Tomorrow's Crimes ll Moriarty the Patriot

A Case of Mistaken Identity

She had always prided herself on maintaining journalistic objectivity, even in the most absurd situations. She'd infiltrated criminal organizations, exposed corrupt politicians, and once spent three weeks undercover in a cult that worshipped pigeons. But none of her investigations had prepared her for her current predicament: being trapped in the body of a seventeen-year-old Victorian aristocrat.

The face in the mirror wasn't hers anymore – or rather, it wasn't the face that had graced the author photo on her latest bestseller, "Tomorrow's Crimes: Exposing London's Underground Tech Syndicates." Gone were the faint laugh lines around her eyes, the small scar on her chin from a cycling accident in university, and the subtle asymmetry of her natural features that she'd grown to appreciate after years of Instagram filters and societal pressure. Instead, she saw Lady Adelaide Blackwood's heart-shaped face, all youthful curves and aristocratic features, framed by the kind of glossy dark curls that would have required three different styling products in 2024.

"Seventeen," she muttered, pressing her fingers against the unfamiliar cheekbones. "I haven't been seventeen since the iPhone 4 was cutting-edge technology and people thought YOLO was revolutionary slang."

The room – her room, she supposed, though she still couldn't think of it that way – was exactly what you'd expect a duke's daughter's chambers to look like in 1876. Everything draped in rich fabrics, furniture carved from woods that had probably been extinct for a century, and enough space to house a small family of modern Londoners comfortably. The window seat where she'd spent most of the past two weeks offered a view of the estate's grounds, all perfectly manicured gardens and gravel paths that seemed to stretch endlessly into the countryside.

She'd gone through all the stages of grief in dealing with her situation, though not necessarily in the traditional order. The denial phase had been spectacular – she'd spent three days barricaded in this room, convinced that if she just refused to participate in this apparent hallucination, reality would snap back into place. She'd pushed every piece of furniture she could move against the door, ignoring the increasingly worried calls from servants and family members.

The anger had come next, manifesting in a series of demands shouted through the door about her phone, her laptop, and her constitutional rights. This had only served to convince the household further of "Lady Adelaide's" deteriorating mental state.

Bargaining had been particularly pathetic. She'd tried everything from meditation to attempting to recreate the circumstances of both accidents – her last memory of 2024 had been investigating a story at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, while Adelaide had apparently taken a nasty fall from a horse. The depression phase had hit hard around day ten, when she realized that not only was she stuck here, but she might have inadvertently ruined the life of the actual Adelaide Blackwood, wherever she was.

Now, on day fourteen, she'd reached a sort of manic acceptance. The kind where you know you're walking a precarious line between maintaining appearances and complete social ruin. She wasn't naive – she understood exactly what happened to young ladies of good breeding who suddenly started behaving erratically in Victorian England. The whispers among the servants, the worried glances from the staff, the hushed conversations behind closed doors – they all painted a clear picture of where this could lead if she didn't play her cards right.

She pushed herself up from the window seat, wincing at the constraints of her corset. That was another thing – the clothes. She'd always thought she'd make an excellent historical detective, but no one had ever mentioned how much mental energy it took just to exist in Victorian women's fashion. The corset alone required strategic breathing, and she'd nearly broken her neck twice trying to navigate stairs in these skirts.