Amelia finally awoke lying on her back, chest heaving, her head still spinning as she peered at a bruised grey sky swirled with muddied rainbows. At first, she didn’t understand what she was looking at. It was no ordinary sky. As she stared, frigid breath curled from her mouth like a wraith. The house in Belgravia was gone. Eventually, once the spinning had slowed, she shoved her fists into the snow and forced herself unsteadily to her feet. She was alone. In the pale opal

October 19th, 1870 Belgravia, London Amelia Beckett was struggling to take down her family’s old mirror from above the fireplace when it slipped, struck the mantle and crashed to the floor, shattering instantly. She recoiled, heart pounding, as jagged fragments scattered across the hardwood. The violence of the sound lingered in her ears. “Oh, God…” she murmured, tears welling as she gazed down at her mistake. She had lost her grip, momentarily unnerved by the face