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  Catherine blinked at her mother's outspokenness, but Annette was already pulling her away from the door. “You look like you need a few minutes to yourself, Cathy. Doesn't your mother know you came to Columbia to unwind?” Even though she didn't recognize her, Catherine instinctively liked this lively girl and followed her obediently into the music room. Only it wasn't the music room! The pianoforte was missing, and so was the harp. Had her mother had them moved for tonight? It seemed a lot of trouble, even if she did have the slaves do it.

  Surveying the room critically, she realized that even more had changed. The claw-footed divan was upholstered in deep rose, when only this morning it had sported a green-and-yellow floral print. The rest of the room's decor had been altered to coordinate, from the pink-striped draperies in place of the green velvet that had hung on the long windows, to the rose-and-gray patterned carpet covering what had before been highly polished bare boards.

  Catherine sat down heavily on the new divan, her mind reeling. Her dress billowed up around her and she stared at its blue folds in something like shock. The room began to spin and she feared for a moment that she would swoon, much as she had always detested that particular bit of artifice in other young ladies.

  “Cathy, what is it?” asked Annette in alarm. “Don't tell me it's nothing—I know you too well. What's wrong?”

  Catherine looked up at her helplessly, trying to force her numb brain to function. “I don't know. I honestly have no idea!”

  Annette sat down next to Catherine on the divan and began rubbing her hands briskly. “You look like you've seen a ghost! As a matter of fact, you look as white as one. Come on, tell me about it. You've always been able to tell me anything.”

  “But I haven't! Told you anything, I mean. I do not even know you, although you seem to know me perfectly well. My gown, this room, everything is wrong! Am I mad, or is everyone else? What is happening?” Her voice rose in panic and Annette tried to calm her, glancing at the open archway.

  “Sshh, Cathy! Everything will be all right, I promise. Just calmly tell me what you think is wrong. Have you lost your memory? Did you bump your head or something?”

  “No. At least . . . I don't believe so. I remember perfectly well who I am and everything that has happened today, and even yesterday, but things seem to have changed. This room, for example. Only this afternoon there was a pianoforte right here, and my grandmother's harp there, in the corner.” She pointed with a shaking finger. “They're gone! And the colors are different. Even my gown. When I put it on, no more than an hour ago, it was a peach or apricot color. Now it's blue. The fabric is different, as well. It is certainly not satin!”

  Annette regarded her strangely. “Are you playing a part, Cathy? It's not like you to mess with my mind this way. You're not just 'getting into character,' or whatever actors call it, are you?”

  “Actors again!” exclaimed Catherine. “That is what another woman said, and Mama did not even seem surprised by it. Am I supposed to have been an actress?”

  Annette now appeared almost as bewildered as Catherine felt, but before she could answer, Catherine's mother appeared in the archway. “There you are, girls. Come, Cathy, you two will have time for gossip later. I need you to help me hostess. There are a few people you still need to meet, and the band will be starting soon. I can't get over how well you look the part tonight—I'm surprised that you didn't get the role in that play.”

  “Acting yet again!” exclaimed Catherine in dismay. “Mama, how can you? You know you would have my head if I, a Prescott, ever set foot on a stage.”

  “Prescott! Oh, marvelous, Cathy! Keep it up—everyone will love it.” Her mother seemed genuinely delighted at her words, which confused Catherine even more. She tried a different approach.

  “Mama, what are these new candles you have in the chandeliers? They burn so steadily, and so much more brightly than the ordinary ones. Are they a new invention?” She really wanted to know, thinking they might be implemented at the plantation, as well.

  But though she still smiled, her mother only said, “That's good, Cathy, but don't overdo it. I'd rather you didn't draw attention to my less-than-authentic details. I could hardly replace the bulbs with candles for this one evening. For one thing, they'd probably drip and ruin the fixtures, though it would have been a nice touch. Do come along and meet some people.”

  Catherine rose and followed, afraid for the moment to ask any more questions, since none of the answers made any sense. She forced herself to smile, hoping her fit, or dream, or whatever it was, would pass quickly.

  “Cathy, this is Mr. and Mrs. Brentwood, of Charleston. She was a member of my New Jersey DAR before she moved down here two years ago, but I don't believe you've ever met her.”

  Catherine was certain she had not, but managed to murmur an appropriate greeting and curtsied deeply, which seemed to charm the Brentwoods. Her mother then took control of the conversation and Catherine was able to observe her companions more closely.

  Both of the Brentwoods were dressed in suitable evening attire, though there was something decidedly strange about Mr. Brentwood's shoes, she thought. They spoke with an accent similar to the one her mother was affecting. When the Brentwoods wandered off to greet other acquaintances, Catherine became aware of the intriguing man she had met earlier watching the guests from the other side of the room.

  “Can you tell me about that man, Mama? That one there, in the strange clothing,” she asked impulsively.

  “Strange . . . Oh, of course! He refused to wear a costume, and I was afraid if I insisted he wouldn't come down at all. Very well, sweetheart, I'll play along. This was all my idea, after all.” Her mother primmed up her mouth and continued in an affected tone. “That, Miss Prescott, is Mr. Logan Thorne, a promising young architect and very eligible bachelor. Would you care for an introduction?”

  Though not understanding the first half of what her mother had said, Catherine very much wanted a chance to speak to Mr. Thorne again. Perhaps she could undo whatever offense he felt she had committed against him. “Yes, thank you, I would,” she replied just as primly, which seemed to please her mother. She was therefore led across the room as the small orchestra began to tune their instruments.

  “Logan, ah, Mr. Thorne?” said her mother as they reached the gentleman in question. “Might I present to you my daughter, Miss Catherine Prescott? She has expressed a desire to make your acquaintance.”

  Logan bowed civilly, though he raised one eyebrow questioningly as he did so. Catherine felt herself flushing to the roots of her hair. How could Mama have been so gauche? One did not say that a lady wished to make a gentleman's acquaintance. How forward he must think her!

  “Do I take it this means you're finally willing to accept my apology?” asked Logan in an undertone, examining her furiously blushing face with something like surprise. Though she still had no idea what he meant, Catherine nodded, mindful of her mother beside them. “Eligible bachelor” she had termed him. Her earlier suspicion about her parents' motives must have been well founded.

  The orchestra began playing in earnest at that moment, a tune that Catherine recognized. She wondered whether Logan might ask her to dance. She had been much admired in the ballrooms of London and found she was not at all averse to displaying one of her few social graces for this man. But when she glanced at him, she saw that he was scowling.

  “I hope you're not having them play this antique stuff all night,” he remarked.

  Catherine nearly gasped at such rudeness, but her mother was already answering.

  “You can hear rock or rap or whatever it is you listen to every other day of the year, Logan. Consider this a cultural education.”

  “At a party?” he exclaimed in mock horror. “Do you really think anyone will know how to dance to this?”

  “I do,” said Catherine, feeling that he needed some sort of set-down for such behavior. Both Logan and her mother turned to look at her in astonishment.

  “Marvelous!” cr
ied her mother, recovering first. “Then you can show Logan how it's done. Maybe the other guests will follow suit.”

  Logan looked as though he wanted to refuse, but his hostess fixed him with a challenging stare that dared him to back down. He nodded and held out his hand to Catherine. “Very well, Miss . . . Prescott, was it? Show me the steps.”

  She had the feeling he thought he was calling her bluff. Well, she would call his, instead. She led him out near the center of the floor—the actual center was occupied by that astonishing fountain—and proceeded to instruct him in the quadrille.

  “Hold my hand so, Mr. Thorne, and begin with your right foot. Yes. Watch what I do and try to perform as a sort of mirror image. I believe we will omit the more complicated portions of the dance for now.”

  “Oh, no you don't. Show me the whole thing, please.” He thought she was trying to get out of it!

  Catherine bowed her head to him slightly, and began her part of the dance. The quadrille was a lively dance, requiring very little contact between them, and she was able to perform it as a solo, her anger at his attitude giving her added energy.

  She finished one set of the intricate steps and paused, waiting for him to partner her. Instead, he began to applaud, and to her intense embarrassment, the majority of the guests joined in. Suddenly realizing how she must have looked to everyone, dancing alone in the middle of the big room, she fervently wished that the floor might open up and swallow her.

  Thankfully, the orchestra paused at that moment and Logan led her from the floor as she desperately tried to recover some shred of dignity. “That is how it is done, Mr. Thorne.” She tried to speak haughtily, but her voice came out in a high quaver instead. Would this madness never end?

  “So I see,” he replied and, to her surprise, she thought she detected respect in his eyes. “You really did know what you were doing. I apologize—again—for doubting you.” She looked up at him uncertainly. Surely he must despise her for such a display? But no, his expression, while puzzled, showed nothing like distaste. Her mother would be another matter, though, she thought suddenly. She would likely banish her to her room for the rest of the evening—or even the rest of the year.

  “Cathy, that was wonderful/” her mother exclaimed as the couple reached the edge of the floor, astonishing Catherine once again on this most astonishing evening. “You never said a word about having learned the dances of the period. Did you do it to surprise me?”

  Catherine stared before managing a slight nod. She had nearly forgotten how her mother had changed along with everything else. She would just try to brazen her way through until the world—or her own mind—returned to normal.

  “Now, this I know how to do. Shall we?” Logan was holding out his hand to her again and she realized that a waltz had begun. Two or three other couples drifted onto the floor, and no one seemed to be staring at her now. Would they let her live down that ridiculous demonstration? Breathing a bit easier, she allowed Logan to lead her back onto the floor.

  He waltzed somewhat differently than the English gentlemen had, but she found his steps easy enough to follow. Nor did he try to hold her too tightly, as an occasional London beau had done, for which she was grateful. Being this close to him was already doing unsettling things to her heart.

  By the time the waltz ended at least ten couples had joined them, and as the last strains of music sounded she decided that perhaps madness wasn't such a bad thing. She allowed a small, contented sigh to escape her lips as Logan held her for a moment after the dance ended. She looked up at him shyly, hoping he had enjoyed the experience as much as she.

  He was smiling, too, but when their eyes met, he suddenly frowned and stepped away. “Well, I, ah, have work to do. Good night, Cathy, er, Miss Prescott.” He sketched a stiff half bow and left her, bowing again to his hostess as he passed. And then he was gone.

  Surely she'd done nothing to offend him this time, thought Catherine indignantly. What could have caused such a change in his manner? Was she the one who was mad, or was he? Walking slowly from the floor, she decided the answer was beyond her, at least for the moment. But now she renewed her determination to discover just what was going on.

  “Well, he didn't stay long, but at least he came,” said her mother as Catherine reached her side. “And I didn't have to prod him into that second dance, I hope you noticed.”

  “Mama, are you matchmaking again?” asked Catherine bluntly. This new, changed mother of hers didn't seem to mind plain speaking.

  “No, of . . . of course not,” she said almost guiltily, to Catherine's surprise. “I've about given up on Logan for you. It was pretty obvious last night the two of you don't . . .” Her voice trailed off wistfully. “Oh, run along and enjoy yourself, Cathy. I'm sure there are other young men to dance with, maybe more to your taste. Though most of the men here are closer to your father's age, I have to admit.”

  The orchestra was now playing a polonaise, but no one was dancing to it and Catherine certainly had no intention of giving another demonstration. She saw that friendly young matron, Annette, standing nearby and made her way over to her side.

  “I thought you and Logan didn't get along,” said Annette teasingly as Catherine approached her. “That was quite a dance lesson you gave us! Where did you learn to do that?”

  “In London,” replied Catherine without thinking, feeling her cheeks grow hot again at the memory of what she had done.

  “London? When was that?” asked Annette with great interest. “You never sent me a postcard.”

  “I . . . I was there these two years past,” said Catherine faintly. “Do you suppose we could slip away somewhere to speak privately? I simply must discover what is going on.” She had little interest in the ball, now that Logan had left. In his arms, she had nearly forgotten that her world had turned topsy-turvy. But now she had to know.

  “Sure,” said Annette. “Do you want to go up to your room? Nobody would bother us there, unless your mother comes looking for you again.”

  “I don't believe she will.” Catherine led the way up the stairs but paused at the top. “I hope I am in the same room. So much else seems to have changed.” She cautiously opened the door on the right, then breathed a sigh of relief. This room, at least, looked as it should, or nearly so. She motioned Annette to enter and the women sat half facing each other on the bed.

  “Oh!” exclaimed Catherine as she sat down. “The bed looks right, but it certainly doesn't feel right. It is so hard!” Annette frowned slightly. “It feels fine to me. What did you expect it to feel like?”

  “Goose down. I have—or had—a down mattress. This feels almost like wood.”

  “It's better for your back, trust me. Lordy, nowadays I'd never even be able to get out of a feather bed.” She patted her round stomach. “But never mind the mattress. Tell me what's wrong.”

  “I was rather hoping you could tell me,” said Catherine plaintively. “So much seems different, and I don't see how it could have happened. Will you tell me what you know about me?”

  “Sounds like amnesia to me,” murmured Annette.

  “What?”

  “Never mind. You're Kathryn Monroe, though sometimes you call yourself Kathryn Sykes-Monroe, like your mother. You said it made a more distinctive stage name. Yes, stage,” she repeated, when Catherine started to speak. “For the past two years you've been trying to break into theater, as well as pursuing your fund-raising work in Washington, D.C. I've known you since we were college roommates at William and Mary, more than six years. I don't think you've ever been to England. How much of this do you remember?”

  “None of it,” said Catherine simply. “Are you mad, or am I? My name is Catherine Prescott, though my mother uses the name Sykes-Prescott and will wish me to add the Sykes to my name when I marry. I have never even visited Washington. I spent the past two Seasons in London with my Aunt Sykes and returned to America only a few weeks ago. This ball was to have been in honor of General Lafayette, but I don't believe he i
s here at all, nor does anyone seem to expect him. I suppose it must be I who is mad, for everyone else cannot be!”

  Annette regarded her intently for a moment, then asked a single, irrelevant question. “What year is it?”

  Catherine blinked. “It is 1825, of course. But what has that to do with anything?”

  “Whoa! This is getting too weird.” Annette pushed herself up from the bed and paced the room, muttering to herself, then stopped and took a deep breath. “Listen, I'm no psychiatrist, so I can't say for sure if you're crazy or not, but it sounds like you believe everything you're saying. I don't know what's going on with you, but I do know for a fact that this is the year 2013.”

  For a moment Catherine merely stared at her, not quite comprehending. Finally, she said faintly, “I must have misunderstood you. What did you say?”

  “This is the second decade of the twenty-first century. If you're from 1825, you've somehow come nearly two hundred years into the future.”

  “That . . . that doesn't seem very likely, does it?” Catherine was now staring at Annette as intently as the other girl was regarding her. What sort of game could she be playing at?

  “No, it doesn't,” admitted Annette. “I'm afraid it's a lot more likely that you're crazy. For one thing, if you're really Catherine Prescott from 1825, what happened to Kathy Monroe, my best friend?” She raked a hand through her upswept hair, sending pins flying. “But . . . I'm almost starting to believe you're really not her—you don't talk or act much like her. But that's definitely her body you're in!”

  Catherine whirled to the mirror over the dressing table. “What do you mean?” she demanded, when one glance reassured her. “This is my face, my body.” Even as she said it, though, she realized it was not quite true. Her complexion was darker, her hairstyle different than she had ever worn it, and . . . were those freckles on the bridge of her nose?

  Annette shrugged, her hands spread wide. “Maybe Kathy looks as much like you as her mother looks like your mother. I know that's Kathy's costume—she showed it to me last night.”