the stacks of paper surrounding him. "Ah, Serry! I can always count on you to coax a smile out of this old geezer."

She flushed. Axel was forever paying her compliments. He could give men today a lesson or two in chivalrous behavior.

But she should get down to business. "So, how's the time-travel project going?"

"Curious, eh? Don't think I've been twiddling my thumbs here. I am whittling down these piles of paperwork." He wagged his finger at her. "Not without considerable perspiration, I'll have you know."

It was her turn to flatter. "On you, it looks good!"

"Sweet talker." With a large white handkerchief, he wiped the top of his balding head. "All these proposals are worthy, of course. But I've got to make certain the projects and time periods selected will not only reflect well on the Institute, but also bring kudos from everyone else."

"And you're just the person to pull it off." She relaxed against the back cushions. "No sweet talking this time, Axel. I wouldn't want your job."

He acknowledged her comment with a grunt. "Tall order, I agree. The idea is to show that..." Lifting his glasses, he read from yet another official paper. "...The Institute is enhancing the world's general knowledge and providing invaluable information for today's overcrowded, overstressed planet."

The sheet fluttered back to the desk. "Public relations is working overtime on this baby. And that lofty sentiment translates into the Institute's wish to get even more slots with the Time Displacement Wave."

He didn't sound pleased, and Serenity couldn't blame him. Everything was politics these days. She drummed her fingers on the arm of the couch. "Well, I can't fault the board of directors for being excited. The thought of going back to pre-colonial Africa...."

Taking a deep breath, she crossed her legs and hoped she looked...and sounded nonchalant. "Um, have you come across my proposal yet?"

In her mind, she had everything crossed: her fingers, her toes, her eyes.

Please let my project be chosen!

"Fishing for information, Serry? No, don't apologize. If it were me, I'd be doing the same thing. In fact, every anthropologist on the payroll has strolled in to see me once or twice already."

He held out his hands. "On the record, I'm still reviewing candidates."

She braced herself for what was coming next.

"Off the record," he continued, "I'm afraid your paper on the Ashanti doesn't carry enough political clout."

Serenity blew out a long, cleansing breath. Damn. Her dreams to do an in-depth ethnography just sailed smartly out Axel's virtual reality window. It was uncanny how the VR window was able to pick up a person's thoughts. Rather symbolic that she now saw a virtual reality view of the lost savannas near the Volta River on the western coast of Africa. Since war had destroyed much of its untarnished beauty ten years ago, this artificial panorama was the only way she'd ever see it.

Recover. She had to recover. "You're right, of course, sir. I'd hoped, but deep down, I knew the outcome. My proposal doesn't have the same backing as, say, Jamison's submission for Nazi Germany."

The virtual reality window behind Axel's back now shifted to a medieval bridge in Heidelberg, Germany.

He nodded. "True, but I also discarded that proposal. Nazi Germany's too volatile and too recent. Why, we have a few participants of World War II still alive, though it's the twenty-first century."

Learning of her coworker's rejection didn't ease her own disappointment one bit. Nervous energy pulsed through her veins. She walked over to Axel's weather-beaten desk and picked up his prized moon rock. Should the rock be classified under geology or lunalogy?

Get over your disappointment, Steele.

"But you know Dr. Jamison, Serry. He's determined. He submitted another proposal. This one has possibilities, though."

She raised her eyebrow, and replaced the stone. "Oh?"

"Yep, it's for visiting Peter the Great." Axel perused the fat file folder to the right of him. "This one should allow us some understanding of present Russian behavior. And Lord knows we can use the help."

Serenity had to laugh. "You really are a politician, aren't you? Think of all the brownie points the Institute will make with the Russian Secretary-General of the United Nations. I'm impressed."

Axel scribbled a few notes on the file cover. "I learned some diplomacy during my sixty-three years on planet Earth." He gave her a wink.

So Jamison's proposal would get the go-ahead. She sighed. Well, that was all right, just as long as Stanhope DeVries stayed out in the cold.

Axel pointed his old-fashioned pencil at her. "Also, you might not be aware of this, but I have to take into account the Displacement Wave's time restraints. A span of no more than six hundred years backwards is allowed. Anything out of that range is in the experimental phase--and therefore forbidden. Thank the stars for small favors."

How odd Axel sounded. What was troubling him? Serenity peered over him to look at the project's cover page. "Peter the Great's reign ended in 1725. So it's within the time frame."

Axel wiped his forehead again. "Listen, don't tell Jamison the good news. Nothing's official--yet. He's anxious enough as it is. Been by my office four times today."

Her old professor shrugged. "And why not? It is every anthropologist's wish to study a culture in its past pristine state. Who'd pass up an opportunity like this?"

Serenity frowned. "My lips are sealed. But I detect a note of cynicism, Axel. What's wrong?"

He set his glasses on the desk, then rubbed the bridge of his nose. "You know me too well, Serry. Playing God scares me. The Time Displacement Wave is new--brand new technology. I hadn't expected the federal government to respond to our petition so quickly. After all, the sheer volume of applications has to be phenomenal. I figured they'd reply months from now, or maybe years."

"But you didn't take into account the current emphasis on understanding man and man's past." She grinned. "You realize, I use the term 'man' loosely!"

He didn't respond to her levity. "Right, and that's when the moral issue of time-travel hit me. Although the government insists the past remains unchanged by the researchers from the present, how do we know if they're telling the truth? How can they be sure?"

The window now displayed a scene that had no basis in reality. The unmistakable sight of New York Harbor was without the familiar visage of the Statue of Liberty! Instead, a marble sculpture of bearded Vladimir Lenin stood in Liberty's place.

A shiver of unease zigzagged down Serenity's spine. Axel's agitation was catching.

An eyeblink later, Lenin disappeared, and Liberty ruled the harbor as she had for the last 134 years. Serenity would never get used to virtual reality's thought-sensing abilities.

She released a pent-up breath. "Ouch. I hadn't thought about changing the past."

Axel rocked back and forth, causing his swivel chair to create a cacophony of creaks. "Talk about being thrust upon the horns of a dilemma, as if I need more reasons to scratch off the hairs on my head."

This project was taking a terrible toll on him. Serenity patted his arm to reassure him. "Well, look on the bright side, Axel. Scientists haven't invented a way to travel into the future."

"Yet."

Dropping back onto the couch, she pulled on her ear lobe again. That was a frightening thought.

Axel's shoulders sagged. "I feel tired. I feel my biological age. Can't wait to drop everything into the board's lap. Then they get to play God."

For a moment, his words bounced off the office walls.

The seconds ticked by relentlessly, if digital clocks could tick. Professional curiosity then got the better of her. "Anyone else in the running?"

He must not have minded the question, for he answered immediately. "Another possibility is Dr. Velando's request to do fieldwork in Mexico, at the time of the Aztecs' first contact with Europeans. This'll please the Hispanic powers, and provide a case study on how not to alienate the inhabitants of a new land à la Spanish conqueror Hernán Cortés."

She mulled over the scenario. "Sounds good, but potentially bloody. If I remember correctly, an initially joyous reception turned ugly, and Cortés brutally slaughtered the Aztecs."

"Yep. If his project is selected, Velando will have to watch his butt, pardon my language. In fact, time-travel itself is no picnic. I've heard the actual journey's pretty strenuous." Axel paused. "Which leads me to ask just what else isn't the government mentioning?"

Serenity stood and brushed the wrinkles from her skirt. Jamison and Velando. Two reputable anthropologists. She could live with those selections.

Heading for the door, she stopped to blow Axel a kiss. "Didn't mean to take up so much of your time, sir. I have to make travel plans for my next assignment. Before I know it, two months'll fly by."

A sudden thought then struck her. "By the way, Axel, any ideas on who the third candidate will be?"

He quickly shuffled some papers. "Still working on it, Serry. Let you know. Thanks for the sympathetic ears."

"My pleasure." She sent him a friendly wave, and left him alone with his files.

* * *

After Serry Steele left, Axel gave up the pretext of work. He massaged his closed eyes, to no avail. The writings on his desk still looked like Egyptian hieroglyphs. Perhaps he should call it a day.

Loading up his briefcase, his mind was troubled. Serry, reed slim and beautiful, was one of his favorite colleagues, if not his favorite. And he'd had to lie to her.

Well, not quite a lie, but all in all, Dr. Stanhope DeVries' project, "A scientific look at the lives and customs of Regency England during the Napoleonic Wars," was a shoo-in with the board.

Axel shook his head. He didn't have the heart to mention her rival's project probably would be approved. Her deep green eyes, the color of a mature forest, would flash reproach at him. Bad blood between her and DeVries. When the news got out....

But by the ghost of Margaret Mead, even she would have to agree on the worthiness of the proposal. Who could resist the mystique of Napoleon Bonaparte, military genius? Academia still debated on why Britain's aristocratic class seemed to pay little attention to the French threat in the early years of the nineteenth century.

Of course, the pint-sized emperor finally had been vanquished, but it took the English over twenty years to put a period to that chapter of history. Not to mention the aftermath....

Ready to leave, Axel took one last glance around his office. The virtual reality window revealed his small ranch-style house as it always did. Strange how others claimed they saw fantastic landscapes within the chemically prepared, glass panes. Not him, though.

He shrugged. Perhaps he had no imagination.

The door now locked, Axel proceeded down the empty corridor. As he ambled over to the elevator, an image of the bachelor DeVries with an impossibly high, antiquated cravat rose up before his mind's eye.

Axel withheld a chuckle. Perhaps he did have an imagination. Regency England, surely that must have been a fascinating era of time! No doubt DeVries would enact the part of a "rake" for his cover during the fieldwork. Fastidious and egotistical, he'd certainly fit in among the vain dandies who fawned over the prickly Prince Regent.

In fact, most of the Institute staff complained about DeVries's condescending manner. The man wouldn't win the Mr. Congeniality award, that much was certain! Nor would he be missed once he departed for the past.

Truth be told however, DeVries was a brilliant anthropologist. Axel had no fears about sending the man back in time.

The elevator doors slid open, ending his reverie. Jamison, Velando, and DeVries--a solid trio. Axel's role in this accursed time-travel business was coming to an end.

* * *

Days later, the time-travel dilemma came back to kick Axel in the seat of his pants. Seated at his desk at the indecent hour of seven in the morning, he finally cleared off the last of the paperwork concerning the Time Displacement Wave projects; he was that eager to wash his hands of the affair. Fortunately for him, the Institute's board of directors approved all three recommended proposals, as did the federal government. Everything was now set in stone.

A sigh of satisfaction escaped his lips. Life was beginning to return to normal.

Several rattles at the door interrupted his contentment. Who wanted to see him at this time of day? Pushing his glasses back on the bridge of his nose, he called out, "Come in. Come on...in."

His eyes bulged at the sight of Stanhope DeVries hobbling into the office...on crutches.

"Rhinehart, we've got to talk." A disheveled-looking DeVries maneuvered to the couch, set his crutches against the wall, and carefully sat down. With a heavy thud, the crutches fell over.

"Damn things," he muttered.

Rarely at a loss for words, Axel's voice now took a temporary vacation. He stared at the man and the slightly bulky cast emanating down from his knee.

DeVries straightened out his leg, wincing as he completed the action. Silence stretched ominously in the office.

"I, er, I had an ac-accident." The normally precise DeVries never stuttered.

Obviously, today was a day for exceptions. Axel sank his face in his hands. This was serious. "So I see."

"Spent the whole damn night in the emergency room, waiting to be seen." DeVries fluttered his hand as if to minimize his condition. "It's just a trivial accident, really. I fell down a flight of stairs, and broke my leg. Stupid of me."

By the anxious look on the man's lean face, Axel knew there was more. A broken leg, in this day and age, was no great cause for concern. With medicine's ability to initiate rapid regrowth of bone osteocytes, a broken femur would be completely mended in twenty-four hours.

No, there was more. Axel picked up his moon rock to examine its craggy surface. "What aren't you telling me, DeVries?"

A fierce debate raged within the anthropologist. His grip alternately loosened then tightened against the padded top of the crutches. Finally, he spoke. "I also tore the anterior cruciate ligament in my knee. Surgery's scheduled for tomorrow and recovery may take up to six months." DeVries scratched at his morning stubble. "The fool orthopedist is wrong. I can manage--"

Dropping the rock, Axel felt his stomach plummet. "Let's see your medical report."

DeVries fished inside his elegantly tailored jacket and pulled out some papers. It was a shame to see the stylish suit take such abuse. He made a move to rise, but Axel forestalled him. The man probably felt clumsy enough as it was.

After getting the report, Axel scanned it. He swallowed the lump in his throat. The news was as he feared; the only treatment available for a partially torn ligament hadn't changed since the 1980s: arthroscopic surgery to staple or suture the ligament. Full recovery could even take longer than six months.

He set the papers on his desk, as far away as possible. "You realize your trip is scheduled two weeks from now. There's no way you can recuperate in time. No way at all. And we can't request a different location for someone else's fieldwork. Regency England it is. Either that or lose the time slot."

Losing the slot was unthinkable. The board would never go for that. A substitute for DeVries would have to be found. Deep in thought, Axel drummed his fingers.

DeVries' voice took on a wheedling tone. "Look, Rhinehart, by two weeks I'm sure I'll be able to walk without these damn things." He gestured to his crutches. "Maybe I'll just need a cane."

"You know the rules, DeVries. The traveler must be in excellent physical condition. No, we have to convince one of your colleagues to take your place."

But who? Who fit all the criteria?

"Damn!" DeVries yanked on his expensive tie, now hopelessly rumpled from the night's misadventures. "I can't believe my rotten luck. The chance of a lifetime, and someone gets to steal this opportunity right from under my nose. I--"

"Of course! She's the logical replacement."

"Who is? Who are you babbling about, Rhinehart?"

Axel opened his file drawer and removed the folder on Serenity Steele.

Using one crutch, DeVries raised himself up to view the file's name. "What? You're considering Steele as my replacement? Impossible. Miss Goody-Two-Shoes? I won't stand for it!"

He probably realized the humor in his remark, for he eased himself back down, then cleared his throat. "What I mean to say, Rhinehart, a man has his pride. Stanhope B. DeVries to be replaced by Steele? God, man! Anyone but her. There's got to be another anthropologist willing to do the job. Steele's specialty is primitive societies, anyway."

Rhinehart frowned. He had little sympathy for the man. After all, DeVries was responsible for Axel's current headache. And the man allowed his personal dislike of Serry to cloud his professional judgment--a cardinal sin for any anthropologist.

Besides, he recited his name as if he were descended from kings. Stanhope B. DeVries, indeed.

Axel sat back and locked his hands in back of his neck. "Actually, I consider Dr. Steele perfect for this assignment. And, as you should be aware, it's premodern societies, not primitive."

He watched DeVries's green eyes widen and his hands clench into fists. Before the man could speak--or roar--Axel continued, "Yes, she's perfect. Remember, her doctorate detailed family and kinship in one of London's suburbs. I was her professor, you know. Brilliant fieldwork. Her research is still included in college curriculum."

The tightness around his heart subsided. Serry already had experience with British customs. Barring DeVries, she'd be the best anthropologist to cover the socially complex world of Regency England. Perhaps even better than him.

"You can't be serious, Rhinehart. She'll never do it. Look, when she was in London, something happened to Steele, something made her switch her area of expertise to premodern cultures. She'll never agree to time-travel to England."

So that was why Serry abruptly changed her focus; Axel had always wondered about that. "Well, you better hope she does accept the assignment, DeVries. If the Institute loses this slot, you will be persona non grata around promotion time."

That threat shut the man's mouth. DeVries glared at him, gathered the crutches, and hopped out the door. "You'll regret this, Rhinehart."

If looks could kill!

"Good luck in surgery tomorrow, DeVries."

Axel ran his hand over his thinning hairs. By the ghost of Margaret Mead, if Serry had a grudge against England, how was he going to convince her to change her mind? And, more important, did he have the right to bulldoze her into taking the assignment?

* * *

Serenity didn't usually arrive at the Institute before nine, but this morning she entered her office at ten past eight.

"Attagirl, Steele," she complimented herself. "Start the day right. Today's going to be especially productive."

About to settle in behind her desk, she noticed the impatient red light blinking on her answering machine. She played her messages, then sat back and pulled on her ear lobe. Axel Rhinehart was the first and only recording. He also never arrived early, but here he was, asking to speak with her first thing. He'd sounded strange, too. Something unusual must be up.

Grabbing a cup of coffee, she responded to his summons and once at his office, got comfortable on the couch.

To her surprise, he sat next to her. "Serry, how would you like to take a trip?"

"But I am taking a trip soon. First to Ghana in west Africa, then a follow-up in New Guinea."

Axel sighed. It was a mournful sound. Whatever was troubling him?

"I mean a trip to the past. Back in time."

Serenity's heart stopped. "Back in time? My project was approved after all?" Hampered by the coffee mug, she tempered her excitement by curving one arm around him to give him a kiss. "Axel! This is...this is wonderful!"

About to launch into a discussion about her plans, she came to a screeching halt. Axel's normally cherub-pink face had greyed.

"Serry, the three time slots haven't changed. This trip would be back to Regency England."

"I don't understand."

He stood, then half sat against his desk. The wooden surface groaned. "Stanhope DeVries had an accident."

Axel cut short her expression of concern. "Just a broken leg plus a torn ligament. He's going to be fine except that traveling is out of the question. We need a replacement for him."

Now she understood. Axel wanted her to volunteer to go back to the land of rigid class distinction. She shuddered. No way. No bloody way.

"Sorry, Axel. I have to decline. The fieldwork doesn't interest me." She sipped on the coffee. Its minty aroma failed to soothe her.

"Serry, you've got to reconsider. Just think of the adventure. You'll be a pioneer. This is a one in a billion opportunity."

She remained silent. Billion or otherwise, she wanted no part of it.

He tried again, using a persuasive tone. "We have to thank our stars we're getting this chance. No amount of money on God's good Earth can buy a trip back in time, Serry. But you, you'll meet the giants who made history. You'll meet the British crown rulers. You'll be right there with them."

Axel wiped his sweating forehead with a yellowed handkerchief. Did he realize his hard-sell pitch sounded false?

Well, she had a ready reply. "The British crown rulers? George III went insane; George IV was a self-indulgent hedonist; William IV, a good-natured fool; and Victoria wasn't born yet. Why would I want to meet them? The project would be a waste of my time."

"Ah, there you go again, Serry, demonstrating the two nouns of your name."

"Sir?"

He grinned. "You answered me serenely but with steel in your voice."

"Now who's sweet talking?" Feeling less tense, she returned his grin. "You know, if my proposal had been approved...of course I would've been more than happy to step into the Time Displacement Wave."

She avoided looking at the virtual reality window. No telling what bizarre scene would appear before her eyes. "Why don't you ask someone else?"

His answer was quick. "Because you're perfect for the job. And excellent health is a requirement. Listen, Serry, I know you prefer working with less complex cultures. But the English upper class of the Regency era was a sub-culture in itself. The rules, fixed. The goals, simple. It'll be a glamorous vacation for you, my dear. Quite a change from your usual fieldwork."

"It'll be a year out of my life, Axel. I have no intention to change my plans to suit the Institute." She folded her arms against her chest.

Rising, he stood in front of her. "The Institute needs you, Serry. You're young, attractive, very hale and hearty, and in between assignments." He took a deep breath. "Also remember, you'd be stealing DeVries' thunder. I seem to recall you two having a few words of disagreement in the past."

"Who hasn't?" She wasn't being flip. After all, she wasn't the only one who clashed with Mr. High-and-Mighty DeVries.

"Seriously, Axel, I'm not enamored of the Regency period and--"

"I can't emphasize how important this is for all of us, Serry. We can't lose this slot."

Heaven help her, she felt herself weakening. Her old college professor rarely asked her for anything.

"Serry, I know Stanhope DeVries--"

She cocked her head in warning.

"Pardon, Stanhope B. DeVries!" Axel corrected, a smile lighting his lips. "Anyway, I know there's an undercurrent of antagonism between you both."

"That's putting it mildly."

"But actually, you and he are a lot alike."

"Axel! Bite your tongue."

He rubbed his balding head. "When I suggested you as his replacement, he was livid."

A grin, slow in coming, spread across her face. "I just bet he was. Total outrage, right? If I agree to this trip, there'd be some healthy competition, wouldn't there?" She laughed. "I'll admit to wanting to rub his aristocratic face in prehistoric dirt!"

Axel joined her in laughter but his expression was wary. Maybe that decided her. She couldn't bear for him to be so worried about losing the Displacement Wave slot.

Holding out her hand for a formal handshake, she sighed. "All right, I can see some advantages. For the record, and against my better judgment, I agree to travel back in time for the express purpose of conducting research and writing a monograph on Regency England."

He vigorously pumped her hand. "Serry, you won't regret this."

She shook her head. "You're wrong. I regret it already. If anyone else had asked me, I would have turned them down cold."

"I know, Serry. Thanks."

He leafed through some papers, then handed her a heavy package. "Here is some required reading about your trip. Also, I've scheduled you for an orientation briefing at one o'clock today."

"At one? You were that certain I'd say yes, hmmn?" Taking the package felt like receiving the death sentence. What on earth had she done? Panic spread quickly through her veins.

Although she didn't mean to, her gaze drifted to the window. What she saw further iced her soul. Instead of a scene or picture, the glass reflected back at her a vast grey nothingness. As if her future was uncertain.

Heavens! She gave Axel a quick salute to steady herself. "You do know that I'll stand out like the proverbial sore thumb there, don't you?"

"You'll do fine, my dear."

"I'm not convinced. Ah, well...." Saying a brief farewell, she closed his door to return to her own isolated office space. She needed to repent her decision in private.

* * *

When Serry left, Axel bowed his head. His heart was heavy with the knowledge that he coerced his favorite colleague. She agreed to the time-travel assignment as a personal favor to him, not for any other reason. Journeying back to the past was no insignificant, little favor. Just what had he done?

Removing his glasses, he massaged the bridge of his nose. He did the right thing, didn't he? He couldn't let the Institute down.

The sting of tears welled up within his eyes, then rolled and trickled down his cheeks. He wiped at the moisture with the cuff of his shirt. Fiddlesticks! He would miss Serry in the months ahead.

But, after all, she was coming back.

Chapter Two

"Oh, how I wish I was going with you, Serry!" bubbled Tracy Steele. "Attending grand balls. Having handsome men beg for a chance to dance with me...or maybe even duel over me."

Comfortably settled on their parents' garishly colored sofa, Serenity fondly glanced at her young sister. Tracy swooped and twirled an imaginary dance step around the living room, acting out her fantasies. Heavens, where did the girl get her energy?

"The romance! The glamour! Oh, life must've been wonderful in those days."

Enthusiasm was Tracy's middle name. Just looking at her tired Serenity out. And at age twenty-nine, she really had no excuse to plead exhaustion. Excluding the vitality level though, her sister was almost a fax copy of herself. Amazing how genetics worked. Even Tracy's eyes echoed the same green, fringed with the same dark lashes. Her face, though, was fuller, and she showed the eagerness of her sixteen years. Serenity somehow let that spark die along the way....

Throwing a damper on her sister's ebullience, Serenity replied, "Romantic? I'll have you know women led very narrow, restricted lives. Men's thoughts were of nothing more earthshaking than how to tie their cravats. And dueling? During the Regency, dueling was outlawed."

Visibly deflated, Tracy plopped down next to her. Wrinkling her small nose, she said, "The dregs! But I think you're making it sound dull on purpose just because you didn't get to go to Africa."

"Smart cookie." Serenity swatted her sister with a couch cushion, which led to a pillow fight. Naturally, her stamina gave out first. "Truce."

"I win! Now tell me more about your trip." Tracy sat in a cross-legged position on the sofa and gazed up at Serenity.

She shrugged. "There's so much to prepare, and less than two weeks to get ready. Tomorrow, I'll be wasting the entire day at 'charm' school, having costumes made, speaking the Regency lingo, learning proper behavior, et cetera, et cetera."

But why waste time wallowing in self-pity? Too much to do. She leaned over to give Tracy a kiss, then jumped up, hands on hips.

"Well, no more moaning and groaning for me, little one. Time to get busy."

Serenity glanced around the living room filled with 1970s relics. No modern amenities like virtual reality windows disturbed its "Disco" atmosphere. Spotting the strobe light lamp and velvet paintings her retro parents were so proud of, she grimaced. "Now where did Dad put that antique book I just lent him? I should take it with me. You never know, Debrett's Peerages of England might come in handy."

Tracy raced over to the newspaper rack and retrieved the thick hardback book. "What else are you taking?"

"Only forty pounds can go with me, so I've got to choose carefully. Medicines, research supplies, and the most important thing--gold bullion, to exchange for currency."

Tracy ticked off more items on her slim fingers. "You're forgetting makeup, pretzels, music--"

"I don't think so. I do have to travel light."

"You have to take music, Serry. You'll go crazy if you don't. Just sneak in your digital recorder."

Music. If she put in a new three-year fuel cell, her digital recorder would be functional for the whole time she'd be gone. And her entire music library would be available to her, something Tracy would be glad about. Tracy's world revolved around music. She was one of the few who were "blessed" with synesthesia: the blending of the senses so that sight and sound, touch and taste intertwined. The girl could listen to a melody, then pick out parts that didn't sound right by comparing the vivid shapes appearing before her mind's eye.

Strangely enough, she insisted Serenity also had the gift. But Serenity never experienced this union of sensations. Harmonious notes only appealed to her auditory senses. No colors or shapes danced before her, as they did with her sister.

Tracy wouldn't give up. "Don't get me wrong, Serry. Beethoven, Bach, and all are so...so massive, but after a year back there, you're bound to suffer from withdrawal."

Serenity slumped back onto the sofa. Crossing one jeaned leg over the other, she wiggled her bare toes. Who knew when she could dress this casual again? "You're right, Trace. But I'll just have to wait and see how much everything weighs."

Beginning to realize the enormity of this journey, Serenity sighed. Only she appreciated the difficulties that awaited her. As befitting her youth, Tracy was caught up in the excitement of the adventure.

Serenity tousled her sister's short hair. Heavens, how she'd miss the child. In the time she'd be gone, Tracy would grow from a girl to a young woman.

"Bring me back a souvenir, okay? Some doodad, like a decorative snuff box." Tracy pretended to open an imaginary snuff box, and pinched a bit of tobacco next to her nose.

"Gifts? Is that all you're interested in?"

As her answer, Tracy turned away, pouting.

"I'm just ribbing you, Sweet Pea. Or should I say, 'roasting,' to use the proper Regency term? I need to practice my Regency-ese."

Then, in an afterthought, Serenity frowned. "I'm afraid there can't be any souvenirs, Trace. No material from the past can be brought back through time. Nothing created back then can pass through the Time Displacement Wave. That's why I have to bring my own paper and pens--so my work can return with me. It's funny--stuff from the present can remain in the past, but not vice versa."

"The dregs! But what about this secret identity you told me about?" Impatiently, Tracy edged closer.

Her sister's fantastical notions were rearing up again. Before she had a chance to reply, their mother poked her head into the living room. "Time to wash up for supper, girls. While we're eating, we can all have a little chat."

Tracy opened her mouth, probably to register dissent, but their mother was too fast. With a rustle of silk from her favorite muumuu, she vanished.

Serenity stood to leave, but Tracy held onto her arm. "Do you believe Mom? Here you are, a famous person now, about to embark on a massive adventure. And what's Mom worried about? Dreggy things like clean hands and supper!" She stopped and sniffed the air. "Although something does smell yummy. Do you see soft, vanilla clouds?"

Serenity smiled at the description of angel food cake. "No, no clouds for me." Climbing the stairs to the bathroom, she said, "I'm going to miss you, kiddo."

Tracy's pixy face screwed up, as if readying for a good cry. She shadowed Serenity to the sink, keeping her green-eyed gaze on Serenity the whole time.

Serenity dried her hands and sighed. She wasn't the only one feeling sad. Her imminent departure to the past obviously bothered Tracy more than the child cared to admit.

* * *

At the table, her father passed the mashed potatoes to Serenity. "So, give us all the details. Don't leave anything out. Imagine, you could actually meet up with your great-great-great-great grandfather."

He paid little attention to the vegetarian food on his plate. Instead, he concentrated on Serenity's face, his emerald eyes widening, almost as large as an owl's.

"Too bad we never studied our genealogy so I'd know who to look up then." Serenity dropped a scoop of potatoes onto her dish, avoiding the tofu casserole. When she saw her father's lowered gaze and disappointed look, she felt guilty. He was such a little boy at times, with such excess enthusiasm.

She found herself sighing again. "You should be going in my place, Dad."

As he slowly ran his fingers over his chin, his gaze unfocused, as if contemplating her words. He lifted his glass halfway to his mouth and then held it suspended in mid-air.

Did he forget he wanted to take a drink?

"Ah, if I could only do just that," he murmured.

"Your father is quite the romantic soul, Serenity," her mother said indulgently, gently guiding her husband's glass back to the table. Makeup free and with her still-dark hair pulled into a ponytail, Mom looked much younger than her sixty years. "Tell us what you're going to be doing in Victorian England."

Tracy fidgeted in her straight-backed chair. "Regency England, Mom," she corrected.

Her mom waved her hand to indicate it was all the same to her.

Serenity bit back a smile. "From what I understand," she said slowly to attract her family's attention, "I'm to be a recent widow of a soldier killed in one of the Napoleonic battles. I'll come from some obscure little hamlet, and will stay in London to 'revive my spirits.' My first task is to attach myself to someone who knows the ropes in High Society, or the Haut Ton, as they called it. Then I can begin to assimilate."

Her family digested her words instead of the food.

"But what about the time paradox?" her father interjected significantly. "You could somehow say or do something that could change the course of history."

Tracy, gesturing agreement with her hands, almost overturned her glass of water. "That's right! You could reveal the future, or save somebody's life, or--"

Serenity stopped her sister's flow of speculations. "The way it was explained to me at the orientation briefing, time is inflexible. In other words, whatever is meant to happen, will happen. For example, if I decided to assassinate the Prince Regent--"

At her mother's gasp, Serenity smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry, Mom. I could not do it. The forces of time will not allow change. The Regent would go on with his life until he was meant to die in 1830."

Laying down her fork, Serenity no longer felt hungry. "I don't fully understand it. But it's a relief to know I won't inadvertently alter history."

"Now dear, as if you could do such a thing," her mother oozed soothingly. "Is there any way you can contact us from, ah, over there? Can you slip a note through?"

Tracy shook her head, her disgust evident. "Mom, there are no inter-time post offices."

"'Fraid not, Mom," Serenity said quickly to draw her mother's attention from Tracy's smart remark. "I'll be quite alone, quite isolated from you all. One year to the day from when I leave is the only time I can return home."

"Astounding," murmured her father.

Her mother clutched at her thin chest. "How frightening!"

Tracy kept silent, biting her lower lip. Serenity could see the buildup of tears in her sister's eyes.

How could she cheer her family? "Come now, I'm not gone yet. And it'll only be twelve months. My first trip to West Africa was nearly that long."

"But we could set up times and days to call you there," Tracy muttered under her breath.

Perhaps the only way to reassure everyone was to distract them. Serenity nodded toward the kitchen. "What's this about angel food cake for dessert? You know it's my very favorite."

Serenity's ploy sent her mother scurrying for the homemade treat. Which was just as well she did. The kitchen televiewer trilled its irritating tone.

"Must be another reporter or well-wisher," her father commented. "Since the media blitz on your selection, the viewer's been ringing nonstop."

Mom leaned into the dining room. "Serenity, normally I wouldn't bother you, but this is a long-distance call--from London. Someone named Sir Clyde said he knew you."

Clyde. The one person in all the world she did not want to talk to. How hard she had fallen for that foolish man. Besides, her post-graduate research in London seemed like eons ago. Back then she'd suffered a bitter defeat in love which was the reason she switched her field to less complex cultures.

But that was in the past.

"Is the viewer on at this end, Mom?" Standing, Serenity went into the kitchen.

"No, dear. I never like callers to see me...unprepared." Her mother touched her powderless face. "Do you want me to turn it on?"

"That's okay. I don't care for the viewer, either." Serenity glanced over her shoulder to watch her mother sit back down at the table. Now that she was alone, she pressed the connect button on the screen portion of the telephone. "This is Serenity Steele."

The image of an attractive man with a receding chin came into focus. "Serry!" Clyde's dry voice rang out. "Serry, darling, I can't see you."

"Viewer's on the blink." So what if she lied. "It's been a long time, Clyde."

He adjusted the school tie he always wore. "Yes, well, I heard your big news and wanted to wish you all the best."

She could look at him dispassionately now. Whatever had she seen in this pompous young man? "Thank you. How's your wife?"

It was an awkward question. Four years ago, Clyde hadn't mentioned that he was engaged to a "lady". Instead, he pursued and charmed Serenity. He even shared her rented apartment, or flat, as it was called.

She unconsciously rubbed her upper arm. Because of him, she had a birth control device implanted. That wasn't the only scar from their affair that she came away with.

The clearing of his throat signaled his nervousness. "Er, Lady Mae is well. She is quite delicate, you know."

Serenity smiled grimly. Clyde had married Lady Mae to further his career. And Lady Mae had him right where she wanted him: under her substantial thumb. Perhaps they both got what they deserved. Their union was a classic case of endogamy--the social rule that required a person to marry within his or her social group in order to retain status.

As Serenity's study had pointed out, pairings between men and women of unequal social standing were perceived as threats to the rigid class structure of British society. And Serenity had been a threat or a hindrance to Clyde's ambition. He belonged to the "lady" from his own world. Mae was welcome to him.

Time to end this conversation. "I have to go now, Clyde. Thanks for the call."

"But, Serry, I thought that perhaps we could--"

Whatever he had in mind was best left unsaid. "Bye." She terminated the connection.

Seeing him again wasn't as painful as she had envisioned. In fact, it wasn't painful at all. But now, here she was, preparing to reopen old wounds and return to London. Since she found class distinctions abhorrent now, how would she tolerate them in Regency England? Where birth was everything?

Hot fires had a penchant for cooling. She could handle herself well enough to socialize with arrogant society bucks. After all, she would be on a job--an observer, not a participant. She could retain her detached, professional demeanor.

"Serry! If you don't hurry up, I'm gonna eat all the angel food cake," Tracy called out.

Serenity shook away her apprehensions and returned to the dining room. The chapter of her life with Clyde was closed once and for all.

Although the "soft vanilla cloud" cake was delicious, it sat like poisoned lead in Serenity's stomach. With no reprieve in sight, she'd soon travel to the land of Clyde's ancestors, and rub shoulders with the crème de la crème of the haughty British ton. Lucky, lucky her.

* * *

Serenity glanced around the small, sterile room more suited to a prison cell than a bedroom. Cold, austere, and unfriendly. Her last night in this century, and she had to spend it in the impenetrable complex that housed the Time Displacement Wave.

She couldn't say much for the facilities. Isolated from the outside world, she didn't even have a window--virtual or otherwise--to look out at the starry sky.

Pacing didn't seem to help ease her anxieties so she lay back down on the precision-made bed. Here she was, completely alone, with only the butterflies in her stomach to keep her company.

A musical chime on the room intercom was a welcomed interruption. "Dr. Steele, Dr. Rhinehart is here to see you."

"Wonderful!" She jumped up from the bed and said through the speaker, "Please send him in."

The door clicked open and a hospital-masked Axel Rhinehart slipped inside.

"Dressed for surgery, Axel?" She couldn't resist teasing him.

Tearing off the mask, he threw it on the bed. "Fiddlesticks! You'll never know what I had to go through to see you. First, I had to strip down to my skivvies, then I got some type of antiseptic sprayed all over me, and last, these green hospital scrubs." He sniffed. "I tell you, I even smell like bleach!"

"You're an angel to brave the Germ Police." She led him to the room's only chair. "The staff is overly concerned about bacteria and microbes, but that's their job." She pulled up the sleeves on her shirt and extended her arms. "See? They've been treating me like a pincushion. Vaccinations, inoculations--I've had it with needles."

Serenity sat back down and studied her fingernails. "But really, Axel, thank you for coming."

"No need to thank me," he replied gruffly. "I brought you a bottle of your favorite wine but these party-poopers told me you're not allowed to drink."

She placed the bottle of sparkling wine on the table with her other personal possessions. "We'll break it open when I return." Somehow, she didn't feel so certain about the future.

"The Displacement Wave is safe, you know," she said to reassure herself.

"Completely safe," Axel repeated.

For a moment, she suspected his heart didn't agree with his words.

But, the Time Displacement Wave was safe. It had been tested and retested over five years. All previous time-travel trips were successful. So what if there were only nine journeys prior to hers--including Velando and Jamison's.

Both anthropologists departed for their destinations last week. And tomorrow was her turn.

She gulped down a bit of bile. What if something went wrong?

Axel must've picked up her premonition of disaster, for when she met his gaze, she felt they both shared the same fears.

"Well," he cleared his throat and said brightly, "did you hear the latest about Stanhope DeVries? Still on crutches, I'm afraid. And still saying ungentlemanly things about you, my dear."

"Some things never change."

"Yep, do you know even as of yesterday he insisted he could take the trip disguised as an aristocrat with the gout?"

The image of DeVries conducting his fieldwork on crutches tickled Serenity to her core. This was her first good laugh in two weeks. "My cover is about as far from his as it could be."

She stood, then curtseyed. "Let me introduce you to Mrs. Gerald Steele, a widow from Blanchland, Northumberland. I've been in mourning for eight months, and after a stop in Bath to acclimate myself to Society, I'm on my way to London."

"Steele?" Axel inquired.

"Amazing, isn't it, finding a military man with the same last name? He was an infantry lieutenant who lost his life in a Spanish campaign. In Badajoz. Research indicates Lieutenant Steele did have a wife but no other immediate family. Mrs. Steele left Blanchland soon after the lieutenant's death, and that's the last bit of information chronicled about her."

Serenity pulled on her ear lobe. "I must admit, I am nervous."

At his silence, she turned to find him studying her. He quickly lowered his head and stared at his too large hospital slippers. His weathered eyes blinked back the suspicion of a tear.

"Axel?" Was he feeling guilty? Did he feel he had coerced her into this trip?

She had to set his mind at rest. "Don't worry, I always get the jitters before a new assignment. It's like stage fright. I'd feel better if I were more prepared for my part. Too bad I almost failed drama in college. Here I am, pretending to be a widow when I've never married."

"Not for lack of admirers, Serry."

She smiled. "None of my admirers measured up to you, Axel."

A musical chime sounded. This time it was an unwanted interruption. "Dr. Rhinehart, visiting hours are over."

"Nonsense," he protested, "I only just arrived." Nevertheless, he stood to go.

The silence was awkward. Grabbing the hospital mask, she handed it to him, then gave him a swift kiss. "You'll need this."

"Serry, I--"

She placed her finger on his lips. "See you next year." Serenity spoke the words lightly.

After her college professor, supervisor, and most of all, friend had left, she sat hunched over, knees drawn into her chest. Panic, ugly and incapacitating, spread through her veins. Taking a deep breath, she concentrated on quieting this sensation of fear.

Just what was she getting herself into?

Chapter Three

Destination: Regency England, February 4, year of our Lord 1812. Resort town of Bath, county of Avon.

Wearing a fashionable gown of jaconet muslin and a heavy, wool pelisse or coat, Serenity checked the paperwork one last time. Nothing amiss. Everything was as it should be.

"Are you ready, Dr. Steele?" a technician asked from behind the glass-enclosed tomb.

"Yes, ready." Serenity's voice was lost in the vastness of the Time Displacement Wave chamber. In the center of the apparatus, her portmanteau waited.

"Everything's a go, Dr. Steele. It's time."

Serenity nodded and squeezed her eyes shut. She stepped into the Time Displacement Wave machine.

* * *

A second--or an eternity later, Serenity struggled to open her eyes. Did she actually travel back in time? Had she "landed?"

A feeling of heaviness hampered her movements. Every action was completed in slow motion. Time seemed to have ground to a halt.

She shook her head to clear away the fog. Unexpected pain rippled through her, pulsing to a crescendo, then subsiding. Ouch. No wonder excellent health was a requirement for time-travel. She hadn't expected being so...battered.

Rubbing her forehead, she came away with a spot of vivid red blood. Her balance still uncertain, she staggered back, bumping into a tree. Devoid of greenery, the tree was barren--empty of life, as were the rest of the trees in the forest.

Heavens, could this be Bath?

Her head injury refused to be ignored. Just how badly had she been hurt? A small trickle of blood dripped down her face, blurring her vision. She lifted her left arm to wipe away the wetness, only to feel more pain slice through her. Both her coat and dress sleeves were torn, and blood poured from the wound underneath. She glanced at her arm and gulped. Mincemeat. Oh well, it was nothing a little alcohol antiseptic couldn't cure.

As Axel had said, time-travel was no picnic.

Forcing herself to look away from the gory sight, she noticed a clearing in the woods and a straw-thatched building sitting by the side of a dirt road. Some sort of inn.

A weathered sign nailed to a tree gave her the news she wanted. Evidently this posting house was the only lodging between Bath and the village of Wellow.

Bath and Wellow! Yes! Elation overran the sensation of discomfort. The sign confirmed that she had arrived in the right location.

Now if she could learn the year.

Leaving her portmanteau where it stood, she headed for the inn's welcoming portal. The oak door was heavy, and after opening it, she staggered inside, where smells of stale alcohol and homemade bread assaulted her nose.

A man moved toward her, concern stamped upon his broad face. Covering his thickset body was a soiled apron. Perhaps he was the inn's proprietor. His strong hands prevented her from sinking to the floor.

"Lud, those footpads 'ave been at it agin. That makes three coaches attacked in two weeks. Jessy! Bess! Come 'elp milady into the parlor. Don't worry none, milady. Mills and me missus will take good care of you."

"Thank you, good sir, for your kindness." Serenity also thanked her lucky stars. The innkeeper, Mills, supplied the perfect explanation for her disheveled state--highwaymen.

Two women rushed in, probably the innkeeper's wife and daughter, and Serenity meekly allowed them to help her to a comfortable chair.

The older woman stared at Serenity's expensive clothes. And the simple gold ring on her left hand. Obviously, a very important piece of jewelry. "'Tis a wonder you are alive, milady. Jessy, off you go to get some cloths and a washbowl."

Bess eased off the ripped pelisse. Unfortunately, the sight of the arm wound caused her to turn a little green. As the woman cleaned and soaked the injuries, Serenity gritted her teeth against the pain. Braving another look, she released her breath. The savage cut was deep, but looked uninfected. Hopefully it would heal soon.

Ministrations done, the husband and wife hovered over Serenity. "'Tis a sin what Milady has suffered," Bess commiserated.

They naturally were eager to hear the gruesome details so Serenity quickly improvised her story. "The footpads' attack was so fast, I can't give a description, but I do believe there were two men. They knocked me unconscious. When I awakened, my dear servants and my coach were gone. Vanished!"

She lowered her gaze, hoping her hosts wouldn't ask questions for she was in no condition to think on her feet. Head to toe, her body clamored for a chance to collapse into oblivion. At the moment, nothing looked real. The beefy innkeeper, his solicitous wife, and the buxom daughter all seemed too good to be true.

Serenity's internal clock needed to reset to the slower nineteenth century time.

But first things first. "Again, I must thank you all for your kindness. If it wouldn't be too much trouble, Mr. Mills, may I please have a room for the night? And in the morning, I'll need transportation to Bath."

"Yes, of course, milady. The mail coach stops 'ere b'fore noon. Anything else, milady?"

One other loose end. "If you would, sir, could you fetch my portmanteau? It's just a short distance down the road."

The man nodded, then left to accomplish his task.

The daughter, Jessy, ambled her way down a corridor, showing Serenity to her assigned room. Once alone, Serenity sank down onto the bed. "Whew! For future time-travelers' sakes, I hope the kinks get worked out of the Wave."

After seeing she could do no more for her head and arm wounds, she gratefully slipped under the feather bed's blankets to still her turbulent, racing thoughts. Sleep was a welcome tranquilizer.

* * *

Mills swiftly carried out milady's request. But when he and his ostler spotted milady's portmanteau on the road near his establishment, he paused, his mind plagued with the inconsistencies of milady's tale. Why would desperate footpads assail milady's prosperous carriage, commandeer it and the servants, but leave a fine trunk behind? Unopened?

And how did milady manage to transport it so close to his posting house?

He shook his head. 'Twas a mystery. He only hoped milady's purse fared similarly well so she would have the blunt to pay for her overnight stay.

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