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It was violent. Joan flew off her feet, and her head hit the floor with a hard thunk. Her vision blurred. People were speaking, but Joan couldn’t make out the voices. She opened her eyes. Was there something different about the ceiling? It seemed to be drooping down, wires hanging. The dissonant feeling had thankfully stopped, but everything seemed fuzzy. Joan shook her head, trying to clear it. But that only made nausea throb through her. She groaned.

‘Joan!’ Nick’s voice.

Joan tried to focus on him. He was on his knees beside her. ‘Did you fall?’ she asked him. Was everyone all right?

He frowned, and Joan blinked, confused. ‘You’re the one who’s hurt,’ he said softly. He touched the back of her head very gently. Joan didn’t know what he was looking for. She started to push herself up and was prevented by Nick’s firm grip on her shoulder.

‘Don’t get up yet,’ he murmured. ‘You hit your head.’

Joan squeezed her eyes closed and opened them. She felt dizzy.

‘You all okay?’ Nick asked the others.

‘Me and Jamie are,’ Tom said.

‘What happened?’ Ruth craned her neck through the frame but didn’t seem able to see them from her angle. ‘I heard a crash!’ She seemed unaffected by the blast; she’d been protected by the seal, Joan guessed, relieved.

‘Not sure!’ Nick called back. ‘But we’re all right!’

What had just happened? Joan had had an irresistible urge to touch those marks, and then the dissonant feeling had intensified, and then …

A gasp from Jamie. ‘The tear’s gone.’

‘What?’ Joan said. She reached for the edge of the table to pull herself up.

Nick put a steadying arm around her waist. Joan swallowed, trying not to lean into him like she wanted to. His presence alone made the whole situation feel weirdly safe. It wasn’t, though, she knew. Something very strange was happening here.

‘It’s gone,’ Jamie said again. ‘I don’t even feel sick anymore.’

Joan stared. The jagged hole really was gone.

Tom made a soft sound as if about to speak. Joan turned to him and found him staring too, wide-eyed. But he wasn’t looking at the space where the tear had been; he was looking at the window.

Joan followed his gaze.

Outside, the main street was unrecognisable: dilapidated and worn. A second ago, there’d been cafés, clothing shops, a perfumery—windows beautifully dressed to tempt tourists. Now, all the shops were gone. They’d been replaced with buildings that struck Joan as not quite Victorian. Not quite any style she knew. She wasn’t even sure what was off about them. Maybe they were too tall. Maybe the brick was too dark.

‘I don’t understand,’ she heard herself say. Farther down the street, one of the buildings puffed thick smoke from its chimneys, greying the sky and giving the impression of an impending storm.

‘Did we travel in time?’ Nick asked.

Had they? A strange object caught Joan’s eye. A gleaming bronze statue stood opposite: the only shining thing on the whole street. It depicted a woman crowned with flowers. Fresh roses lay like offerings at her feet. Two words were carved into the plinth there: Semper Regina.

Unease seeped into Joan like a chill.

‘I don’t recognise the architecture,’ Jamie said slowly. ‘Or what the people are wearing. This is no era I know.’

Joan had thought that the street was a ghost town, but now she saw what Jamie had. There were people on the other side of the road—walking quickly, pressed tight to the walls, like they were hurrying to avoid rain. Their clothes blended with the black brick and grey shadows of the buildings; the style was unfamiliar: wool paired with a lightweight material that Joan didn’t recognise.

‘What is this?’ Joan said. ‘If we didn’t travel in time …’

Movement at the edge of the window. A slim blond man had rounded the corner at a run. He glanced over his shoulder, eyes darting; his chest heaved with desperate breaths. His clothes were filthy, and his hair clung to his face, soaked with sweat. Joan could almost smell the fear on him.

‘Why’s he so scared?’ Nick said slowly.

The words were still in his mouth as a van turned into the street. It was as black as a hearse, a pale light blinking on its roof. The police? No. There was a coat of arms on the door in gold: a rose, the fanned feathers of a peacock, and—Joan’s heart started to pound—a winged lion. The sigil of the Monster Court. Right out in the open. What was going on?

A man with raven-black hair and patrician features exited the van, the slam of his door inaudible through the café window. He wore tailored black and a gold pin of the Monster Court. His polished perfection was a strange contrast with the dilapidated street.