Lyra took a confident step through the gate—and then stopped dead in her tracks.
Her eyes widened as she stared out at the street beyond. It was... not familiar. Not even close. Instead of cars and sidewalks, there were cobblestone roads.
She turned slowly back to Elias, blinking.
"Okay. Okay, I just need one small favor before I have my meltdown. What's the name of this street?"
"Whisperthon Lane," Elias said, as if that clarified anything.
She blinked. "Excuse me? I didn't quite catch that."
"Whis. Per. Thon. Lane," he repeated slowly.
Lyra stared at him, then back at the cobblestone street. "Whisperthon," she said, testing the word. "That sounds like a password to an OnlyFans account."
"It's named after the first Duchess of the province."
"Where the hell is Whisperthon Lane?" Lyra asked. Her arms flailed as she looked up and down the cobbled street as if Google Maps would materialize in the air and explain the mix-up.
Elias, who had been quietly observing the swirl of emotions flickering across her face—confusion, panic, disbelief, and a generous dollop of sarcasm—tilted his head. "Where do you come from?" he asked gently. It wasn't just a practical question. He wanted to understand her, this girl with the haunted eyes and the coffee-stained shirt, who somehow made bird poop seem charming.
"St. Mark's Place," she said, still distracted as she craned her neck.
"St. Mark…" He repeated the name slowly, as if tasting it. "Ah! I know of it." He smiled in quiet triumph. "I can take you there."
Elias turned to the gatekeeper, who was visibly torn between doing his job and trying to figure out if Lyra's exposed knees were a sign of rebellion or seduction. "Get the carriage ready. And a driver."
Lyra's eyebrows shot up. "A driver, huh? Ooh la la. Fancy. You must be one of those high society types."
"I like to think so," Elias said, lips quirking in a smile that was about 80% regal charm and 20% unaware humility. His smile softened the severe edges of his face, and for a second Lyra forgot she was in the middle of a probable psychotic break.
Then the record scratched.
"Wait a minute," she said, taking a step back. "Did you say… carriage?"
"Yes…" Elias replied, a little confused. "Why? High society sorts do ride in carriages."
"Oh no," she said, slowly blinking as the realization hit her. "I'm sorry—is this some kind of immersive period drama town? Like, are there cameras somewhere? Is this a weird influencer prank? I swear, if this is for TikTok, I will cry. I will."
"I don't follow," Elias said, still trying to make sense of the strange blend of energy and insanity that was the woman before him.
Just then, the carriage rolled into view, pulled by two regal black horses, their hooves clicking rhythmically against the cobblestone. Lyra's eyes lit up as though someone had just handed her a lifetime supply of chocolate and free Wi-Fi.
"Oh my God! It is!" she squealed, clutching her chest dramatically. "Why didn't you say so? This is like every Jane Austen fantasy I've ever had!"
She giggled—a bright, delighted sound that echoed across the courtyard—before clambering up into the carriage with all the grace of a caffeinated squirrel. Her oversized T-shirt and shorts shifted in the process, riding up just enough to grant Elias, who stood directly behind her, a very unintended—and very intimate—view.
For a second, the logical part of his brain short-circuited. The royal guard could have sounded an alarm and he wouldn't have noticed.
"Holy heavens…" he muttered under his breath. How in the name of the sacred flame had he thought this woman could be Lirae?
The resemblance was eerie. Same eyes. Same lips. Same dimple that flickered in her left cheek when she smiled. Lirae had been all grace and composure. She could walk into a room and silence it with a glance.
He cleared his throat, told the driver their destination, and climbed in after her, deliberately sitting a solid foot away. Any closer and he feared he might catch whatever manic delight she was vibrating on. Or worse—start liking it.
The carriage jolted into motion.
"So," Elias began, "are you a family member of Mark's?"
Lyra gave him a confused glance as she gently poked the velvet-lined walls, then tapped the little tassel hanging near the window. "Nooo? I told you. My name is Lyra Beckham. B-E-C-K-H-A-M. Like the soccer guy."
"Visiting then?" Elias asked casually.
Lyra turned her head to him slowly, brows drawn. "No… I live there." She gestured vaguely toward the carriage window. Her eyes scanned the landscape with suspicion, as if the trees themselves were lying to her.
Elias tilted his head slightly, studying her again. "You have never heard of Whisperthon Lane?"
"Sounds like a fancy toothpaste brand," she muttered, then quickly followed up with, "No. Never."
He arched a brow at her comment but didn't push further. Instead, he said, "You can visit again. If you want."
The words were casual. Almost dismissive. But Lyra heard the tiny ripple beneath them. She glanced sideways at him, unsure whether to laugh or take it seriously. So, she did both.
"What, like a field trip? Come back next week with a tour guide?"
Elias didn't laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitched. Progress.
*****
"We are here," Elias announced, just as the carriage came to a slow halt in front of a quaint house flanked by a small, elegant chapel.
Lyra leaned forward and peered out the window. "Here where?"
"St. Mark's Place," Elias replied confidently, gesturing.
Lyra squinted at the little house. Her nose scrunched. "This isn't St. Mark's Place."
"Yes, it is," Elias insisted, affronted. "Do you even know where you're from? Or maybe I should be asking who your mental doctor is?"
Lyra turned to him, slowly, lips parted in disbelief. "Wow. Is that a posh way of calling me crazy? Because I'll have you know my therapist said I'm completely functional—with only light seasonal anxiety."