“You a different one, ain’t ya?”

I looked up from the buckets of water I'd just dragged in to see a young black girl looking down at me. I'd seen her around but hadn't talked to her. And to be honest, my interactions with the rest of the staff had lost what little importance they'd had.

It was the day of Gracen’s engagement party, and the preparations for it weren’t the only things keeping me awake at night. I hadn't seen Gracen since that night in the parlor, and I hadn’t dared ask about him either. Titus clearly felt that what happened had put me in my place, and I wondered if it was less my loyalties and more my relationship with Master Gracen that had concerned him. Though what Titus suspected that relationship was, I didn't know.

I was still trying to wrap my head around the fact that he was engaged, a fact that had kept me up late, kept me distracted when I should've been trying to figure out how to get home. I had no idea why I cared that he was getting married, only that I did. I tried writing it off as some sort of weird bond due to what we'd gone through together, but a part of me couldn't help but feel it was something more.

Not that it could ever be anything other than what it was. For all I knew, Gracen and his wife-to-be were the ancestors of some really important person, and if I messed with that, I'd seriously screw up the world I wanted to get back to.

“Not just your talkin',” the girl said. She eyed me from where she stood, her dress hanging on her lean figure. “Everything about you is different.”

I smiled at her, and her eyes widened a bit. I felt bad about that. I'd been trying to keep to myself, so even in the short time I'd been here, I'd developed a reputation for not being the friendliest person. I was pretty sure Titus had done all he could to help me along with that.

“What’s your name?” I asked as I straightened. I winced as the movement pulled the still tender skin on my leg.

She wasn’t as tall as most of the other women, but I had a feeling it was more due to her age than anything else. She had that lanky look that I had before I hit my last growth spurt.

“Dye,” the girl answered.

“I’m Honor,” I said, holding out my hand.

She looked at it briefly before taking it, her hold firm as she nodded.

“So, Dye, why do you think I’m different?”

She shrugged, but her eyes never left mine. “You’re no colonist,” she said. “You ain’t from these parts, but you don't sound like no foreigner I ever heard.”

I stuck with the story I told Gracen. “I ran away from home, and Master Gracen was good enough to hire me.”

Dye shook her head. “You ain’t run away from nothin’,” she said firmly. “You been brought here.”

I frowned, not understanding. “What do you mean?”

“I know runaways,” Dye said, “and you ain’t one. I reckon you don’t run away easy.”

I was about to reply when Titus walked into the kitchen and started barking orders. Dye instantly acted like she'd been busy helping me with the buckets as we trudged to a corner of the kitchen and got to work. I saw her eyeing Titus from where we stood, and when her gaze fell back to me, her expression told me that she wasn't done talking.

I wasn't sure yet if that was a good or bad thing.

* * *

The party was beyond extravagant.

Never in my life had I ever seen so many people in such close quarters, flaunting their riches as if competing against one another. The level of sheer narcissism and pretentiousness almost made me gag. The worst part was that I knew people in my own time weren't any different. Even those who protested the war saw nothing wrong with lavish parties and excessive spending habits.

The bulk of guests were gathered in the main dining room, the biggest space in the entire house. I spent most of the morning being taught how to properly set the table. Now, I stood to one side, waiting for a gesture from one guest or the other before rushing to get what was needed, fighting the urge to spit in the wine as I wore my best fake smile and acted as if the condescending tones and barks thrown at me were normal.

Part of me wondered how many of these people would remain in America after the war ended, if their descendants lied about loyalties the way I knew some people did regarding slavery and civil rights. Had I been fighting to protect the descendants of these arrogant, prejudiced people? Fortunately, I was kept too busy to dwell on those thoughts for too long.

The entire staff was working tonight, the overwhelming number of guests kept us all on our toes, and from the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Dye, the expression on her face telling me that I wasn't the only one needing to practice self-control.

I had to admit though, being in the midst of the upper class during this time period had certainly opened my eyes as to why these people were Loyalists. Everything about the revolution endangered their way of life. While people would always complain about the chasm between the rich and the poor, as well as the problems with immigration, the distinctions of class had gotten blurred in most places.

Despite my desire to announce to the entire room that they were the ones fighting a losing battle, I kept a low profile, making sure I met every snide comment or lecherous glance with a polite smile and nod of my head. My temper simmered just below the surface, threatening to explode with every new insult. At one point during the festivities, I tried to retreat to the kitchen where I wouldn't have to deal with people, but Titus seemed to sense my discomfort and pushed me back out into the melee.

Since I appeared to have no other choice but to smile and bear it, I instead focused on the details. The clothing, the food, the speech patterns. Ennis would've killed for only a few minutes of what I was experiencing. If – when, not if – I got home, I didn't know if I'd be able to share what happened with anyone, but if I did, Ennis would be it, and he'd want to know everything.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention!”

The chatter quickly died as we all turned toward Roston. He, like almost all of the other men in the room, had donned a wig for the occasion, and it only added to his pretentious manner. I didn't know the proper names for everything he was wearing, but it all looked stiff and heavy, the quality of the material obvious even from where I was standing. For one surreal moment, I felt like I'd fallen into some historical painting or textbook picture.

Then Roston began his speech, and I snapped back to the reality of my present situation.

“There comes a time in every man’s life when the happiness of his son is of utmost importance.” His voice seemed to echo in the silence, his words reverberating through the room. “That time has come for me, as I stand proudly amongst you all to celebrate my son’s engagement to the beautiful Miss Clara Stiles.”

A double set of doors to Roston’s left opened, and I felt the breath catch in my chest as I saw Gracen for the first time tonight. He was dressed as finely as his father, but the younger Lightwood wore it better. Each cut and line, from his coat to his breeches, told me that the clothes had been specially made for him. He must've been as sweltering as the rest of the people crammed into the room, but his face betrayed nothing. And I could see all of it. He wasn't wearing a wig, but he'd pulled his hair back in the current fashion, somehow managing to tame his wild curls.

He only held my attention for a few seconds, however, as my gaze turned to his fiancée. She was gorgeous, her dress perfectly complimenting her curves even as it dazzled the room. Her sandy-colored hair was piled up on top of her head in a way that made me wonder how long it had taken to get it to stay. Her sapphire eyes moved across the room, clearly taking stock of all in attendance. Her features were fine and delicate, the epitome of feminine.

The minute the couple stepped through the doors, the entire room burst into applause. I forced myself to join in despite the ache I felt. No matter how much I told myself that I should be happy for Gracen, that this had technically already happened, I couldn't stop my chest from tightening, couldn't stop the way my stomach churned.

As I watched the couple stride into the room, my breath began to come in short gasps. The corset I'd been forced into made each inhalation painful and I looked around for an escape. The noise around me became overwhelming, the scent of so many bodies overpowering. I could barely think.

Then, suddenly, I felt a hand on my arm. Dye had already begun to pull me away before I even registered that it was her. I concentrated on staying on my feet, trusting her to take me somewhere safe. As she led my escape, I could hear Roston’s voice booming behind me as he started up again. Something about duty and honor that made me want to laugh. I could respect Loyalists who managed to love their home country while still respecting others. I didn't have to know much about him to know that men like him were patriotic because it suited their lifestyle.

I'd seen plenty of his type in my own time.

We came to an abrupt halt as Titus stepped in front of us.

“Where are you going?” He glared at me. “You aren't finished.”

“She is for tonight,” Dye snapped back.

“Mind your tongue, girl.”

To my surprise, she stepped around him, pulling me with her.

“Mind yourself, old man,” she said over her shoulder. “This girl is going to be sick from all that noise.”

I could barely hear the reply over the second round of applause that echoed from the dining room, and I swallowed hard as I hurriedly followed Dye into the kitchen and out into the cool night air. She didn't ask what happened, or what had triggered my illness, but I had no doubt those sharp eyes of hers had caught some of it. Hell, she probably understood it better than I did.

I couldn't be falling for Gracen. Aside from the fact that he was engaged and from a Loyalist family, saying that we were from different worlds was an understatement. In my time, Gracen had been dead for more than two centuries, and it was that time I needed to get back to.

I just didn't know how I could go about doing that.

My feelings for Gracen weren't real. They couldn't be. I barely knew him and I'd never been one who believed in the whole fairy tale thing. I could admit that I was physically attracted to him. He was a good looking man, but that didn't mean anything. I appreciated his good qualities, but that didn't necessarily mean that I felt anything for him aside from admiration and a bit of lust.

I certainly shouldn't feel anything remotely close to jealousy.

Dye took me into my room without asking questions, then gave me a hard look before vanishing back into the hall. The shadows swallowed her up, and I was alone with my thoughts.

Unsurprisingly, I didn’t sleep that night.

The last few days had taken their toll on me both mentally and physically, so it wasn't that I wasn't tired. I couldn’t feel my feet, and the small of my back ached. My muscles protested the slightest movement, promising me a new round of pain when I had to get up in the morning. I'd always prided myself on being in excellent physical shape, but I was using a whole different set of muscles here.

I tossed and turned, keeping my eyes shut as I tried to force myself to sleep. I attempted to count sheep, to count backwards, to make a list of mundane things that needed to be done, but none of those things were able to overcome the images and thoughts that kept popping up. I couldn’t stop my brain from working overdrive.

My mind kept returning to the image of Gracen walking into the dining room with Clara on his arm, the smile on his face like a slap in the face. I remembered the tightness in my chest at seeing them together, the pang of inexplicable jealousy that rushed through me. The guilt and shame that had followed when I'd remembered my own fiancé. Oddly enough, neither of those emotions were focused toward Bruce, but rather toward my own reaction, as if reminding me that I couldn't be upset with Gracen for his engagement since I had a fiancé of my own.

I shook my head in frustration. What the hell was I thinking? How could I feel this way towards a man I hardly knew, a person I had met only a week before? I couldn’t wrap my head around it. I knew Wilkins would tell me that it was some love at first sight kind of thing. Destiny or soulmates or some other garbage. I'd given up on all of those things being real long ago. What I had with Bruce might not have been exciting or perfect, but it was real.

I sat up and ran a hand through my hair, shaking it out as I tried to clear my head. The only light in the room was moonlight from a small window, and I walked over to it, threw it open and closed my eyes against the sweet rush of air against my face.

I had to get out of here. It was no longer a matter of making plans or waiting longer for my leg to be completely healed. My survival might not be at stake, but my sanity definitely was.

I sighed heavily as I paced the small quarters, my bare feet cold against the hardwood floor as I hugged myself. I should get dressed and leave right now, no looking back, no second thoughts.

Except I wasn't even having second thoughts. These were first thoughts. Ones that said I didn't really want to leave. That I should stay.

It was ridiculous, of course. This wasn’t my time, my life. There was nothing for me here except a job I didn't want, a war that I knew wouldn't end as quickly as Roston and his friends wanted it to. And a man who I couldn't have, no matter what my heart was beginning to say.

I reminded myself that I had a perfectly wonderful life back home. I had a family I loved, a fiancé I may or may not decide to keep and a future in medicine. A future that I'd worked hard to attain. For all I knew, whatever part of the universe that had brought me here in the first place would decide to fix its mistake and take me home tomorrow.

This time, this place, none of it was mine. Whatever happened to Roston, to Dye, to Gracen and Clara, it'd all been finished long before I was born. Their story was already written, and I had no place in it.