Chapter 2
Etta was struck by the sudden, jarring absence of sound. Darkness seemed to surround her; it took a moment for her eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom of, what, a cellar?
She felt cold, dampness clinging to her skin, and realised she wasn’t wearing her coat.
She was covered in a blanket. Or perhaps a shawl.
And she could feel her hair, usually tied in a tight bun, brushing against her face, neck, and upper arms. Strange, given her hair was still growing out from the bob she’d experimented with earlier in the year.
She turned her thoughts to what was in front of her. She wasn’t on the Tube any more, that much was clear. She was facing rows upon rows of wine bottles, neatly stacked in wooden racks, with hand-written labels on each shelf. A wine cellar, then.
The labels were illuminated only by a flickering light source, which came from behind her. She moved to wipe the dust from a label, only to find her wrists were strapped to her chair.
And then she freaked out.
At least, she thought she was freaking out. She’d never really lost it before – not even when her father died – but it felt like the rational thing to do.
‘What the ACTUAL …? HELP! What the hell?!’
She tried kicking her legs, but the chair was surprisingly sturdy. Also, her legs were covered in long skirts, which weren’t particularly conducive to kicking or in fact any kind of dramatic physical activity.
Etta took a long breath. It was all a dream.
She’d done a mindfulness workshop at work one time.
The woman had told them to notice each part of their bodies one bit at a time – Dave from accounts had fallen asleep.
Etta started noticing, but it really, really didn’t help.
She noticed her feet, bare on a stone floor.
She noticed the long skirts on her unshaven legs.
She noticed she had no bloody knickers on.
She noticed her small and completely uncontained boobs.
She noticed the bracelet, which she desperately wished she could tear off right this moment.
She noticed she was strapped to a chair in a dark and musty cellar, and that she was probably going to be late for work this morning.
This was definitely not helping.
Before Etta had time to notice much more, she heard distant voices growing closer. Male voices, arguing: one stern, one defiant. She turned her head to one side, seeing a dim light coming from a corridor to her side.
‘Charlie, it’s not right. I do understand why you want to try and help, but you need to give up.’
‘Just come with me and see, Max. I swear I saw her shudder.’
‘With cold, probably. Or horror. It’s wrong, Charlie. You shouldn’t experiment on your sister.’
‘Now hang on, don’t you go pinning all this on me. She asked me to. “Charlie,” she said. “It’s time to go to the cellar.”’
The men rounded the corner, still arguing, and Etta saw their faces in the flickering candlelight.
One was stunningly, blindingly handsome, while the other looked like a young Hugh Laurie.
The handsome one looked angry, so she decided he must be Max.
He looked like he was called Max. Tall, dark, handsome.
Like a hero from an historical romance, she reflected, right before she noticed what he and his companion were wearing.
1817, the old ladies had said. The Regency era, then. Knee-britches and shiny boots. Cravats and white shirts under dark evening jackets. She must be dreaming.
Roll with it, they’d said.
She cleared her throat. ‘What the hell is going on?’
Etta’s voice was dry, crackly from disuse.
The two men turned their attention to her, looking as startled as she felt.
This seemed unfair. Surely if anyone had the right to be shocked, it should be the person who was on the Tube in 2023 with two eccentric old ladies only minutes earlier, holding her smartphone in one hand and coffee in another.
The one strapped to a wooden chair, surrounded by wine bottles.
Etta felt almost angry with it. Certainly indignant. ‘Why the flying fuck am I in a cellar, strapped to a chair?’
The young Hugh Laurie impersonator’s expression turned from mild consternation to full outrage. ‘Why, Hetty Bainbridge! You harridan! If Mother heard you use language like that … My goodness! She’d have your guts for garters! Where on earth did you hear it?’
‘That’s not Hetty. You’re not Hetty,’ said the impossibly handsome Max.
His friend looked at him as though he were mad. ‘Of course it’s Hetty, Max. She’s just where I left her.’
‘No. That’s not – you’re not – you can’t be Hetty. Your face. Your expression.’
‘Looks the same as ever to me, old boy. Bit less gormless, perhaps. Must be, cursing like that. By god, Hetty, I didn’t think you had it in you.’
Etta recalled that the old ladies had mentioned someone called Hetty. Swapping, they’d said. A blip. Roll with it.
She took a deep breath. ‘Are you going to keep staring at me all day, or are you going to unstrap me from this chair?’
Max seemed to have been jolted out of his shock and had remembered himself.
Etta watched him carefully as he unhooked the leather belts around her wrists.
He was dressed more neatly than his companion and smelled of sandalwood and mint.
Etta’s stomach flipped as he looked down at her, confusion burning in his eyes.
‘But what about my experiment, Stanhope?’ the Laurie lookalike chimed in plaintively. ‘I was only going to startle her just a little. Just to perk her up, you know.’
‘Your experiment is no longer needed, Charlie. I think strapping her to a chair was enough.’
‘Oh, but she’s been strapped to countless chairs over the years, Max. I don’t see what could be different about this one. Besides, this time she asked me to do it.’
Max looked at Charlie sharply. ‘No more straps, Charlie.’
Free from her restraints, Etta turned in her seat and surveyed the scene. There was a table directly behind her, covered in a vast array of metal and glass tubes (full of what she assumed must be battery acid) and fabric-covered cables. Hand-written notes littered every surface.
‘What on earth is going on here? What am I, Frankenstein’s monster?’
Max jolted. ‘Who’s what-now, Hetty?’
‘Frankenstein. You know, the classic novel by Mary Shelley. Mad scientist creates a monster with electricity and body parts.’
Charlie looked confused. ‘I say, I don’t know where you’ve been reading that stuff, Hetty.
Father doesn’t keep novels in the library.
Thought you were more interested in staring at the sky and things, than reading those.
’ He paused, looking reflective. ‘Besides, can’t be that classic, can it? Never heard of it.’
Max found his voice again. ‘I’ve met a Mary Shelley, though, abroad. One of the Godwins, no?’
‘Oh lord, I dunno,’ said Etta. ‘Mary Wollstonecraft’s daughter. She was bezzie mates with Byron. It’s been bloody ages since my English GCSE to be honest.’
She stretched and stood up. Her muscles felt much weaker than usual and everything around her seemed … lower. Bigger, somehow. The two men seemed to tower over her. Despite the discomfort in her wrists and the freezing cold, damp stone under her feet, she felt detached from everything around her.
‘This is such a weird dream. Why am I so short?’ Etta looked down at her thin nightdress and plain wool shawl. ‘Where are my clothes? I think it’s time to wake up now.’
Panic was starting to take hold. ‘Hello? Weird old ladies? Time to wake up!’
She felt her legs begin to buckle under her and Max started forward to steady her. She looked up at him and found herself staring into a reassuringly concerned face.
‘Oh, stop making sheep’s eyes at Stanhope, Hetty. You’ve never paid him any attention until now, and I don’t see why today should be the day to start.’
Max was examining Etta’s face again. ‘I’m really not sure this is your sister, Charlie.’
‘Not my sister? Don’t tell me you’ve gone queer in the head too, old chap. Clearly my sister. Look at her. My god, you’ve known her nearly as long as I have.’
Max paid no attention, still assessing Etta. ‘What’s your name?’
Etta looked up at him. This didn’t feel like a dream, but he certainly looked like the kind of man she might dream about. In her very best dreams. ‘Etta,’ she said. ‘Henrietta Moore.’
‘Well, that settles it,’ said Charlie. ‘It didn’t work. She might well be chatting away, but she’s still mad as a March hare.’
‘Be quiet, Charlie.’ Max glanced at Charlie derisively, then looked back at Etta. ‘Hmm … I don’t know. What’s the date?’
‘Nineteenth of September 2023. The weather is terrible. Wet, miserable. I was on the Circle Line. Heading to work. I must have fallen asleep.’ Etta was babbling now, she knew, but she needed to make sense of what was happening.
‘2023? What do you mean, 2023?’
‘Mad, I’m telling you,’ Charlie interjected. ‘She remains utterly mad.’
Max straightened up and started walking Etta across the room and along the corridor he and Charlie had entered from. Etta could see now that she was most definitely in a cellar of some kind.
‘You know, if I’m not asleep then I think I actually must be mad,’ said Etta. ‘One minute I’m chatting to two old ladies on a train, the next I’m in a cellar with two posh blokes, dressed in only a nightie. I don’t even have shoes on.’
‘You seem pretty sane to me,’ said Max. He looked down at her feet, then without saying a word, swept her into his arms and carried on walking.
Etta squeaked. ‘You picked me up! How did you do that? I’m nearly six feet tall and … and plus-sized!’
‘No, you’re not.’
Etta tried to wriggle away, but he held her firm. ‘Yes, I am. And it’s fine. Hashtag body positivity. I don’t need to be carried anyway.’
Max glanced down at her. ‘Yes, you do. You’re thin as a stick, freezing cold, and you have no slippers on. And your dreadful brother has been holding you in his wine cellar.’