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then slipped back to her own room.

Chapter Four
    Elle finished and put the lid back over the chamber pot, skulking back to her bed feeling as if she’d done something wrong. It was mortifying to have to leave her waste sitting there behind the dressing screen for someone else to remove. The neatnik in her could barely stand it.
    She’d spent the day within the confines of her room, on the order of Dr. Simms. Clarice had come and gone several times, and Mrs. Moore had come by once more to check on her and to tell her that she would be allowed to choose a new lady’s maid. Apparently the previous one had been indiscreet with a footman and was in a family way. For the most part, though, Elle was expected to sleep and gather her strength for her wedding day, so she had not had any other visitors.
    She had tried to entertain herself with a thorough inspection of her room. Most amusing had been digging through the clothespress and the dresses. It was like her girlhood fantasies of being a princess had finally cometrue, with their velvets and satins, embroidered silks, and foaming, falling lace.
    The undergarments were equally as rich, although much more confusing in their variety. There was not a pair of panties in sight, but a surfeit of fine thin garments related to slips and camisoles and shirts. There was also a collection of corsets and stays of different lengths, and Elle had played with them like a child. And the odd pads in various shapes and sizes with dangling straps—where were they worn, and how? She had held one of the corsets up in front of herself and looked in the mirror. It seemed a much easier solution to a tummy bulge than diet and exercise.
    The clock on the mantle chimed the hour. 11 P.M . The day had gone slowly, despite the time spent rooting through the clothes and personal belongings of her eighteenth-century double.
    Elle went to the armoire, pulled open the doors, and rummaged around for the one pair of sturdy shoes she had seen earlier. Most of the footwear was as delicate and decorative as the gowns and underclothes, but there was one pair that was dark brown leather and low-heeled, with a silver buckle devoid of gems and filigree. There was no clear difference between the right and the left shoe, so she sat on the floor and slipped them on the way they looked most worn.
    She went to the clothes press and opened a few drawers, debating the gowns that lay spread out so neatly. There were a few that were not so ornate as the rest, a few that looked more for outdoor pursuits like walking, but she could not see herself trying to get into one without help. Instead, she grabbed a dark, hooded cloak off a hook in the armoire and swept it on. It covered her nightgown and was thick enough to be warm.
    She was anxious to find out if there was some way to get home, or at least to find some definite answers to the questions that buzzed like angry yellow jackets in hermind. The best solution she could think of was to go back to the hill she had awoken on.
    It had been this thin plan of action that had allowed her to keep control of herself all day. As long as she had a plan, she could keep the seed of anxiety from germinating and sprouting big, ugly tentacles of panic.
    She mounded pillows under her bedcovers in imitation of a sleeping form, then blew out the few candles that remained burning. She’d seen people do this in movies, but had never thought that she herself would have reason to resort to such a subterfuge.
    Elle crept out into the hallway and paused uncertainly. The candles in the sconces were still lit, casting light where Elle had thought all would be dark. Weren’t people in bed yet? She listened for a moment, hearing the faintest hint of voices and laughter, then shrugged to herself. What did she have to lose?
    She scampered quickly down the hall, to the small door she vaguely recalled from the previous night. She opened it and went lightly down the wooden stairs, one hand holding up the hem of