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Her present to him had been six gleaming brass buttons.

She laughed to herself as she strode along, holding in her mind the image of her brother's delighted expression. Far better to dwell on that than on the week to come.

"Mary Stevens!"

The hoarse voice sounded from behind the fence at her side.

She stopped. "Yes?"

"Are you Mary Stevens?"

"I am, sir. And who are you?"

Something flew up over the fence, over her head, and into the lane.

She cried out in shock, spun around, and was grabbed by the throat.

A hideous face glared into hers and Mary's legs gave way. She dropped to the cobbles. The thing holding her followed her down, its grip not loosening, bending over her.

"Your chest, girl! Is there a mark on it?"

She tried to scream but only a croak came out.

"Stop struggling, you fool! Answer me!"

"Wha-what?" she gulped.

Suddenly the fear flooding through her galvanised her into action. She started to thrash about, her arms and legs flailing, her mouth opening wide to emit a scream.

Before any sound could emerge, the thing transferred its grip to the collar of her coat and yanked her upright by it. The garment tore open.

Finally, the scream came out.

"Shut up! Shut up!" shouted her attacker.

But she couldn't stop.

"Fuck this!" snarled the tall, uncanny figure, and, snatching at her dress, it violently jerked the material, ripping it and the underclothes beneath down from her neck to her waist.

She fought wildly, twisting this way and that, hitting and kicking, shrieking at the top of her voice.

The thing, struggling to hold her, lost its grip and she fell backward into the fence with such force that it bent with a splintering crack and collapsed with her on top of it.

"Oy!" came a distant shout. "What's going on? Leave her alone!"

The thing turned its black globular head to look along the lane.

Mary heard running footsteps drawing closer.

It looked back down at her, its eyes on her chest.

She grabbed the material of her dress and drew it over herself.

"It's not you, Mary Stevens," said the thing, and suddenly it bounded high into the air.

"Bloody hell!" exclaimed a man's voice.

"What is it?" came another's.

She saw the thing jumping away, taking prodigious leaps, and then it was gone and gentle hands were helping her up.

"Are you hurt, love?"

"Steady now."

"Pull your coat together, lass. Cover yourself."

"Here, take my arm. Can you walk?"

"Why, it's Mary Stevens! I know her old man!"

"What was it, Mary? What was that thing?"

"Did you see the way it jumped? Blimey, it must have springs in its heels!"

"Was it a man, Mary?"

The young girl looked around at the concerned faces. "I don't know," she whispered.

January to May 1838

Edward Oxford waited in the shade of an ugly monument in the grounds of St. David's Church on Silverthorne Road. He knew that Deborah Goodkind attended the Sunday service regularly throughout this year, yet he had been here on three consecutive Sundays in January, two in February, and this was his second in March, and hadn't seen anyone fitting her description.

"If the information the Original gave to the marquess was wrong, I'll never find the little bitch," he muttered to himself. He laughed. He didn't know why.

There was snow on the ground. He was cold. The thermal controls in his time suit had stopped working.

People started filing out of the church. He hadn't seen her go in but he may have missed her in the crowd. He was getting a clearer view of people's faces now.

He drew back a little, concerned that the sparks from his control unit might attract attention. He pulled his cloak around it.

Half an hour later, the last straggler left the church.

"Where the hell are you?" he muttered.

He crouched, jumped up, and landed one month later and ninety minutes earlier.

It was raining heavily.

He banged his fist against the side of the monument.

"Bloody hell. Bloody hell. Come on! Come on!"

The congregation started to arrive. Their faces were obscured