I slide a hand up the wet stone wall to steady myself, then turn back to the alley.

  There has to be a way out of here.

  It’s okay.

  Even if I don’t know where I am, I’ll just walk until I find someone and…

  A sound off to my left, like… the sound of carriage wheels, from those horse-drawn carriages tourists pay a fortune to ride about in. It echoes up the sides of the buildings, punctuated by the sharp clop-clop of horses’ hooves hitting the cobblestones.

  Perfect. I’ll ask the driver where I am. Maybe I’ll even get a ride. Not that I can afford it, of course, but it feels so wrong to be here. The smell, besides being disgusting… it’s deeply unfamiliar in a way I can’t put my finger on. The air itself… it’s like it’s clawing at my spine.

  It’s taking everything in me to not run away, but logically, I know that would be stupid. Help is right down this alley.

  There it is. A dark shape, the silhouette of a man in a tall hat at the top of a black blob growing ever larger as it speeds towards me.

  My heart’s racing so fast now—faster than the horse—but I can’t even say why. I need help, but something just feels wrong. Wrong about this carriage. Wrong about everything.

  I have to force this down, so I take a breath, and I’m just about to raise my arm and call out, when I feel two warm hands slide over my hips, and a deeply unmistakable voice warn me, “Don’t interact.”

  I turn my head towards August, but he pulls me so tight against himself that I can’t move my body, and I feel those hot lips brush my cheek when he hastens to add, “You’re in a time slip. Just stay calm, and it will pass.”

  “A time slip?” A fucking time slip? This is too ridiculous for words. But these buildings and this street…

  I look down again, and now that my eyes have adjusted a little, I can see it’s all cobblestones. The gaps between are full of old and festering mud, stuffed with straw and refuse. That’s the smell. Mud and garbage and… horse manure.

  The horseman himself is upon us. My sliver of pavement is so thin I have to press back against August to avoid being hit by the carriage, and he draws me back too. He’s half hiding behind me, half guiding me. And the cart man… his eyes lock onto mine.

  He’s wearing an old brown coat, long and dirty. It comes right down to his scuffed knee-high boots. He’s got on a vest underneath, a dirty white shirt poking up from behind it. This is none of the polished tourist-trap historical costumery I’m used to seeing. But he still looks historical. And despite the alarm bells clanging down my veins, I have enough awareness to understand there’s only one reason for that.

  This man’s from the past.

  The living and breathing past that’s right here, right now, in front of me. That I’m a part of.

  Probably a mirror to me, there’s a look of unreality right there on his face as he clocks me. My modern hoodie, my track pants, my hairstyle. He doesn’t know what to make of me at all, and I suddenly have the oddly humorous vision of him going home and trying to explain to his wife and kids what he just saw. ‘Some strange man in foreign clothes, staring at me like…’

  I force my eyes down to the filthy street and wait for him to go past. It feels like forever that I sense his shocked gaze on me, but it must only be seconds. The whole time, it’s just noise and dark and fear of what’s going to happen if I fuck up. How much worse is this going to get? How am I going to get home? Can I get home?

  August’s fingers grip me a little tighter as the moment stretches, then finally, when the sound begins to fade, one of his hands slides up my back, over my shoulder, and down my biceps, where August gives my arm a comforting squeeze. The other hand, the one on my hip, he tightens, and he says into my ear, clear and gentle, “It’s okay. We’ll get you home. I promise.”

  All at once, I realise how lost I am. That this man—me—is my only help and my only guide in another world. And I genuinely don’t know how to feel about that, because I am a fuckup, start to finish. I’m a man who can’t even get a full-time job. I’m a man I wouldn’t trust to think me out of a cardboard box.

  And yet here I am, completely reliant on me to save me from whatever the hell is going on.

  CHAPTER SIX

  BAD AUGUST

  TO THE RESCUE. SORT OF.

  August’s muscles are built. Christ, his arm is so firm. The masculinity is practically dripping from him.

  I have got to stop thinking about myself like this.

  But he’s not myself. He’s not. So, this is fine.

  Better spin him around to have a chat. I need to remember he hasn’t had quite as long as I have to adjust to this situation. Nor has he been watching me go for runs, like I’ve been watching him trotting about in these slutty, practically indecent grey sweatpants. I wonder if he’s wearing anything under there. If he is, it’s not hiding much⁠—

  That’s when I look up and meet his eyes.

  He’s really scared.

  I must get a grip of myself.

  And stop gripping myself like this.

  I shove my hands in my pockets lest I cling onto his nice arms. “It looks more terrifying than it is. You’ve never experienced a time slip before?”

  “No, I’ve never experienced a time slip before, August.”

  That kind of sarcasm isn’t especially helpful. Not when I’m trying so hard to be nice. And mature. And to stop ogling him.

  “What is happening?” he insists. “Is this because I touched you again? Is this my fault?”

  I have to shake my head to reassure him, but the problem is, it just might be. “I’ve been here before.” Only this happened later on. It’s happening faster in his world. And I can only think of one reason for that. Either way, looks like I’m already too late. “I know this place, and I know how to get out.”

  “Can you get me home?” His voice is weak when he says it, on the verge of breaking, and I remember how frightened I was the first time this happened to me. But that was a long time ago now. And I know it’s worse for him because he doesn’t understand what events set this in motion.

  “Of course I can. But this isn’t a street we want to stay in. Come with me.” I try to take his arm, but he pulls away from me, stumbling into the middle of the cobblestone laneway.

  “I thought you weren’t supposed to touch me?”

  “I was being overly cautious.” Your universe is fucked anyway, pal. Also, you’re hot. “I think it’s okay.”

  He starts walking in the direction I’m facing, even if he doesn’t come any closer.

  Smart.

  I set a slow pace by his side. “You’re in the same place in London, outside the cafe, but you’re in the year eighteen forty-four.”

  He stops again. “What? How is that possible? And how can you know that?”

  “Well, look around. On the left here, it’s hard to see because these buildings have all been painted different colours, and the facades have mostly changed over the years, but you might recognise some of it. You’re still on the same street. That’s still where the cafe will be one day.”

  Chin raised, he spins a small circle, studying the architecture all around. “No. No, this is an alley. Some of it looks similar, but…” He trails off, frowning hard.

  “We’re in the slums. On the edge of them. These buildings on our right, the whole lot were demolished in the eighteen nineties. Gone forever. They kicked everyone out of their houses, knocked them down, paved over where they had been, and made it a promenade instead.”

  “No, this can’t be real.” But he’s tripped up the gutter as he moves closer to the other side, running his hand along the filthy stone. Already there’s a look of wonder about him that I recognise. That excitement of first discovery. That mind that’s mine. Or was. And it hurts to see.

  “When we get to the bottom of the street, you’ll recognise where we are. None of that has changed very much. But it’s different enough for you to believe me.”

  He’s walking again, side-eyeing me. It’s kind of weird that I don't know how to break this ice between us. I’m trying to put myself in his position, to figure out what he’s thinking, but this is one thing that has never happened to me, being here in the past with someone else. Let alone myself.

  I’m surprised at his calm tone when he asks, “How long does it last, and how do we get out?”

  “The longest it’s lasted for me was a few hours. Then it just evaporates. You’ll turn a corner and be back in your time.”

  Passing the tip of his tongue over his lips, concentrating on the pavement, “Does time move the same? Here and in my time?”

  A clever question. But one that disappoints me, because I’d hoped he would know the answer to this. I venture, “Yes, but… you know time isn’t linear, right? Um. These two realities are sets of particles in stasis. Unique sets. When that reality and ours become too similar, they can merge. It’s sort of like a…” I’m struggling to think of an analogy this time. No coffee.

  August suggests, “Like a puddle next to a river? In the rain? And they’re both water, and separate, but one overflows and becomes the other.”

  “Yeah, that’s exactly right.” I realise how hard my heart’s been beating worrying he might not get this, but he does.

  He continues, “So, when the rain stops and things dry out, they’ll go back to being two separate states?”

  “Side by side. Not touching. But both water. In this case, in a nutshell, the two realities became so similar they’ve recreated the same reality in this specific place at this specific time. These things usually last only seconds before things right themselves, but with the recent shifts in your reality…”

  “With the caffeine in my decaf?”

  I can’t help but laugh at that. “Yes. I’m sorry about your coffee.”

  We walk a little further, and I guess my reassurances are working, because he seems more settled now. Settled enough for his curiosity to grow, for his brain to switch back on. “But you can’t get back? To your puddle, where you came from? Did you end up in my reality in the same way as this time slip occurred? Just got swept up like we have?”

  Actually, I think I’d prefer if his brain switched back off, just for a little while. “No. I… chose to come here.”

  “You chose to? How?”

  “August…” I cannot drop this bomb on him yet. I’m only starting to gain his trust. And I’m not even sure he can help me anyway. “There was…” Why don’t I have a ready lie for this?

  Because this Hot August is also unnervingly clever…

  And hot...

  “When, um, things got weird with my world… I was just able to.” That is weak as fuck.

  “That makes no sens⁠—”

  “Oh, look, this is what I’ve been wanting to show you.” I grab his arm and drag him to the bottom of the alley, into the soft light of gas-lit streetlamps, where horses stand tied to posts, shifting on their tired hooves, where the street is wide and cobbled, and where people mill about in full and undeniable Victorian dress.

  That should easily be enough to convince him, if the rest already wasn’t. But the jewel in this particular crown is the Crown and Dragon pub, just opposite. It’s almost two hundred years old where he’s from, and a protected building. Here, in the past, it looks almost exactly the same as it would to his modern eyes.

  His gaze floats toward the top of the building in wonder, his lips parting as he takes in all three storeys. The past is alive in everything—every smell and sight all around—but that building is unmistakable. There’s something in the way his eyes spark then. He has the magical wonder of a scientist in them, that flame that burns for more and more, and I can see it overpowering his fear. And I want to take his hand and say, ‘I know. I understand, like no one else can. Because it’s exhilarating. Because sometimes terror is where you feel the most alive.’

  Then, he asks the last thing I would ever have expected him to. “Did you say we can’t interact?”

  Christ, look at him. Victorian lamplight looks good on anyone, but on August, it’s a revelation. It’s because I can see the light of danger all about him—in him. Fuck, we could have so much fun together. If we only had a little more time. And so I tell him about the fiftieth lie so far today: “It was just the coachman I didn’t want you to go near. He looked dodgy.”

  His reply is delivered swiftly. “But won’t anything we do here have a ripple effect and change the modern world as we know it?”

  He’s too smart for my bullshit.

  And that makes my heart beat so fast.

  I want badly to go into that pub with him. I want to sit with him. I want to buy him a drink. And as fucked up as it is, I realise now, I might like to do a whole lot more with him.

  I’m not sure what to make of that.

  But you know what? How often does an opportunity like this present itself?

  Fuck the consequences, and fuck this universe. It can implode triple speed for all I care. I’m going for it. “We’ll just have to be careful we don’t make a ripple.”

  His smile is conspiratorial, but not a tenth as sly as mine almost definitely is when I ask, “Can I buy you a drink?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  GOOD AUGUST

  HAS PROBABLY, ALL THINGS CONSIDERED, EARNED A DRINK

  Can he buy me a drink?

  What is even happening?

  But August seems so confident when he starts across the street that I’m inclined to follow.

  And I hardly want to be left alone here in eighteen forty-four.

  I’m in eighteen forty-four.

  Really eighteen forty-four.

  I don’t want to miss this. I’m shit-scared, but this is also the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me.

  Before I know it, I’m running after him.

  It’s a busy street, people walking back and forth, lots of them milling around the entrance to the pub. I can’t believe how many horses there are. And the noises. No cars, of course not, but it’s only now I realise how used to that sound I am. That constant whirring and whooshing. But instead of engines, it’s wheels on stone, and the clomp of boots, some made with wooden heels, not synthetics. The echo rings around the buildings.

  I can’t smell any perfume, not a drop, like I might out at night usually. It generally doesn’t smell as bad here as the alley did, but the scent of horse manure is ever-present. And straw. It’s like visiting a farm, only that mixed with the scent of thousands of chimneys, lots of them burning coal judging by the acrid harshness in the back of my throat. Then there’s the stagnant puddles, garbage, but it’s like being on holiday I guess, in that it doesn’t smell half as bad as it usually might.

  August’s heading directly for the door of the pub, and the second we step inside, everyone’s staring at us, on account of our strange clothes, I suppose. But he’s so self-assured, and he takes it all in without a flinch. It’s the weirdest thing to watch. He’s me, I know he is, but it’s like he just doesn’t care what other people think.

  I’d love to be like that. I’d love to know where he gets that from. What is the key difference between us that lets him act that way, when I’m always so nervous?

  Heat floods my cheeks as we approach the bar. It’s dark in here, lit only by candles and a fireplace, so it’s even dimmer inside than out, and I’m thankful August probably can’t see my embarrassed blush when he looks back at me. I hate the way it happens all the time, so easily.

  He threads his way past people, and even beyond the weirdness of brushing up against the rough brown coats and big skirts, there’s an extra layer of bizarre. This bar is exactly the same as I remember it from my own time. The tiles, those I’ve stared at over a few beers, haven’t changed a bit, beyond a touch of discolouration. The pressed-copper ceiling is no different. The bar is an identical wooden countertop. Maybe it’s been replaced at some point, but it’s the same shape, in the same spot, the same height.

  Suddenly, August’s ordering drinks… What money did they even use? Shillings and… and things? My card’s certainly not going to work. But August’s leaning over anyway, talking to a shrewd-looking man who seems increasingly displeased.

  I feel like this is going to end very badly.

  The barman, a mostly bald guy in a dirty and stained brown shirt, shakes his head.

  August’s response confounds me. He reaches around behind his neck, unclasps a necklace I hadn’t realised he was wearing, and holds it out for the barman to inspect.

  At this stage, I need to know what’s being said, so I squeeze past a couple more people, who pull back from me anyway, and lean in close to hear August’s, “It’s pure gold. A very fair exchange for a few ales.”

  Is he selling his jewellery? To buy me a drink?

  I catch his arm. “Don’t do that. You don’t have to. We don’t need to have a drink.”

  The way he dips his head close to mine, the way he holds my eye contact, and says, “Let me do this for you. I want to have a drink with you.” It’s so disarming. His earnest tone, his… What even is that? It’s not the words he says, but the way he says them.

  My cheeks are on fire now. He’s me, so I’m clearly misreading something here. But his tone was enough to make the inside of my mouth turn to wool.

  I shut up and watch him barter his necklace away in exchange for two large and copper tankards of ale, one of which he pushes towards me.

  After everything that’s happened so far today, it’s odd that this should be the most compelling. To touch a cup that’s one hundred and eighty years old, but that’s also new… to feel the moisture of beer froth on my fingers and know it’s long gone, every drop of it, now and forever, every trace of whatever type of beer this is, of the man who served it, of the people who made it, of the humans in this room… to know this is all dust on the wind where I’m from.

  It’s scary, but it’s special. There’s something almost sacred in it. A look into a world extinguished.