Chapter 1: Waking Up in the Past—At Knifepoint
The first thing he registered was the cold. A deep, seeping chill that radiated from the smooth, unyielding surface beneath him. Then came the smell—aged parchment, polished leather, and the faint, sweet smoke of beeswax candles. It was a scent he knew, a scent he loved, but it had never been this potent, this all-encompassing. It was like breathing inside a rare book collection.
Elliot Hayes opened his eyes to darkness, his head throbbing a dull, persistent rhythm. He was lying on a floor of cool, veined marble. This was not his office at the university. He pushed himself up on his elbows, his tweed jacket scraping against the stone. His vision swam, then cleared.
Towering shelves loomed out of the gloom, reaching towards a shadowy, vaulted ceiling. They were crammed with books, their spines a mosaic of dark leather and gleaming gold leaf. This wasn't the university library. It was something out of a dream, or a very accurate historical film set. A single candle flickered on a nearby lectern, its small flame casting long, dancing shadows.
“Do not move.”
The voice was female, low, and sharp as a whip crack. It held an authority that froze him in place. From behind a massive oak desk, a figure emerged. A woman. She was dressed in a gown of deep emerald silk, its skirts whispering against the floor. Her hair was piled high in an intricate style that seemed to defy gravity, a few dark curls escaping to frame a face of sharp, arresting beauty. Her eyes, in the candlelight, were like chips of flint.
In her hand, held with practiced ease, was a dagger. The hilt was jeweled, but the blade that gleamed in the dim light was plain, functional, and deadly. She moved with a predator’s grace, closing the distance between them in a few silent steps.
Before Elliot could form a word, a protest, a question, the cold point of the dagger was pressed against the soft hollow of his throat. He swallowed, and felt the sharp metal prick his skin.
“Who sent you?” she demanded, her voice a low, venomous whisper. Her gaze swept over him, taking in his disheveled hair, his strange jacket, his modern trousers. “You are no courtier. Your clothes mark you as a peasant. But you…” She leaned in closer, her nostrils flaring slightly. “You do not smell of the fields. You smell of… something else. Something alien. Like ozone and… cleanliness. Why does a peasant smell of the future?”
The world tilted. Peasant? Future? The throbbing in his head intensified. He was a professor of 18th-century history. He knew this wasn't right. This wasn't a reenactment. The pressure of the blade was real. The fear coiling in his gut was real.
“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he stammered, his academic mind scrambling for purchase. “My name is Elliot Hayes. I’m a historian. I was in my office, studying the Treaty of Utrecht, and then… I was here.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Historian?” She said the word as if it were a curse. “A scholar, then? A spy for the Dutch? The Austrians?” The dagger pressed harder. A warm trickle of blood traced a path down his neck. “You will tell me the truth, or you will bleed it out onto this floor.”
“It is the truth!” he insisted, his voice rising in panic. He was a man who debated nuanced interpretations of political discourse for a living. He was utterly unprepared for having his life threatened over them. “Look at me! Do I look like a spy? I don’t even know what year it is!”
That gave her pause. The unwavering intensity in her eyes flickered, replaced by a sliver of confusion. “What year?” she repeated, her tone laced with skepticism. “It is the year of our Lord 1714. The Sun King still draws breath in Versailles, though God knows for how much longer.”
1714. The words hit him like a physical blow. The Treaty of Utrecht. The end of the War of Spanish Succession. It was the very period he was researching. The air left his lungs. This was impossible. A delusion. A concussion-induced hallucination.
“That’s not possible,” he whispered, more to himself than to her.
He saw her expression shift from pure aggression to a calculating curiosity. She slowly withdrew the dagger, though she did not sheathe it. Her eyes, those flinty, intelligent eyes, raked over him again, taking in every detail of his strange attire, the confusion on his face, the sheer, undeniable wrongness of his presence.
“You are either the most gifted liar I have ever encountered,” she said softly, “or you are telling a truth so fantastical it defies belief.” She took a step back, tapping the flat of the blade against her palm. “Either way, you are a problem. And problems in Versailles are not left to wander the royal library.”
Versailles. The royal library. His academic mind, even through the terror, supplied the images: the grandeur, the opulence, the deadly politics. He was inside the lion’s den.
“What is your name?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
A faint, cruel smile touched her lips. “I am Margot de Clermont,” she said, as if that should explain everything. “And you, Elliot Hayes, are now my prisoner.” She gestured with the dagger towards a narrow, arched doorway hidden in the shadows between bookshelves. “Walk. Do not speak. If you cry out, I will slit your throat and tell the guards I found a common thief defiling the king’s collection.”
There was no bluff in her voice. Elliot believed her completely. He pushed himself to his feet, his legs unsteady. The world of 2014, his office, his students, his life—it all felt a million miles away, a fading dream. The only reality was the cold marble under his shoes, the scent of history in his lungs, and the unsettling presence of the woman with the dagger at his back, guiding him into the dark, unknown heart of the past.
The only reality was the cold marble under his shoes, the scent of history in his lungs, and the unsettling presence of the woman with the dagger at his back, guiding him into the dark, unknown heart of the past.
He stumbled forward, his mind reeling. The arched doorway led not to a corridor, but to a small, windowless chamber hidden behind the shelves, a space so tight the walls seemed to breathe in around them. It was a librarian’s nook, forgotten and dust-choked. A single, guttered candle sat on a low stool, its wax pooled and hardened like a ghost of its own light.
Margot pushed him inside, the movement effortless and final. "Against the wall," she commanded, her voice a low thrum in the confined space.
Elliot obeyed, his back pressing against cold, rough-hewn stone. The dagger never wavered from his line of sight. She watched him, her eyes calculating, as she sheathed the blade at her hip with a soft click. Then she turned to a small, iron-banded chest tucked beneath the stool. From it, she drew a length of coarse, hempen rope, the fibers looking old and stiff.
"Your hands," she said, and it wasn't a request.
He held them out, a numb compliance settling over him. This wasn't a debate in a seminar hall. This was survival. Her fingers were surprisingly cool as they wrapped the rope around his wrists, pulling the first knot tight with a practiced, efficient tug. The roughness of the cord bit into his skin, a stark, painful anchor to this new reality.
She worked quickly, looping the rope around a rusted iron ring bolted into the stone wall behind him, pulling until his arms were stretched taut, his body forced upright. The strain burned in his shoulders. He was completely at her mercy, a specimen pinned for examination.
She stepped back, her gaze sweeping over him once more, from his bound hands to his frightened eyes. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. "There," she whispered, the word hanging in the dusty air. "Now, we talk."