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Millicent was many things. A lover of history, for one. A girl kisser, for another. She learned over the years that the two actually had a lot in common—especially when flirting with women.
“I’m telling you, Mil,” Lavender pushed her thick blond curls behind her shoulder with a flair that suggested she might as well have been on stage. “I bet there were plenty of women pretending to be widows together to hide secret relationships.”
Millicent arched an eyebrow. “Widows?”
“Yes,” Lavender insisted, slipping closer so their shoulders brushed as they passed a display case of faded gloves. “Think about it—two women, draped in black, everyone thinking, oh, what a pair of tragic widows, but really? They’re sneaking hand-holds and scandalous glances over their mourning veils.”
Millicent gave a skeptical hum, though she couldn’t help the faint smile tugging at her lips. “You’ve put an unreasonable amount of thought into this.”
“Research,” Lavender corrected with a wicked grin. “The best kind. Hands-on.”
Millicent wanted to roll her eyes, but Lavender’s warm hand found hers, fingers slotting together so easily that the joke stuck in her throat. For a heartbeat, it felt like any other museum date—teasing, learning, kissing between gallery wings.
And then the floorboards began to shake.
For a second, it felt like they had been port-keyed, but neither of them touched anything. Millicent felt her stomach jolt and twist and fly across the world three times before her body warped, unraveled, and rebuilt itself with insanely precise transportation magic. She squeezed hard, rubbing Lavender’s hand with her own a few times before she managed to speak.
“Did you apparate us?” The two women asked each other at the same time. Lavender laughed quietly, before a loud gasp left her lips. Millicent slowly opened her eyes, confused.
“Is... that a field?”
“Holy balls, that’s a bison.” Lavender grasped her girlfriends arm tight, shaking. “Babe, that’s a fucking bison!”
“Yeah,” Millicent blinked. “I guess it is.”
It wasn’t just a bison. It was bison , plural—an entire herd moving slow and massive across a plain that stretched farther than either of them had ever seen in England. The wind whipped sharp against Millicent’s face, carrying the smell of grass, sweat, and something wild. No cars. No buildings. Just sky, earth, and beasts that belonged in history books.
Lavender let out a noise somewhere between a squeal and a laugh. “Mil, we’re outside. We were just in a museum, like two seconds ago, and now we’re—where the hell are we? This isn’t even Europe!”
Millicent’s hand stayed clamped around hers, steady in the way Lavender suddenly wasn’t. “Somewhere with bison.” Her voice was flatter than she meant it to be, but her brain was catching up with the impossible: the raw magic still fizzing in her bones, the sunlight hotter, brighter, older somehow.
Lavender’s eyes were huge as she looked from the herd back to Millicent. “Do you think this is…?”
“History,” Millicent finished for her, scanning the horizon, half in awe and half in dread. She had wanted to explore the past, sure. She just hadn’t wanted to be dropped into it.
Lavender’s grip tightened. “Okay. Okay, so we’re time travelers now. That’s fine. That’s hot, even. Just—don’t let go of my hand, yeah?”
Millicent gave a dry huff, though her thumb stroked over Lavender’s knuckles like a promise. “Not planning on it.”
And then the ground trembled again—only this time, it wasn’t magic. Something else was moving across the plains, something fast and quick. The two girls shot up, quicker than lightning, and moved elsewhere, their minds still barely grasping the situation.
By the time they stumbled across a trading post, the sun had already bleached Millicent’s shoulders and turned Lavender’s curls into a golden snarl. Their stolen dresses—rough cotton things they’d bartered for with Lavender’s earrings and a quick bluff about “lost luggage”—itched against their skin. Still, they fit in better than sneakers and skinny jeans ever would.
The settlement wasn’t much. A scattering of wooden buildings, a saloon with swinging doors, a chapel whose bell looked like it hadn’t rung in weeks. Dust curled at their ankles as they crossed the main street hand in hand. Lavender pressed closer, lowering her voice into a conspiratorial whisper.
“Okay, remember—tragic widows. We’re tragic widows, Mil. That’s our cover.”
Millicent flicked her a look, deadpan. “I can’t believe you get to live out your fantasy because we fell through time.”
Lavender tilted her chin, eyes bright with mischief despite the sweat streaking her temple. “See? This is fate. The universe ships us.”
Before Millicent could retort, an older woman in a bonnet gave them a once-over, pausing on their clasped hands before softening with pity. “You girls alone?” she asked, voice cracked with dust and years.
Lavender’s fingers squeezed Millicent’s like a lifeline. She pulled in a breath, let her lashes flutter just so, and sighed. “We’re widows, ma’am. Both of us. Lost our husbands on the road.”
The woman’s mouth shaped into a sympathetic oh, and she nodded briskly, ushering them toward shade. “Well, you’ll find kindness here. God provides.”
Millicent, biting back a smile at Lavender’s flawless performance, dipped her head. Widows, she thought. They were really doing this.
And if Lavender’s thumb was tracing circles into her palm while they played their part? Well—Millicent supposed even history had room for secrets.
It didn’t take long for them to be folded into the rhythm of the compound. There were chores to be shared, mouths to feed, hands always needed somewhere. Millicent found herself dragged into the laundry circle, elbows deep in cold water, listening to gossip as soap stung her knuckles. Lavender, on the other hand—well, Lavender disappeared.
“Where’s your widow?” one of the women asked Millicent one afternoon, wringing out a sheet.
Millicent looked up from her basin just in time to catch sight of a familiar crown of blond curls bobbing near the stockyard. She squinted. Lavender was laughing, pushing her curls from her forehead with one hand while the other guided a calf toward the fence. A group of men watched with thinly veiled amusement.
“She’s… busy,” Millicent muttered, trying not to roll her eyes.
Busy didn’t cover it. Lavender was in her element. She moved like she’d been born to it, voice soft as she coaxed the bison forward, steady as she heaved a pail nearly half her weight, grinning when mud streaked her hem. The men had clearly expected her to flinch or falter—what use was a widow in the yard?—but Lavender thrived under their scrutiny, tossing her curls back and flashing them a look that dared them to laugh.
Millicent found herself drifting closer, basin forgotten.
“You’re supposed to be tragic,” Millicent muttered under her breath once they had a moment together, leaning against the fence while Lavender rubbed the animal’s broad head with both hands.
“I am tragic,” Lavender said, voice warm, breathless, hair plastered to her temples with sweat. “Tragically good at this.”
Millicent snorted, but her chest warmed at the sight—the curve of Lavender’s smile, the way her fingers threaded through coarse fur like she’d always belonged here.
“You know,” Lavender added, throwing Millicent a look that sparkled despite the dust in her lashes, “if we’re going to keep up this widow story, we might as well milk it. Widows don’t have to do what anyone expects. We can rewrite the rules.”
“You’d rewrite history, given the chance.”
The two shared a quick kiss before rushing off to their evening chores.
She barely made it around the corner of the barn before a girl stopped her short. Younger than her, maybe eighteen at most, bonnet askew, hands clenched so tight the knuckles went white. Her eyes darted left and right before fixing hard on Millicent.
“You’re widows, aren’t you?” she hissed, voice low and urgent.
Millicent blinked. “That’s… the story, yes.”
The girl stepped closer, so close Millicent could see the sheen of sweat on her upper lip. “Then you must know how. How do you do it?”
Millicent’s brows furrowed. “Do what?”
“Get rid of them,” the girl whispered, trembling now, her voice thin and desperate. “Your husbands. How did you do it?”
Millicent’s jaw dropped. “I—what?”
The girl’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Please. You have to tell me. I can’t—I can’t live another year with him.”
Millicent felt her stomach lurch. “Merlin’s—” she stopped herself, forcing her face back into something neutral, something 1800s appropriate. “I think you’ve misunderstood.”
they didn't even have husbands, how could they get rid of some?
The girl shook her head fiercely. “No. No, I’ve seen it in your eyes. You’re free. You and your friend both. You must know the way.”
And for the first time since they’d landed in this strange century, Millicent realized their little widow cover story might be more complicated than they’d planned.
“Come to our tent,” Millicent whispered. They hadn’t set up enough funds to start building a house yet. “I’ll…need to talk to Lavender first.”
“Right, right.” The girl nodded quickly. “I’ll see you tonight!”
She was gone before Millicent had the chance to think. She rubbed a hand through her hair. Lavender was going to love this.
That night, the canvas flap rustled, and the girl slipped inside like a frightened cat, bonnet clutched in her hands. Her eyes flicked nervously from Millicent to Lavender, who sat cross-legged on the bedroll, brushing out her curls like she had nothing in the world to fear.
Millicent cleared her throat. “This is… my companion, Lavender. You can speak freely.”
The girl swallowed hard, her voice breaking. “He’s cruel. My husband. He takes everything I make, he keeps me locked away when he drinks, and when he’s angry—” She stopped, biting down on her lip until it nearly bled. “I can’t do it anymore.”
Millicent shifted awkwardly, completely out of her depth, but Lavender’s face softened. She set down her brush and leaned forward, elbows on her knees.
“Sweetheart,” Lavender said gently, “you’re not the first woman to feel trapped. History is full of women like you—women who found clever ways to carve out a little freedom.”
"History?" The girl blinked, tears streaming. “Wait, like what?”
“Well,” Lavender began, ticking off points on her fingers, “first—learn how to hide money. Sewing hems, hollowed-out jars of flour, places no man bothers to look. Second—make allies. Other wives, widows, anyone who can vouch for you. Third—never let him know you’re planning anything. Men like that? They thrive on fear. Take that away, and you’ll already have power.”
The girl’s mouth parted, astonished. “But what about… leaving?”
Lavender’s eyes flashed, quick and dangerous. “Women have been leaving for centuries. Some as widows, some as runaways. You don’t need to bury a man to bury the hold he has over you.” She smiled suddenly, warm but fierce. “You just need a plan—and the knowledge that you deserve better.”
"But how do I...get rid of him?"
Lavender smiled softly. "Meet me out by the bison field tomorrow morning. I'll show you a row of plants I found that may just help you out."
Millicent stared at her girlfriend, somewhere between admiration and disbelief. Lavender was radiant, commanding, almost glowing in the dim lantern light, while the girl nodded fervently, as if her whole life had just shifted.
When the girl finally left, whispering her thanks, Millicent turned slowly. “You enjoyed that way too much.”
Lavender grinned, twirling her hair. “Darling, this is exactly what I studied for.”
And if the man was dead by next months dawn? Well, that wasn’t any of their business.