Magna

March 22, 2025

"Welcome to the twenty-first century, Lord Edmund Worthington." I growl, wiping the corner of my mouth with my sleeve, as I accentuate every syllable of his meaningless title. The taste of bile still lingered, a bitter reminder of my abrupt arrival.

Splattered with mud and his mouth agape, the poor, bewildered Victorian-era bloke is a sorry sight—a mere collateral damage of my failed experiment.

We both stand thigh-deep in the river I've only ever seen on holo-screens in my Vir-Aula before.

The Thames.

It really did exist! And judging by the oh-so-wonderful eau-de-poo emanating from both of our bodies, not only did it exist, but whoa boy, did it stink. The smell was a pungent assault, a far cry from the sanitized air of 2210.

I clamber out of the Thames and slump on the river bank as I steal a glance at his Milordness.

Admittedly, he does not look half as bad in his coffee-stained, Thames-water-soaked, tight-across-his-chest nightgown. The damp fabric clung to his form, highlighting a physique surprisingly well-defined for someone from his era.

The sun peeking from behind the clouds illuminates his reddish-brown, now disheveled mop of hair, which accentuates his square jaw.

I take off the wet skirt given by the unkindly matron, and his handsome Lordship stares at me in disbelief. I am met with a twinkle in his hazel eyes, and I can sense my face heat up.

"Twenty-first century?" He huffs, but the annoyingness of the sound is softened by a show of perfect white teeth.

Huh. I guess they did brush in the nineteenth century. Somehow. Whaddya know.

"What on earth do you mean by that, girl? Is this some sort of elaborate jest?" The bloody irritating man makes an attempt to waddle out of the river, with an impatient movement.

He fails twice spectacularly, before managing to do it. This in turn covers the rest of his gown with liquid muck.

If the whole situation hadn't been an even-better-than-a-Shakespearean tragedy, I sure would've laughed my arse off.

Then again, who am I to laugh at him? My evening dress-turned-servant-black has now become an unrecognizable aubergine garment, clinging uncomfortably, and it's not fecking likely it will change color or shape.

Magna Reign, the heiress to Rogellus Reign Industries, in an unfortunate role reversal of the girl in the eggplant, takes one good look at a splish-splash soaked Hollie and an even soakier prototype.

That look is all it takes for her, aka, me, to know: we are so doomed.

I tinker with my tech, pressing the little knobs, and calling Hollie out.

Dammit. Nothing, nothing works! A cold dread seeped into my bones. The prototype, usually so responsive, was stubbornly inert.

"Oh, believe you me, I wish it were an elaborate jest," I underline the same expression he had used on purpose, and motion towards a poster I had noticed earlier.

The thing says: Eric Clapton. Royal Albert Hall, 10th of May 2025, London, UK.

Lord Edmund now stands above me, his brow furrowed in concentration as he mouths out: "Eric Clapton. Royal Albert Hall. Those words speak nothing to me. Yet... The date that follows. May the 10th, 2025. That cannot be. The year... the year is 1840. Have you the power to affect the time, somehow? You... and your demon did this. You witch!"

"Not 'is'. Was. Was 1840, Eddie 'ole chap. It's 2025 now. And not entirely sure what month, luv. Awfully sorry about that." I correct him with a lift of a finger, perhaps enjoying myself a bit too much as he takes it all in. His eyes, wide with a mixture of confusion and dawning horror, were a sight to behold. "May I call you Eddie? Do your friends call you Eddie?"

"They do not, if they wish to remain my friends," is Eddie's automated reply, his pensive gaze still trained on the poster.

His full lips form a thin, vindictive line. He turns towards me and enunciates in a trembling voice, as if trying to get a grip on the situation: "You are henceforth to address me as Lord Edmund, enchantress, and in no other way. And you are to cease your vile ways immediately, and return me home this instant. Do you comprehend, servant girl?"

Enchantress?

I am amused by the insinuation.

Aww, of course his poor limited mind would think that.

What does not amuse me is the "servant girl" moment, and I lash out at him.

"I'm no servant girl to you. And if that's how we're gonna play, you are henceforth to address me as Lady Magna, you fucker, and in no other way. Do you comprehend?" I jut my chin at him in defiance.

This guy's mind needed some serious reconditioning, as far as I was concerned. The bloke had left his brain somewhere in the Stone Ages.

"And another thing: I am no enchantress. What you mistake for magic is actually science. After all, in the wise words of Arthur Clarke, magic is just science we don't understand yet, or, in this case, you don't understand yet."

"I know not this gentleman you speak of. Yet, have you not learned how to pay respect to your employers, then? I am your lord. The money and high social status of Worthington family comes from generations and generations of accrued family money, investments, and property land management." He rakes his hair with his fingers, obviously baffled by the way I have just spoken to him.

"You are not my employer. Let's make something clear right from the start. I never even wanted to land in 1840, or in Lord Worthington's estate, for that matter. The servant girl was just a temporary cover, a decoy if you will, that I needed before figuring out how to return to my time. Oh, and: the money and status of Reign family is probably ten times that of Worthington family anyway!"

I am tempted to spit at his feet once more, wondering how much of it all he understood, when a sly voice, coming from our left, addresses us both.

"Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in. These two are gonna be easy prey, ya reckon, Moses?"

"Sure do, Nigel," 'Moses' hisses in reply mere seconds after.

I snap my head in the direction of the speakers, defensive instincts kicking in. My gaze darted around, assessing the threat.

'Nigel,' the taller of the two, is clad in bleached-out jeans, a torn Def Leppard t-shirt, and a leather jacket. He wears a black bandana with a skull symbol. A rusty earring protrudes from his left ear, as he lazily balances a knife in his hand. His eyes, cold and calculating, fixed on us.

The chubbier one, Moses, positions himself behind me and places his arms around my waist. All I can discern is the rotten breath that comes out of his mouth with every syllable he utters, and I gag, almost vomiting on the spot.

"What happened to ye, darling? Ye took a little tumble in the river with yer sweetheart and both of ye lost yer clothes, now?"

"She's quite a little black beauty, isn't she? Even if there's nothing of value in those pockets of theirs, I'm sure we'll figure out how to have fun with this one." Nigel snickers, keeping his knife trained on poor Edmund. "Search her, Moses."

"The hell you will!" I turn around, and my not-so-well-aimed knee-kick ends up merely brushing his soft parts.

Drat.

Moses moans in protest, but his steel grip on my wrists does not waver, as he binds my hands behind my back.

I pant in earnest, beads of sweat rolling away from my forehead from the effort I'm making to break free.

"She is feisty, this one, I'll give her that. I like them with the spark anyway." Moses' hand rakes my breasts in retaliation.

"Unhand the girl. Now." Edmund speaks up, and I raise my head in surprise.

Is he trying to be... chivalrous?

"Oh yeah? Or what?" Moses chuckles in wicked amusement.

"Or suffer the consequences." Edmund's voice is clear and strong.

Both Moses and Nigel toss their heads back and let out a hearty laugh. I can hardly blame them.

Consequences from whom, exactly? A smelly, unarmed young man in a soaked nightgown?

"Cease your mockery this instant, scoundrels. I am no braggart, but let this be a forewarning: I was trained at the King's Academy and schooled in combat and weaponry usage by no other than a Palace Guard himself. You stand no chance in our encounter."

Nigel lunges forward, snaking his arm below Edmund's neck, and I can see the tip of the blade glistening in the sunlight. Edmund steps hard on Nigel's foot, and the man yowls.

Well, fuck.

The duo commences tumbling in the dust, and it's soon impossible to see where Edmund begins and Nigel ends.

Two men wrestling would, of course, be a lot more appealing to my eye under different circumstances, but dire times like this require dire measures.

And a clear head.

I bat my eyelashes at Moses. "Oh no, please, make them stop. I don't want anyone to get hurt. Why, Edmund just wanted to protect me! Surely you can understand!" I coo, hiding my head on his revolting, stinky, hairy chest. "I beg you! We have no money, but we will do everything you ask!"

"Is that so?" Moses cocks his head. "Everything we ask, you say?" He signals Nigel to stop.

Hiding a diamond ring in my hair? A good idea if I ever had one.

The cloud of dust dissolves, and the battlers now lie on the ground, caked with mud, panting and exhausted.

I wink at Edmund, hoping I had gotten him the moment of much-needed respite.

Also, hoping that a wink means the same in the 1840s as it does in the twenty-third century!

Luckily, the non-verbal cues do not seem to have changed much over the course of time, and Lord Worthington gets the hint.

He headbutts Nigel with all his might at the same time as I jab my elbow in Moses' stomach, and just like that, we get the upper hand in combat.

Wohoo!

Edmund didn't lie. His well-aimed headbutt downright renders Nigel unconscious, while I make quick work of Moses, smashing his jaw with my fist.

He rolls around in pain as I let out a triumphant whoop.

"High five!" I squeak at Edmund and run towards him with my palm wide open.

He evades my maneuver, looking baffled.

"I beg your pardon?"

"No way! You don't know what a high five... Come on! I want to show you something. High five is an expression of elation. Teamwork. As in: we got them. And it's done like this!"

After my little demonstration, he reluctantly gives me a high-five, deploying a 'has she gone mad' look.

We decide to take our leave, but not before I gesture Edmund to take Nigel's jacket.

"I cannot possibly do this." Lord Worthington shakes his head. "That would count as thievery."

"Oh yeah? And how do you think he got it, milord? That is definitely not his jacket." I roll my eyes in Edmund's direction. "The truth is: we don't know how long we're gonna be stuck here. We have to be using everything we can get our hands on. Or are you planning on walking around twenty-first-century London in your soiled, coffee-stained nightgown?"

"Your witchcraft is the very reason why..." He takes a deep breath but accepts the jacket I hand him, as I steer us towards the more populated area near Tower Bridge, in hopes the two now gravely assailants won't follow us.

"This is not an easy thing for me to say, but: thank you for standing up for me, by the way." I beam at Lord Worthington and am pleased to see him blush.

"You had returned in kind. I did not expect your combat prowess to be so high, I admit it. I tried to protect the witch, but she needed no protection." Something akin to admiration flashes in his eyes, and I understand he is not using the word "witch" in a pejorative sense. "It was such a brilliant occurrence, seeing the tigress in you ready to pounce. Those dangerously glinting eyes behind your sweet susurrations. That was a sly usage of a 'Come Hither' stare if I'd ever seen one. And: you are welcome, serv..." He stops mid-sentence, smitten by my disapproving gaze.

Attaboy.

He's a quick learner, at least.

"Apologies. If this is true, what you speak of, and humankind has truly found a way to lift the constraints of the moment and is now able to live in the glorious expanse of what I understand as a time's continuum... Your kind... I mean, black people? You are no longer mere servants, for meager wages? You have been emancipated, I take it?"

"Yes, we have." I take a deep breath, but before I can even take offense at his narrow-mindedness, or try to explain the last three hundred years of history, Edmund hastily adds.

"Do not get me wrong. If you are insinuating I endorse slavery, I am offended. All the black servants of my household are paid fair wages, and it is more than most landlords do. And may I inquire where you received your combat training? You are quite gifted."

A painful jab tugs at my heartstrings as I am reminded of my Vir-Aula and dear Charles. In a way, that android was more of a father to me than Rogellus ever had been.

"That's a story for another time, Milord." I dimple at him and am pleased to have elicited yet another blush from his Lordship. "Right now, what we have to do is get you some... clothes."

"Is that absolutely necessary? Must we spend more time in this epoch? Can you not consort with your demon, and return me to the time and place whence you took me from?"

"There's nothing I want more, trust me, and, I might be able to, as soon as I figure out how to make my 'demon' respond to my demands. Until then, we cannot walk the streets like this. Just... Look at you. Look at us! We look like some psychotic escapees from a Renaissance fair! Or from an insane people asylum. They'd be giving us a psych eval in the blink of an eye."

"Perhaps I do belong in an asylum. Everything I am seeing, and hearing, and touching appears impossible to my senses." His now perfectly dry hair locks distract me with their top-modelness quality.

"Right. Be my guest and keep believing that manure was not really under our feet and that we did not just get almost mugged."

He stares at the Tower Bridge. "I recognize the river Thames, its bank, its muddy color, yet not this bridge. If what you are saying is true, if I am not in my time anymore, with my family and at my estate... Who knows how many things are different, how hard it would be for me to comprehend and accept them all. Perhaps my presence would be burdening to you, witch."

"Splitting up isn't gonna change that. We would each just be alone again, arguing a case we do not understand, based on something we cannot explain. We have to stick together. This is not my time either, so I might be equally lost. And... I feel responsible for returning you home, Edmund." I add in a softer voice, stretching out my hand.

There are some things that instantly form an unspoken bond between two people. Beating up two thugs together sure as hell is one of them.

"You are responsible for what has happened to me." Lord Worthington smiles, accepts my palm and holds it in his.

His grin is now out in full force, and oh my goodness, does he have a chin dimple?

I swear, this man might just be the end of me.

Now it is my turn to blush as I feel the treacherous warmth spread throughout my body.

"And so together we shall... 'stick,'... Miss Reign."