*Hattie*
My frozen panic lingers as Charlie moves to the oak wardrobe at the back of her room, flipping through the dresses on wooden hangers. She bombards me with questions, but I don’t answer a single one. My mind is consumed with only one thought: How the hell do I get home?
“You say you’re from Seattle,” she says, her back to me. “I’ve never heard of such a place. Where is it? And you’re a Miller, you say? Are you related to the Millers of Beacon Hill?”
I say nothing, but that doesn’t deter her.
“I can’t make sense of how you appeared so quickly in that hole,” she continues, then turns toward me, her gaze narrowing. “Are you a British spy? Is that why you're wearing men's clothes?”
Her accusatory tone sends a chill through me. Before I know it, tears are streaming down my face. I
