The first time she realized that she was adjusting to life in the past was the tender, fragrant June of 2012, four months into her ordeal.
Summer was cooler than she remembered back home, and the affluent didn’t flee the city for the countryside the way they did in her time.
It was still hot enough, though, her little, once fine but now slightly shabby and worn down hotel didn’t have centralized air conditioning, just a box the manager installed in her window.
She’d seen such things in movies set in the past, but she’d stared in dismay when it was put in.
She didn’t spend much time in her hotel, in any case. Liberate had been active with dozens of petty crimes. She kept busy, her and Carlos and Betty, with Alec on the other side of her ear piece.
She’d been there long enough that her colleagues’ prodding inquiries into her origins and intentions had fallen off,
at least to the point where she and Alec could manage them with practiced routines.
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