Edmund

March 22, 2025

"Don't get me wrong, you do look amazing for being two hundred thirty years old..." Miss Reign's eyelashes flutter every which way, and this in turn makes me think she is feigning her compliment, shrouded in the veil of mockery.

"Two hundred fifteen." I lift a forefinger, feeling the strong need to correct her.

"But..." The insufferable wench continues her speech as if I had not intervened in our conversation whatsoever. "The moment we teleported..." She puckers her lips with a little frown as if considering rephrasing a peculiar word she has just used. "The moment we traveled through time, I mean. One could easily see you were definitely out of place in this century. As was I, don't get me wrong. A change of clothes did not hurt. Like I said, until we figure out how to leave, we have to fit in."

I suppress the urge to rearrange the positioning of my member trapped in overtly tight modern underpants, and sigh, sorely missing my high-waist pants with suspenders. The unfamiliar fabric chafed, a constant, irritating reminder of my predicament.

How is it that gentlemen of this era do not feel nude without their cravats, top hats, gloves, and pocket watches? At least the footwear I got is comfortable.

Everyone appears so scantily clad, as we walk around the hustle and bustle of Covent Garden. A few good, tasteful, well-made pieces, that were ordered beforehand at the finest tailor have always been all I ever needed. Both figure-flattering and made for natural movement. What the people of the twenty-first century wore was, to put it lightly, neither. The neighborhood at the same time is, and it is not as I recall it, being more spacious and noisier than in the 1840s. The cacophony of unfamiliar sounds assaulted my ears, a stark contrast to the horse-drawn quiet of my own time.

Light rain wets my shoulders, bringing a much-needed refreshment from the awful day I am experiencing.

Recalling our visit to the store, I comment out loud: "The smaller the garment, the more costly it appears to be. I do not comprehend this skinny jeans fashion. I can make neither rhyme nor reason of it. Such a constrictive, non-functional trouser."

To my utter surprise and astonishment, Miss Reign agrees with my assessment.

"Preach it, Mister! So true. Besides, what I don't get is the restrictions in size and color. The clothes industry still must be making such a big buck. In my time, in the future, you can wear a single garment and it's multifunctional: it changes shape, size, and color, according to your wants and needs. Actually, I was wearing one when I landed headfirst into your pantry before." The enchantress chirps back at me, and I am hit with the realization.

That explains her easy infiltration into my estate. The audacity of such a device was truly astounding.

A gaggle of young women in inappropriately, yet attractively low-cut dresses flocks by, giving me double and triple takes. These females giggle openly into their hands, whispering to one another, presumably about me.

Such behavior was inadequate in my times, or at least feigned with more dignity, yet I find it distinctly charming in this century. I have abounding trouble with diverting my gaze from their long, alluring, shapely legs.

"They like you. They are glancing at me with this open envy that I do not deserve." The former servant girl whom I have now formally re-baptized as Miss Reign in my mind, winks at me, and the information she lends does not aid my situation at all.

The rays of the sun lend her hair an otherworldly gleam. Still, the water droplets underline the ephemeral rainbow-multicoloured brilliance of her mane.

Those girls are right to envy her as her appearance surpasses theirs a tenfold.

"Watch it! Didn't you see the traffic light was red?" Miss Reign pushes me out of harm's way as the steel carriage named "Corvette" whooshes past us.

Its bright yellow color and uncanny speed separate it from the other carriages, yet cannot quite compare with the majestic steam locomotive I had first seen as a child. This carriage ride appears unnecessarily hasty to me, while the train ride has always been a sweet meditation. It would rock me so gently as if I were a sweet babe, and I would close my eyes, feeling the countryside pass the windows by in a majestic slow motion, as a true masterpiece of art.

As I ponder on her words of warning, I luckily recall that Miss Reign has explained, earlier, that in the twenty-first century, traffic lights are used to regulate land traffic. I find it fascinating. The color distribution is logical, easy to recall. Red represents the danger, green the liberty of a free movement across the path. Yellow reconciles them both, and it is a color of transition. Human mind is at its most intelligent, when at its simplest.

"I did not." I reply. "I have been admiring the smooth asphalt that has replaced the former cobblestones and granite blocks. It fits humanity's eternal desire to make better, and to become better. You too, embody this desire in your youth and energy. It is easy to envision that you have arrived from a more advanced time of tomorrow, even if at the beginning my narrow-mindedness obstructed me from comprehending. I feel truly blessed to be able to witness what the City of London will look like beyond my times."

"Apparently, 'the humanity's eternal desire to make better' is a dud when it comes to potholes! Ugh, I just can't believe that people around here still use land traffic and cars! Air traffic would never stand for such traffic light nonsense." She bristles, pinching the bridge of her nose, extracting her shoe from the aforementioned pothole.

I decide against asking her to elaborate on the notion of air traffic. I also decide against voicing that I quite liked the concept of traffic lights, lest my opinion leads towards verbal argument escalation, which I always try to avoid, when possible.

Not to mention, I have enough with learning about London in the twenty-first century, and adding the information of her time on top of it might be a bit too much.

After all, perhaps there will be no need to know about it. If she manages to consult her 'demon', soon, I shall be home.

She made a promise, we shook on it, and all that remains for me is to hope Miss Magna Reign is good on her word.

We pass by a familiar place, and I exclaim, at a fond memory of the first chestnut stallion I rode.

Eclipse, that was his name, yes. The creature quite enjoyed our brief trip spells into the fields. They were his place to roam, and play, and my place to disconnect from the daily dreariness and toll. At the end of the eve, I would never fail to bring him to a stable. This very stable right here, if I am not mistaken. Eclipse was well cared for in this horse hotel. A true equine guest, as it were.

"That building... I cannot be quite certain, but I do believe it used to be a livery stables!" I exclaim out of sheer jubilance.

"Well, now it's McDonalds." Miss Reign shrugs at my enthusiasm.

I lift a single brow.

"You know. McDonalds. A restaurant. Where they make burgers." Seeing me arch yet another brow, Miss Reign adds: "Burger: it's like a sandwich with grilled meat, lettuce, tomato, and what have you. Actually, forget it. I think I remember that burgers were invented at the beginning of the twentieth century in US, and McDonalds was opened mid-twentieth century. Wayyyyy after your time. I totally thank them for not serving hotdogs. I don't think I could order a McWeiner with a straight face." She bursts into exuberant mirth at a joke only she comprehends.

I nod at the new information as my stomach growls. I cannot avoid but feeling horribly old and simultaneously admiring the United States of America for such an intriguing invention, a bit over a hundred years after they gained their independence.

"But, wait: that other building, across the street, is also a McDonalds." I frown.

"Yep."

"How many are there???"

"You don't want to know. In two hundred years, there will be even more of those." She shrugs. "Anyhow, I had been hoping to be able to dismantle Hollie and see whether it was river water that damaged it, but I simply cannot do that on an empty stomach. I hadn't even had my fecking morning cup of coffee yet." She cuts herself short, and I understand why.

I have not yet tasted my morning hot beverage either, and it is mostly Miss Reign's fault.

"So," she adds with a wide smile, "any restaurants you would like to recommend? I have never been in one, before."

"You have never entered a restaurant?" I halt mid-street, wondering how that is even possible.

"Nope. All future food is delivered to our home addresses, either in a form of a powder or a pill. Err... Wholesome meal in a pill, and all that. McPulver three in one: burger, beverage, and dessert, brought to you by... McDonalds." Magna shrugs. Her gaze jumps to my face, and I can see her cheeks go crimson.

I find what she says sad. This girl has never gotten to enjoy the taste of real food.

"Just past week, I had been at an amazing restaurant at Maiden Lane, 'Rules,' having lunch with my family. Regardless whether 'Rules' still stands... Perhaps Maiden Lane is still famous for its culinary prowess," I comment, and Miss Reign's eyes widen in expectation.

The irony is not lost on me, how my 'past week' is almost two hundred years later, today.

"That's the place we could check out. At the very least, the street will have some food, and restaurants, as you say. Maybe I didn't assist my Shakespeare theatre play, but I will at least get to try real food."

Which way should I go first? Towards the smiling waiter, or towards the table that awaited for our arrival? The nervousness is getting better of me.

Tensing my muscles, I step across the threshold of the oldest restaurant in London. The rich aroma of roasted meats and fine spices immediately enveloped me, a promise of culinary delights.

A familiar hint of pine wood scent wafts to my nose, conjuring the images of the quiet evergreen forest I used to frequent in my tender youth, during hunting trips I went on with my father.

Even if almost two centuries have passed, not only does the 'Rules' still stand, but also, the interior of "Rules" is as brilliantly brash as I could hope for, garlanded in red and gold, unfamiliar portraits decorating its walls. The opulent decor, a testament to enduring tradition, offered a strange comfort amidst the chaos of this new world.

The thought drills a hole in my chest.

As I stroll into the sleek lobby, I try to make sure the lapels of my coat are down, out of habit. And then I realize with a jolt of pain, that my "coat" is now a "leather" jacket, as Miss Reign had called it, crafted of subpar materials, belonging to who knows who.

There is no denying a painful fact. Nothing belongs to me in the twenty-first-century London, and I do not belong in it.

I cannot pretend that I do. Not like Miss Magna Reign can.

I wonder how the woman does it, how she blends in so naturally as if we were at her day and age.

We are ushered towards the dimly lit table in the far corner, and my bowels turn, seduced by the smells coming from the kitchen. I stand up and pull out her chair so that she may be seated.

This elicits a giggle from the girl, and a lot of wandering eyes seek me out.

She shakes her head lightly and motions towards my chair in an awkward fashion. "Please, have a seat."

Her dark, rich, luscious curls are now pulled back in a tight bun. Strands of wet hair cling to her cheeks, bleeding a shade of onyx into them.

Her tiny finger is tapping the side of a cute little nose.

It appears that she is deep in thought, and even if I know better than interrupt her, I still do, against that better judgment.

"No longer a girl in aubergine, I see." I elicit a tease wondering what is on her mind.

Making use of the scarce sum of money we encountered in the leather jacket pocket she forced me to take from one of the ruffians that accosted us, Miss Reign has purchased a rather unusual attire.

She is wearing pointed shoes, a black skirt I am still trying to get used to, since it is so indecently revealing, and a fitted white shirt, buttoned clear up to her throat.

Her perfect legs keep my gaze even long after she finally sits down and they disappear from view.

Miss Reign seems to notice this, and she searches my face, but quickly switches her focus to the menu. Her knuckles go white as she clutches the piece of paper. The sheer novelty of a physical menu, a relic from my own time, seemed to captivate her.

I catch myself wondering about her age. It is possible that she is thirty, but I guess that she is around twenty-five.

There is something young and wholesome about the she-devil, as well as wild and fierce. I had not called her enchantress in vain.

I close my palms around the chair and lean forward with an amicable smile:

"Are you hungry, girl? I know I am."

"I'm bloody starving. And there is nothing quite like food to kickstart our plans to return to our respective timelines. So... What do you recommend, milord?" The offensive tone in which she uses my title indicates the clear retaliation for my 'girl' usage, yet it amuses me.

She wields her smile like a katana: a weapon as elegant as it is deadly.

"The oysters are good here, and the venison. At least, they were. My mother is particularly fond of beef wellington. Was." I swallow, recalling the latest family lunch.

Will I ever see them all again? Are they wondering where I am? I can only hope to be returned to them at a precise moment of my departure.

"I think I am going to have venison. And try blueberry tart for dessert. I've never had that. Or, you know, chewed food." Miss Reign says with a grin, and I stare at her mouth like I cannot remember what she was going to say. Her grin widens, and I stare up at the ceiling, taking a deep breath.

It helps me refocus, and the rest of the supper is spent in a pleasant exchange of ideas and memories of our respective pasts. I am in awe of her invention and her entrepreneurial spirit. In London 1840s, there was scarcely a place for a female inventor, let alone a black woman inventor.

That is another reason why I feel very invested in her tale. The sheer possibility to swap your timeline with the timeline of your choice, it's absolutely incredible. Yet the technicalities elude me.

"Have you quite finished? Most of what you say, or at least the way in which you are explaining it to me, is an unintelligible gobbledygook to me. It's like watching a duck quack. You so thoroughly amuse yourself with the sound of your own voice. I see that this female trait has not ceased to exist, not even in the decades to come." I jest.

Miss Reign sticks her tongue at me, and then savors her venison, without taking her gaze from my face, a gaze that I find almost mocking. She chews slowly and then inserts her finger into her mouth and licks it.

The waiter resurfaces with our bill, and I cannot be more astonished. The very same meal I just had with my family a week ago is a hundred times pricier now than in the 1840s!

"This is insane! The lunch cannot cost that much. A ten percent added levy on food plus these outrageous prices? How has the public not flocked to the streets in expressions of displeasure?"

Miss Reign glances upon the required sum and then checks in "my" leather jacket. "The sum is indeed too steep for what we currently own, Milord. Therefore, I suggest the good ole chew and screw."

I quirk a questioning brow, ignoring the mock imitation of my speech.

"Eat and run, of course!" She hisses in a terribly low voice.

"Ooh." I smile amicably in comprehension. "Dine and dash!"