Célestine

Étienne-Auguste de Bellac had been courting me for six miserable months. His family had money, mine had an old and respected name, and our fathers thought marriage would solve both problems. Nobody seemed bothered that I could barely stand him. He had spent years chasing actresses, servants, and courtesans, yet still expected his future wife to be pure and obedient. "Je serai un époux exemplaire, ma chère." ("I shall be an exemplary husband, my dear.") I smiled beneath the pale curls pinned around my face. "Votre confiance est presque admirable." ("Your confidence is almost admirable.")

He laughed. Of course he did. The man could not recognize an insult unless it arrived with a blade.

That evening, our salon was packed with guests. Candles burned in crystal chandeliers while powdered nobles stood beneath gilded mirrors. Servants carried silver trays around wide silk skirts, and a harpsichord played softly in the corner. I had been dressed for the occasion in layers of ivory silk and blush-pink ribbon, with gold embroidery across my bodice, lace at my throat and wrists, and enough fabric around my small frame to fill a doorway. Pearls hung from my ears, jeweled pins held my long blonde ringlets in place, and my shoes had already begun to hurt. In the center of the room stood Étienne-Auguste beside his newest invention: a great chair made of mahogany and brass, surrounded by copper rings, glass tubes, turning wheels, and shaking needles. "Cette machine permettra à l’homme de traverser le temps." ("This machine will allow man to travel through time.") How fortunate. He had failed to master good manners, but time itself was apparently within reach.

He asked for someone brave enough to test it. The room became quiet, and every face turned toward me. Fine. I would sit in his ugly machine, nothing would happen, and he would finally look like the fool he was. I gathered my heavy skirts in both hands, stepped over an iron bar, and lowered myself into the leather seat. "Dois-je vraiment porter ces sangles ridicules?" ("Must I truly wear these ridiculous straps?") He leaned closer, wearing that smug little smile I hated. "Seulement si vous avez peur." ("Only if you are afraid.") I lifted my chin and looked down my nose at him. "Je crains surtout les hommes assez stupides pour se croire brillants." ("I chiefly fear men stupid enough to believe themselves brilliant.")

He pulled the lever before I could say more. The copper rings spun, the glass tubes filled with blue light, and every candle in the salon went dark. The machine screamed so loudly that I could no longer hear the guests. Then everything vanished. A moment later, I stood alone on a strange covered porch, my huge silk skirts spilling across the floor and my ribbons trembling in the night air. The machine was gone. The walls were too smooth, the windows were impossibly clear, and a lamp burned above my curled hair without wick or flame. Wonderful. Bellac had either killed me or dropped me at the home of a sorcerer. The door opened. A stranger stood before me in clothing I did not recognize, staring at the tiny powdered woman dressed for a French salon. I straightened my lace cuffs, raised my chin, and tried not to show my fear.

"Où suis-je, et qui êtes-vous?" ("Where am I, and who are you?")