Chapter 3 The Forced Co-habitation

The locket analysis proved both fascinating and frustrating. After three days of intensive testing, I determined it contained trace elements of a previously undocumented mineral with quantum properties that defied explanation. More importantly, the locket seemed to resonate with the specific frequency my equipment had generated during the failed experiment.

"So this is why I was pulled through time?" Aisling asked, examining her locket after I'd returned it to her. We were sitting in my apartment's living room, takeout containers scattered across my coffee table—another modern convenience she'd initially resisted but quickly grown to appreciate.

"It's part of the equation," I explained, pushing aside my half-eaten lo mein. "The locket created a quantum entanglement point when it interacted with my experiment. Like a... bridge between your time and mine."

She fastened the locket around her neck again, her delicate fingers working the clasp. "Can you use it to send me back?"

"Theoretically. But I need to understand it better first. One wrong calculation and..." I didn't finish the sentence. We both knew the stakes.

Living with Aisling had quickly developed into a routine that was equal parts fascinating and maddening. Her Victorian sensibilities clashed with everything about modern life, yet her adaptability surprised me. She'd mastered the microwave within a day, though she still referred to it as "the heating box."

"Would you like something to drink?" I asked, heading to the kitchen. "Water? Tea?"

"Do you have any more of that fizzy sweet drink? The one in the red container?"

I smiled. "You mean Coca-Cola? The one that made you choke the first time because you weren't expecting the bubbles?"

"It was an undignified moment," she admitted with a small smile. "But the taste is quite pleasant once one is prepared for the sensation."

I grabbed two cans from the refrigerator and brought them over. Aisling had become more comfortable with modern conveniences, but she still insisted on using a glass rather than drinking directly from the can—some Victorian proprieties remained uncompromised.

"How do they make the water bubble so?" she asked, watching the carbonation rise in her glass.

"Carbonation. They dissolve carbon dioxide gas into the liquid under pressure."

She took a sip, now familiar enough with the sensation to enjoy it without sputtering. "In my time, carbonated waters are considered medicinal. Taken at spas for digestive ailments."

"And now people drink gallons of it for pleasure," I said. "Times change."

"Indeed they do." She glanced around my apartment. "Your home lacks ornamentation. In my era, a gentleman's residence would display art, collections, evidence of cultivation and taste."

I laughed. "Are you saying I have no taste?"

"I'm saying your era seems to value... utility over beauty." She gestured to my minimalist furniture. "Everything serves a purpose, but little pleases the eye."

"Function over form. It's efficient."

"Efficiency isn't everything, Ryan." It was the first time she'd used my first name without hesitation. "Life should contain beauty for beauty's sake."

I found myself staring at her as she said this—the graceful line of her neck as she sipped her drink, the way the evening light from my windows caught the subtle auburn highlights in her dark hair. Beauty for beauty's sake indeed.

I cleared my throat. "It's getting late. I should get some work done before bed. Those quantum equations won't solve themselves."

She nodded, standing to gather our empty containers. Another surprise—Lady Aisling Howard, aristocrat, had insisted on sharing household duties. "Idleness is the devil's playground," she'd explained when I questioned her. "If I must reside here, I shall make myself useful."

Later that night, I was deep in calculations when I heard it—the soft, melodic notes of piano music floating through my apartment. I followed the sound to find Aisling at my rarely-used digital piano, her fingers moving gracefully over the keys. I hadn't even realized she could play.

She was performing something classical that I vaguely recognized—Chopin, perhaps. Her eyes were closed, her expression serene in a way I hadn't seen before. Without the constant vigilance of adapting to an unfamiliar world, she looked younger, more vulnerable.

I stood silently in the doorway, not wanting to interrupt. When she finished, I couldn't help applauding softly.

She startled, turning to me with a blush spreading across her cheeks. "I hope I didn't disturb your work. I found this instrument and couldn't resist. Though it sounds quite different from my pianoforte at home."

"It's electronic," I explained. "Digital samples of real piano sounds."

"Another miracle of your time," she said with a small smile. "Do you play?"

I shook my head. "The piano came with the apartment. Previous owner left it behind."

"Then why keep it if you don't play?"

I shrugged. "I always thought I might learn someday. When I have time."

"The pursuit of knowledge should never be postponed," she said, sliding over on the bench and patting the space beside her. "Sit. I shall teach you."

"Now? It's nearly midnight."

"Are you otherwise engaged at this hour?"

I hesitated, then joined her on the bench. The proximity was immediate and intimate—her shoulder brushing mine, the subtle lavender scent of the modern shampoo she'd reluctantly adopted.

"Place your hands thus," she instructed, positioning my fingers on the keys. "This is Middle C. The foundation of all basic compositions."

For the next hour, she patiently taught me simple scales and eventually a basic melody. Her teaching style was surprisingly effective—firm but encouraging, breaking down complex movements into manageable steps.

"You're a good teacher," I commented as I successfully completed the simple tune.

"I taught the children at our estate sometimes," she explained. "The groundskeeper's daughters and the stable master's son. Mother didn't approve, but Father thought it built character to share one's education."

"That seems progressive for a Victorian earl."

"Father has always been... unconventional in some ways." A shadow crossed her face. "I wonder if he's still searching for me. In my time, I've been missing for days now."

The weight of her situation settled over us again. Here in my apartment, it was easy to forget sometimes that she was displaced in time, torn from everyone she knew and loved.

"I'm working as fast as I can on the equations," I promised. "We'll get you back."

She nodded, her fingers absently playing soft chords. "I know. It's just... strange to think of my life continuing without me there. Like reading the middle chapters of a novel and finding the protagonist has vanished from the story."

"More like the protagonist stepped into a different story temporarily," I corrected gently.

She smiled at that. "A rather peculiar story, featuring talking walls and heating boxes and trousers for women."

"Don't forget the fizzy drinks."

Her laughter was genuine and unguarded—a rare sound that made something twist pleasantly in my chest.

The moment was interrupted by my phone ringing. I checked the screen—my department head, Dr. Winters. At midnight. Not good.

"Dr. Cavill," I answered, moving away from the piano.

"Ryan, we have a situation," Dr. Winters' voice was tense. "There's been a break-in at the lab. Campus security just notified me."

I felt the blood drain from my face. "Was anything taken?"

"That's why I'm calling you. You need to come assess."

I ended the call and turned to Aisling, who was watching me with concern. "Someone broke into my laboratory. We need to go."

"At this hour? Is that safe?"

"Campus security is there," I said, already grabbing my keys and jacket. "But I need to check if anything's missing."

Twenty minutes later, we arrived at the science building to find security officers and a very agitated Dr. Winters waiting outside my lab.

"The alarm was triggered at 11:42 PM," the security officer explained. "By the time we arrived, the perpetrator was gone."

"What did they take?" I asked, surveying the lab. Papers were scattered everywhere, drawers pulled open, equipment moved.

"That's what we need you to determine," Dr. Winters said. "Was it just vandalism, or were they after something specific?"

I began checking my most valuable equipment, but everything seemed intact. Then I remembered—my research journal. I rushed to the desk where I'd left it, but the drawer was empty.

"My notes are gone," I said, a chill running through me. "All my recent work on quantum displacement."

"Your work on what?" Dr. Winters asked sharply.

I hesitated, suddenly aware of how it would sound if I explained I was researching how to send a Victorian woman back through time. "A theoretical application I've been exploring. Nothing functional yet."

Aisling had been quietly examining the lab while we talked. "Ryan," she called, her voice odd. "Look at this."

She was standing by the testing chamber, pointing at something on the floor—a small leather-bound book I didn't recognize. I picked it up carefully.

"This isn't mine," I said, opening it.

The inside cover bore an inscription: "Property of Lady Aisling Howard, 1895." It was her diary.

"That's impossible," she whispered. "My diary was in my writing desk at Richmond Park. In 1895."

"Could you have brought it with you?" Dr. Winters asked, looking curiously between us.

"No," Aisling said firmly. "I was walking by the lake with only my locket and parasol."

I flipped through the diary, finding entries that stopped abruptly on April 11, 1895—the day before she disappeared. The final entry read: "Lord Pembroke has become insufferable in his attentions. Father insists I consider his suit, but I cannot bear the thought. Tomorrow I shall walk to the lake to clear my mind and consider my options."

Security took statements from us, and Dr. Winters insisted on filing a police report about the break-in. By the time we were allowed to leave, dawn was breaking over the city.

"Someone left your diary deliberately," I said as we walked back to my apartment. "Someone who knows who you are and where you came from."

"But how is that possible?" Aisling asked, clutching her recovered diary. "It was in my desk in 1895."

"I don't know. But whoever broke in took my research and left this as... what? A message? A warning?"

She shivered despite the warm morning. "Perhaps they're saying they know what happened. That I've traveled through time."

"But who would know that? And why steal my research?"

We walked in troubled silence for a while before Aisling spoke again. "In my diary, I mentioned Lord Pembroke. He was most displeased when I rejected his proposal the week before I... came here."

"You think he could be connected?"

"It seems impossible, but then, so does my presence in your time."

When we returned to my apartment, neither of us could sleep despite our exhaustion. I made coffee while Aisling sat at the kitchen island, leafing through her diary with a troubled expression.

"It's strange to read my own thoughts, knowing they were written by a version of me who had no idea what was about to happen," she said.

I set a coffee mug in front of her (with plenty of cream and sugar, as she preferred). "Do you remember writing any of it?"

"Every word." She traced her finger over the final entry. "I was so preoccupied with avoiding Lord Pembroke's attentions that I never imagined a greater upheaval awaited me."

"This Lord Pembroke—was he dangerous?"

She considered the question. "Not physically. But he was persistent and had my father's approval. In my world, that made him a different kind of threat—to my independence, limited as it was."

I found myself wondering what her life had been like—the constraints, the expectations, the carefully constructed cage of propriety that surrounded her.

"Would you have married him?" I asked.

"Eventually, I would have married someone suitable," she said with a resigned shrug. "That was my duty to my family. But I had hoped for at least a husband who valued my mind, not just my family connections and dowry."

The casual acceptance of her predetermined path made something in me rebel. "That's—"

"My reality," she cut me off gently. "Or it was. Now I don't know what my future holds."

The weariness in her voice reminded me she'd been awake all night after an emotional shock. "You should rest," I suggested. "The diary will still be there when you wake up."

She nodded, taking her coffee with her to the guest room. I settled on the couch with my laptop, intending to review the security footage from the lab, but exhaustion claimed me within minutes.

I woke to the sound of shattering glass and Aisling's cry of alarm. Disoriented, I jumped up and rushed to the kitchen to find her staring in horror at my laptop on the floor, its screen shattered.

"I'm sorry!" she exclaimed. "I was trying to use it as you showed me, but it slipped, and—"

"It's okay," I assured her, though internally I winced at the destroyed equipment. "Accidents happen."

"But your work! Your data!" She looked genuinely distressed. "All your calculations to send me home—are they lost?"

I checked the damage. The screen was destroyed, but the hard drive might be salvageable. "Most of it should be backed up on the university server. And AIDA has copies of everything."

"I've ruined your work," she said miserably. "After you've been so kind to me."

"Aisling," I said firmly, "it's just a computer. You're more important than data or equipment."

She looked up at me, surprise evident in her expression. "You truly mean that?"

"Of course I do."

A moment of understanding passed between us—something deeper than our usual cultural clashes and scientific discussions. Then she straightened her shoulders, resuming her aristocratic bearing.

"Nevertheless, I shall be more careful with your devices in the future." She glanced at the broken laptop. "Though perhaps I should limit myself to less advanced technologies. Your 'toaster' seems reasonably straightforward."

I laughed despite the situation. "The toaster is safe territory. But maybe stay away from the blender for now."

That evening, as Aisling practiced on the piano again, I sat nearby with my backup laptop, reviewing the security footage from the lab break-in. The camera had caught only a glimpse of the intruder—a hooded figure moving with purpose, clearly familiar with the lab's layout.

"They knew exactly where to look," I murmured. "Like they'd been there before."

"What did you say?" Aisling asked, pausing her playing.

I turned the screen to show her the footage. "Whoever broke in knew my lab. They went straight for my research notes."

She leaned closer, studying the grainy image. "Could it be someone from your university? Another scientist perhaps?"

"Possibly. But why leave your diary? That's the part that doesn't make sense."

She resumed playing, a thoughtful expression on her face. "In detective novels, the culprit often has a personal connection to the victim. Is there anyone who might wish to sabotage your work?"

I considered the question. Academic rivalry could be fierce, but stealing research and leaving cryptic Victorian diaries seemed excessive even for the most competitive colleagues.

"I can't think of anyone with that kind of grudge," I admitted. "But someone clearly knows about you and your connection to my research."

The piano music shifted to something slower, more melancholic. "So we are both caught in mysteries," she said softly. "I, torn from my time with no explanation, and you, with research stolen by an unknown adversary."

As her music filled the apartment, I found myself watching her hands move across the keys—graceful, confident, bringing beauty into existence through practiced skill. In that moment, despite the broken laptop and stolen research, despite the mystery surrounding us, I felt an unexpected sense of contentment.

The strangest part? I was beginning to enjoy our forced co-habitation, cultural clashes and all.