Inelle opened her eyes to the smell of rain, coal smoke, and something sweet — burnt sugar, maybe, or spiced apples — all tangled together like a memory she didn't remember making. The cobblestones beneath her boots were slick, uneven, slick with mist, their edges worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. Above her, gas lamps flickered in the gloom, casting long, trembling shadows that clung to the brick walls like living things. She didn't know where she was. She didn't know how she was here. One moment, she was on stage, bow raised — the next, the world had cracked open, and she had fallen through.
She was still dressed in her performance clothes — a crisp black blouse, tailored trousers, polished shoes. Not a wrinkle, not a smudge. Pristine. Immaculate. A stark, silent rebellion against the world around her. The people who passed her — men in patched coats, women in shawls frayed at the edges, children with dirt-smudged cheeks — all turned their eyes away the moment they saw her. Not in fear, not in awe — but in reverence. As if she were a statue that had stepped down from its pedestal, or a ghost that had forgotten to haunt.
She tried to speak — "Excuse me?" — but her voice caught in her throat. A woman sweeping the step of a bakery froze mid-motion, her broom hovering like a wing. She bowed her head slightly, not meeting Inelle's eyes. A boy selling matches dropped his tray and scrambled backward, muttering something under his breath — a prayer? An apology? Inelle reached out, but he flinched, as if her touch might burn.
She walked faster, her boots clicking against the stones, the sound too loud, too sharp, too wrong in the hush that followed her. No one jostled her. No one spoke to her. Even the dogs that lounged in doorways rose and slunk away as she passed. She passed a mirror in a shop window — her reflection stared back, pale, wide-eyed, her blonde hair still pinned in its stage braid, her face untouched by the grime of the street. She looked like a painting. Like a dream. Like something that didn't belong.
Then — the clatter of hooves.
She didn't hear it until it was too late.
A black carriage, lacquered and gleaming, careened around the corner, its wheels throwing up spray, its driver shouting curses she couldn't understand. She froze — not from fear, but from the sheer impossibility of it. The world didn't move like this. Not here. Not for her. The horses reared, the driver yanked the reins — and Inelle was yanked backward, just in time.
She stumbled into the arms of an old man.
He was tall, stooped with age, his face lined like a map of forgotten roads. His coat was threadbare, his boots scuffed, his hands trembling — but his grip was iron. He didn't let go. He didn't look away. He looked at her. Not with reverence. Not with dread. With concern.
"Good heavens, girl — are you hurt?" he said, his voice rough but gentle, like velvet over stone.
She stared at him, breathless. "Who are you?"
He straightened, brushing dust from his sleeve, then bowed slightly — not like the others, with their fearful deference, but with quiet dignity.
"Austin Lee," he said. "And you, my dear, are clearly not from here."
Behind them, the carriage driver was shouting, but no one came to help. No one dared. The crowd had melted into doorways, windows, shadows — all watching, all silent. Except Austin. He was the only one who looked at her like she was real. Not a ghost. Not a goddess.
Austin adjusted his coat, his eyes scanning her face, her clothes, the way the street seemed to bend around her.
He offered his arm — not to lead her, but to steady her.
"Come," he said. "Let's get you out of the street before someone else tries to run you over."
And as they walked, the cobbles beneath their feet seemed to whisper her name — not in fear, not in reverence — but in warning.