Chapter 4 Trust and Dependence

A week passed with no further break-ins, but my research hit one dead end after another. Each simulation I ran showed the same result: recreating the exact conditions that brought Aisling forward in time would be nearly impossible without understanding the mysterious properties of her locket more fully.

Meanwhile, Aisling had settled into a routine in my apartment. She'd claimed the small desk in the corner of the living room as her own, arranging her diary and a few books I'd bought her in perfect symmetry. She spent hours there, writing in a journal, documenting her observations of the 21st century with the methodical approach of an anthropologist studying an exotic culture.

"What are you writing about today?" I asked one evening, setting a cup of tea beside her (Earl Grey, with milk but no sugar—she'd been very specific about that).

"The curious relationship between humans and their mobile telephones," she replied without looking up. "I've been observing people on our walks. They appear physically present yet mentally elsewhere, constantly staring at these devices as if they contain portals to other worlds."

I smiled. "That's not far off. They're portals to information, communication, entertainment."

"At the expense of genuine human connection," she noted, finally looking up at me. "Yesterday I watched a family in the park—mother, father, two children—all sitting together yet each engaged with their separate devices. In my time, such behavior would be considered the height of rudeness."

"Different era, different social norms," I said, though I couldn't entirely disagree with her assessment.

She closed her journal. "Have you made progress with your calculations?"

I sighed, dropping onto the couch. "Not as much as I'd hoped. Without my stolen research notes, I'm having to reconstruct certain formulas from memory. And AIDA can only help so much with the theoretical aspects."

"Perhaps you need a respite," she suggested. "In my experience, stepping away from a problem often allows the mind to find solutions indirectly."

"Maybe you're right." I stretched, feeling the tension in my shoulders from hunching over a computer all day. "What do you suggest? Another walk?"

"I was thinking..." she hesitated, then continued with determined formality, "I should like to see more of your city. We've only ventured to your laboratory and nearby parks. Surely New York has cultural offerings worthy of exploration?"

I couldn't help smiling at her phrasing. "Are you asking me to take you sightseeing, Lady Howard?"

A hint of color touched her cheeks. "I am merely suggesting that broadening my understanding of your time might be beneficial to both my adjustment and your research perspective."

"Right. Purely academic interest." I checked my watch. "The Metropolitan Museum of Art is open late tonight. Would that satisfy your cultural curiosity?"

Her eyes lit up with genuine enthusiasm. "An art museum? Oh, yes! Art transcends time—it would be fascinating to see what has endured and what has changed in the artistic world."

Two hours later, we stood before a Monet water lily painting, Aisling transfixed by the impressionist brushwork.

"This was painted during my lifetime," she said softly. "Yet I never saw his work. It would have been considered too avant-garde in my circles."

"What kind of art was popular among your peers?" I asked.

"Academic classicism. Precise representations of historical or mythological subjects." She moved closer to the Monet. "Nothing like this freedom of expression. It's as though he painted the feeling of the scene rather than its exact appearance."

We wandered through galleries of modern art, Aisling alternating between fascination and bewilderment. Before a Picasso, she tilted her head in genuine confusion.

"Is this truly considered masterful work?" she asked.

"Picasso revolutionized how artists represent three-dimensional reality on a flat canvas," I explained. "He's showing multiple perspectives simultaneously."

She studied it more carefully. "How extraordinary. In my time, such work would have been dismissed as the scribblings of a child or a madman."

"Art evolves, just like science. Old paradigms give way to new ones."

We spent hours exploring the museum, Aisling asking insightful questions about artistic movements that had developed after her time. Her genuine curiosity and quick understanding reminded me that beneath her Victorian mannerisms was a sharp, hungry intellect that had likely been constrained by her era's limitations on women.

Later, we had dinner at a small Italian restaurant near the museum. Aisling had become more comfortable with modern dining customs, though she still occasionally reached for a nonexistent fan when conversation took what she considered an improper turn.

"Thank you for today," she said as we walked home through the cool evening. "It was most... illuminating to see how artistic expression has evolved."

"You sound like you're writing a formal thank-you note," I teased.

She gave me a sideways glance. "Would you prefer I express gratitude in your modern vernacular? 'That was awesome, dude. Totally cool art stuff.'"

Her perfect imitation of casual modern speech, delivered in her crisp British accent, made me laugh out loud. "You've been practicing."

"One must adapt to survive," she replied with a small smile. "Though I draw the line at ending statements as questions? With that peculiar upward inflection?"

"Fair enough."

When we returned to my apartment, Aisling went straight to her journal, no doubt eager to document our museum visit. I settled at my computer, feeling refreshed and ready to approach my calculations from a new angle.

Around midnight, I was deep in a promising simulation when I heard a small gasp from across the room. Aisling was at my desk, my tablet in her hands, her face pale in the blue light of the screen.

"What are you doing?" I asked, surprised to see her using technology voluntarily.

She didn't answer immediately, her eyes fixed on the screen, her expression stricken. When she finally looked up, there was a new vulnerability in her eyes that made my stomach clench.

"I wanted to learn more about my family," she said quietly. "You showed me how to use this device for research. I thought... I thought I might find records of what happened after my disappearance."

I crossed the room quickly. "Aisling, historical records aren't always accurate—"

"It says I committed suicide." Her voice was hollow. "That my body was found in the lake at Richmond Park on April 12, 1895. That I left a note declaring I couldn't bear to marry Lord Pembroke."

I cursed silently. I'd been careful to keep this information from her, knowing how disturbing it would be.

"Historical records from that period are often sensationalized," I tried to reassure her. "Newspapers frequently got details wrong—"

"There are photographs," she interrupted, turning the tablet toward me. "Of my funeral. My father looks... destroyed." Her voice broke on the last word.

The image showed a somber Victorian funeral procession, with the Earl of Westcliff visibly aged by grief, supported by attendants as he walked behind a flower-covered coffin.

"I need to go back," she said suddenly, standing up. "Even if I die there, I need to see my father. To let him know I didn't take my own life."

"Aisling—"

"They think I killed myself!" Her composure finally cracked, tears spilling down her cheeks. "My father believes I chose death over duty. The scandal would have devastated our family name."

I reached for her, but she backed away.

"You knew," she accused. "You've known all along what the records said about me, and you kept it from me."

"I was trying to protect you," I admitted. "And yes, I knew. But Aisling, think about this—if you were found dead in that lake, and yet you're standing here alive, what does that mean?"

She blinked, confusion momentarily displacing her anger. "I don't understand."

"It means someone else was found in that lake. Someone who was identified as you, with a forged suicide note. You didn't die—you were brought here. Which means someone wanted you gone and created a cover story."

She sank back into the chair, processing this. "But who would do such a thing? And why?"

"I don't know. But that's what we need to figure out." I knelt beside her chair. "Running back to 1895 without understanding what happened might be walking straight into danger."

She wiped her tears with the back of her hand—a surprisingly unguarded gesture for someone usually so proper. "My poor father. To believe I would do such a thing..."

"I'm sorry you had to find out this way," I said gently. "I should have told you."

"Yes, you should have." Her voice was firm despite her tears. "I am not a child to be sheltered from unpleasant truths, Ryan. I have faced hardships in my life, even if they differ from those of your time."

"You're right. I apologize."

She stood abruptly, gathering her dignity around her like armor. "I need some air. I'm going for a walk."

"It's after midnight," I protested. "New York isn't safe for someone to wander alone at this hour, especially—"

"Especially a woman?" she finished, arching an eyebrow. "Or especially someone from another century?"

"Both," I admitted. "At least let me come with you."

"No. I need to think. Alone."

Before I could argue further, she had grabbed a light jacket (she'd finally conceded that modern women's outerwear was more practical than Victorian alternatives) and was out the door.

I paced the apartment for fifteen minutes, debating whether to go after her. She was intelligent and adaptable, but still unfamiliar with modern dangers. Just as I'd decided to search for her, my phone rang with an unknown number.

"Hello?"

"Ryan?" Aisling's voice was shaky. "I seem to have... lost my way."

Relief flooded through me. "Where are you? What do you see around you?"

"I'm using a public telephone booth. I didn't realize such things still existed." There was a pause. "I see a park across the street. And a shop called 'Ray's Pizza.'"

"I know where that is. Stay right there. I'm coming."

Twenty minutes later, I found her standing under a streetlight, looking small and lost in a way I hadn't seen since her first day in my time. Rain had started to fall, and she was huddled inside the jacket that was proving inadequate against the weather.

"You walked quite far," I said, offering her my umbrella.

"I was more upset than I realized." She accepted the umbrella with a grateful nod. "The city looks different at night. Less comprehensible."

"Let's get you home before you catch cold."

We walked in silence for several blocks, the rain picking up intensity around us. By the time we reached my apartment building, we were both soaked despite the umbrella.

In the elevator, Aisling shivered visibly, her wet hair plastered to her pale face. Without thinking, I put my arm around her shoulders. She stiffened momentarily, then leaned into the warmth.

"In my time, this would be scandalously improper," she murmured.

"Consider it medicinal rather than improper. Preventing hypothermia."

Once inside the apartment, I handed her a towel and made hot tea while she changed into dry clothes. When she emerged from her room in the sweatpants and t-shirt she'd initially found so objectionable, she looked younger, more vulnerable without her usual perfect posture and formal attire.

"Better?" I asked, offering a steaming mug.

"Yes, thank you." She accepted the tea and settled on the couch, tucking her feet under her in a casual posture that would have been unthinkable in Victorian drawing rooms.

"I apologize for my emotional display earlier," she said after a moment. "And for wandering off. It was childish."

"You had every right to be upset. I should have been honest with you about the historical records."

She nodded, sipping her tea thoughtfully. "What you said—about someone else being found in my place—do you truly believe that?"

"It's the only explanation that makes sense. You're here, alive, which means whoever was found in that lake wasn't you."

"Then who was it? And who would go to such lengths?"

I sat beside her on the couch. "I don't know. But the break-in at my lab, your diary appearing—they're all connected. Someone knows you're here."

She shuddered slightly. "It's unsettling to think we're being watched."

"I won't let anything happen to you," I said, surprised by the fierce protectiveness in my voice. "We'll figure this out together."

Aisling looked at me with an expression I couldn't quite read. "In my time, a lady would never find herself alone with a gentleman in his home, much less relying on him so completely for protection and guidance."

"Is that... difficult for you?" I asked.

"Strangely, no." She set down her tea. "I was raised to believe a woman's independence was a dangerous thing, that we required male guidance and protection at all times. Yet here I am, forced into a situation of extreme dependency, and I find myself... not minding it as I should."

"Perhaps because it's a partnership, not a subjugation," I suggested. "We're working together to solve this mystery."

"Perhaps." She smiled slightly. "Or perhaps you are simply less insufferable than most gentlemen of my acquaintance."

"High praise indeed," I laughed.

Her smile faded as she stared into her tea. "What if we can't solve it? What if I'm trapped here forever?"

The question hung between us, heavy with implications neither of us was ready to address.

"We'll figure it out," I promised again. "But if we can't..." I hesitated, then continued, "The world has much to offer you here, too. Women in this time have freedoms you couldn't imagine in 1895."

"True. Though I would miss my father terribly." She looked up suddenly. "Do you think, if I remain here, I might someday discover what really happened? Find out who was found in my place?"

"Historical research might reveal more details, yes. And with your knowledge of the time period, you'd have insights others wouldn't."

She nodded slowly, considering this. "A mystery spanning centuries, with me at its center. How extraordinary."

We sat in companionable silence for a while, the rain pattering against the windows. Eventually, Aisling's eyelids began to droop, the emotional exhaustion of the evening catching up with her.

"You should get some rest," I said softly.

She nodded, stifling a yawn. "You're right. Thank you, Ryan. For coming to find me."

"Always," I replied, the word carrying more weight than I'd intended.

As she stood to go to her room, she paused, then turned back to face me. "Earlier today, at the museum, was the first time since arriving here that I forgot to be afraid. Forgot that I was displaced in time, lost from everything familiar."

"That's... good, isn't it?"

"I'm not certain." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "It feels like a betrayal of my father, of my life there, to find contentment here."

Before I could respond, she had disappeared into her room, leaving me with the lingering warmth of her presence and the complicated tangle of emotions her words had stirred.

In the quiet apartment, I returned to my computer, more determined than ever to unravel the mystery surrounding her. The simulation I'd been running before our confrontation was complete, and the results made my heart sink. According to AIDA's calculations, there was no safe way to return Aisling to her exact time and place without risking severe temporal damage—to her, to the timeline, or both.

I ran the simulation again with different parameters, then a third time. Each result was worse than the last. According to every model, attempting to send her back would result in her death—just as history recorded.

"No," I muttered, running a hand through my hair in frustration. "There has to be another way."

I worked through the night, testing every variable, every possible approach. By dawn, my eyes were burning from exhaustion, but I'd reached an inescapable conclusion: the only way to save Aisling Howard was to keep her here, in my time.

Sending her back would be sending her to her death.

As the first light of morning filtered through my windows, I made a decision I knew might be unforgivable: I would not tell her. Not yet. Not until I found a solution that wouldn't kill her.

I closed my laptop as I heard her door open. She emerged, once again the composed Victorian lady despite her modern clothes, hair neatly arranged, posture perfect.

"Good morning," she said, studying my face. "You didn't sleep."

It wasn't a question. She'd become remarkably adept at reading me.

"I was working on the calculations," I said, which wasn't untrue.

"And?" Her eyes held a hope that made my chest ache.

"It's complicated," I hedged. "The quantum dynamics are proving more challenging than I anticipated."

She nodded, accepting my vague answer. "You'll solve it. I have faith in your abilities."

Her trust was a weight I wasn't sure I could bear. But as she moved to the kitchen to make tea—another routine she'd established—I watched her navigate my modern apartment with growing confidence and thought of what I'd discovered in the night.

I won't let history repeat itself, I promised silently. I won't let you die.