I Fell Through Time With My Grumpy Colleague, and Now We Have to Pretend We're Siblings to Survive

The hum of the museum’s climate control was a familiar, soothing constant. Aris ran a gloved finger over the catalog entry on his tablet, his brow furrowed in concentration. “The provenance is a mess. It just says ‘acquired from the Blackwood estate, 1922.’ No details, no context.”

Across the heavy oak table, Clara looked up from the object itself. “Well, it’s certainly… something.”

The artifact sat innocuously on a velvet cushion. It was a chunk of dark, pitted rock, no larger than a human heart, veined with shimmering, unidentifiable metallic filaments. It was the meteor fragments that made it unique, that seemed to absorb the light of the conservation lab.

“The estate inventory calls it the ‘Celestial Stone,’” Clara added, her voice soft. “A bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

Before Aris could answer, the lights overhead flickered once, twice, then died. The emergency generator kicked in with a groan, but in that split second of transition, something went wrong. A high-pitched whine emanated from the stone, the sound drilling directly into their skulls. The metallic veins within it began to glow, first a dull red, then a blinding, electric blue.

“Clara, get back!” Aris shouted, but his voice was swallowed by the escalating shriek.

The energy erupting from the stone wasn't just light and sound; it was a physical force, a wave of pressure that buckled the air around them. Aris felt a violent, wrenching sensation, like his entire body was being pulled through a keyhole. He reached for Clara, his fingers brushing against her sleeve just as the world dissolved into a maelstrom of color and agonizing noise.

Then, silence. And impact.

He landed hard, the breath driven from his lungs. The ground beneath him was not the polished concrete of the lab, but something soft, wet, and profoundly foul. A gasp escaped him, not from the fall, but from the smell. It was a thick, suffocating blanket of coal smoke, unwashed bodies, animal waste, and damp rot. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, his hands sinking into cold, viscous mud.

Chaos assaulted him. The deafening clatter of iron-shod hooves on cobblestone, the rumble of wooden wheels, the shouts of men and the distant cry of a vendor. He looked up, his mind refusing to process the scene. Towering, soot-stained buildings leaned against a pewter sky. Horses, massive and real, pulled heavy carts. And the people… the people were all wrong. Women in bonnets and long dresses, men in top hats and tailcoats, their faces pale and grim.

A guttural cry beside him drew his attention. Clara was on her hands and knees, retching into the filth of the street. Her practical trousers and university sweatshirt were a glaring anomaly in this sea of drab wool and cotton. Just like his own jeans and polo shirt.

“Aris?” she choked out, her face ashen. “Where… what is this?”

His historian’s brain, the part of him that lived in archives and textbooks, clicked into place with a horrifying certainty that bypassed all denial. The architecture. The clothing. The sounds.

“London,” he managed, his voice a raw whisper. He grabbed her arm, his grip tight and desperate, hauling her to her feet. “It’s London. 1816.”

Her eyes, wide with disbelief, met his. “No. That’s impossible.”

“Look at us, Clara!” he hissed, his panic sharpening into a blade of pure terror. “We’re a spectacle. We have to get off the street. Now.” A man in a dirty apron stared at them, his expression a mixture of suspicion and contempt. Aris knew how this world worked. Vagrants, lunatics, foreigners—they were all targets. They were all three. He tightened his hold on her arm, pulling her with him into the flow of the crowd, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. They had to disappear.

He pulled her into a narrow, winding alleyway, the stench of urine and refuse even more potent here, away from the main thoroughfare. The sudden dimness was a small relief. Clara leaned against the damp brick wall, her breathing ragged, her modern jacket looking utterly alien against the ancient, weeping stone.

“A disinherited gentleman,” Aris said, his voice low and urgent. His mind raced through possibilities, discarding scenarios like flawed index cards. “And his widowed sister. It’s the only narrative that fits. It explains our… appearance. Our lack of luggage. It gives us a reason to be here without connections.”

“Sister?” Clara’s voice was thin, incredulous. “Aris, I can’t—”

“You have to,” he cut her off, his tone sharper than he intended. He took a breath, forcing himself to be the historian, the expert. He looked at her, really looked at her. Her face was smudged with dirt, her eyes wide with a terror that mirrored his own. He reached out, his hand hovering for a moment before he rested it on her shoulder, the fabric of her sweatshirt unfamiliar beneath his fingers. “We have to, Clara. Or we’ll end up in Bedlam. Or worse.”

She nodded, a single, jerky motion. He saw the resolve harden in her gaze, the practical archivist pushing back against the panic. She was a fighter. He’d seen it in the archives, the way she’d wrestle with impossible provenance puzzles until they yielded. This was just a different kind of puzzle.

He led them back out, keeping to the less crowded streets, his eyes scanning for a sign—any sign—that promised lodging without too many questions. He found one hanging crookedly over a dark doorway: The Bleeding Heart. Apt.

The common room was a haze of smoke and the sour smell of stale ale. A hulking man with a scarred face and a dirty apron stood behind a crude wooden bar, wiping it with an even dirtier rag. He eyed their strange clothes with open suspicion as Aris approached, placing Clara slightly behind him.

“A room,” Aris said, pitching his voice to sound as authoritative as he could manage, though it felt thin in the oppressive atmosphere. “For myself and my sister.”

The innkeeper grunted, his gaze flicking from Aris’s face to Clara’s. “Got coin?”

Aris’s blood ran cold. He’d forgotten. Of course. He had his wallet, but the plastic cards and modern currency were useless. He felt Clara shift behind him. Her hand moved, and then she was pressing something small, hard, and metallic into his palm. He glanced down. It was her watch. A simple, elegant silver one. A family heirloom, he remembered her saying once.

He met her eyes for a fraction of a second. Her expression was stark. Do it.

He placed the watch on the bar. “Our funds have been… delayed. This should serve as surety until they arrive.”

The innkeeper picked it up, his thick fingers surprisingly deft as he examined the modern clasp and the clean, unadorned face. He bit it. His eyes narrowed, but he finally gave a curt nod. “One night. Top floor. Back.” He tossed a heavy iron key onto the bar.

The room was little more than a closet. A narrow, lumpy mattress stuffed with what smelled like straw sat on a low wooden frame. A single grimy window looked out onto a brick wall. The air was thick with the smell of damp, decay, and the ever-present miasma from the street below. The door had a bolt, at least. Aris slid it shut, the sound echoing with a grim finality.

They were alone. Trapped.

Clara sank onto the edge of the mattress, her body trembling. The formidable archivist was gone, replaced by a woman stripped of everything she knew. Aris stood frozen in the middle of the tiny space, the chasm of time that separated them from home yawning at his feet. The weight of his knowledge was a crushing burden; he knew exactly how brutal this world could be, especially for a woman alone. For them. His gaze fell on her, huddled on the bed, and a simple, terrifying thought solidified: her survival was now his responsibility. And his, hers. There was no one else. Just the two of them, against an entire century.

The silence in the room was heavier than the grime. Aris stared at the splintered floorboards, his mind a frantic, useless catalog of dates and names. He knew the prime minister of 1816, the major political treaties, the popular poets. He knew nothing about how to turn a lady’s watch into food and safety.

“We can’t stay here,” Clara’s voice cut through his thoughts. It was quiet, but the tremor was gone, replaced by a steely edge he hadn’t heard before. She had pushed herself away from the mattress and was standing near the window, though there was nothing to see.

“We have a roof,” he countered, the words tasting like ash. “For one night.”

“And then what, Aris? We sell my locket? Your wedding ring? How long until we have nothing left and we’re thrown out? We need capital. We need a foothold.” She turned to face him, her eyes dark in the gloom. “We need a solicitor.”

He stared at her as if she’d lost her mind. “A solicitor? With what proof? What references? We have a story I invented thirty minutes ago. They’ll see through it in a second. We’ll be arrested for fraud.”

“It’s a better plan than starving in an alley,” she shot back. “You found us the year, I’ll find us the money. You can be the expert on what was, but I have to deal with what is.”

The accusation stung because it was true. He had been so lost in the academic horror of their situation that he hadn’t considered a single practical step beyond finding the nearest inn. He looked at her—at the determined set of her jaw, the intelligence in her eyes that was focused not on the past, but on the terrifying present—and felt a flicker of something other than fear. He gave a short, defeated nod.

The solicitor’s office was cramped and smelled of dry paper, sealing wax, and a century of desperate stories. A clerk with ink-stained fingers led them into a small room where Mr. Abernathy sat behind a desk piled high with documents. He was a thin man with a bird-like face and eyes that missed nothing.

Aris stood stiffly by the door, his hands clenched, feeling like a fraud in a costume play. But Clara, she moved with a grace that seemed impossible. She sat when offered a seat, her back straight, her hands folded in her lap. She had pulled her hair back as best she could, and though her clothes were still wrong, her demeanor was perfect. She was the picture of genteel distress.

“Mr. Abernathy,” she began, her voice soft but clear, imbued with a carefully measured sorrow. “My brother and I find ourselves in a most… unexpected predicament.”

She spun the tale. The sudden death of her husband, the subsequent and cruel disinheritance by his family, the journey to London to petition distant relatives, the theft of their luggage and funds right off the carriage. Aris listened, his initial anxiety twisting into a strange sort of awe. She was brilliant. She didn’t just recite the story; she inhabited it. She mentioned a fictional ‘Uncle Fitzwilliam’ in Yorkshire, a detail that sounded solid and respectable. When Abernathy questioned the name of their bank, she looked to Aris, a flicker of feigned sisterly dependence in her eyes.

“Childs & Co.,” Aris supplied, the name coming automatically from his memory. “Our father always banked with them.”

Abernathy’s sharp gaze moved between them. He was a predator sensing weakness, but Clara gave him none. She met his stare with a look of such profound, believable grief that the solicitor’s expression softened almost imperceptibly.

He finally leaned back, tapping a long finger on his desk. “It is a sad tale, madam. And not an entirely uncommon one, I’m afraid.” He named a sum for a small loan, the interest rate extortionate.

Clara didn’t flinch. “That will be sufficient. Thank you for your kindness in our time of need.”

Walking out onto the noisy street, with a handful of coins that felt like the heaviest thing Aris had ever held, the city seemed different. Less menacing. Possible. He stopped and looked at Clara, who was watching him, her face pale with the strain of her performance.

“I was wrong,” he said, the admission costing him something, but also feeling liberating. “I would have gotten us thrown in prison. Your… your fabrications. They were more valuable than any fact I could have provided.”

A small, weary smile touched her lips. For the first time since they had fallen through time, he saw not just a colleague, but a partner. And in her eyes, he saw the same recognition. They were in this together, and she had just saved them both.