Samantha Jean Whittaker, wife to the esteemed professor Arthur Whittaker. Young and beautiful and kind, but above all, she was clever. Samantha was amazingly clever, and anyone who said any different was lying. She would spend hours, debating with herself and others on the truth of things, on possible solutions to problems and complicated questions, and theories she had about anything and everything.
And while she could be reckless, she was not unpredictable. Mrs. Whittaker’s motives were easily guessed, and her responses as well. If there was something needed for a particular project, despite the costs or dangers, she would find a way to get it without a problem. If someone was in trouble on an excursion, she would risk her own safety to help them. But she did not simply disappear into thin air.
They had been vising a friend a little ways from Blackpool, a Mister Tate to be exact. He had found something interesting with one of his sons, an odd talent for noticing things in other people. Secrets they kept, or hidden talents even they didn’t know about. She had spent a long time discussing with him the idea of mutants and super humans, which seemed to fit. The Tates had an odd history of family members with unusual skills and abilities. Mutants was Sam’s theory, though she had no idea of how to prove it.
It had been the third day of their visit. Sam had gone out for a walk - summer was her favorite season, really was, and a day like that one was not to be wasted indoors, or so she said. And so she spent the better half of the afternoon outside. It was the coming inside that was the problem. A couple feet in from the door, and Sam found herself not in the sunlit hallway she was used to, but a clean, tiled entryway, electric lights on the walls and new wallpaper on.
Sam recognized it from her childhood. She had been here before, but not in a long time. Time. Time, right. She moved in time. It was strange, but she had almost forgotten about that strange ability she had, seeing that it hadn’t acted up in years. She turned to see one person walking, just one. Where was everyone, anyway? Better question, when was she? Sam rushed up to the person with a, “Good day. Um, pardon me, but what would be the year?” Even back in Arthur’s time, Sam had an odd way of speaking. Choppy, back and forth, nonsensical. She had too many ideas that got in the way of speaking. It was going to sound even more out of place here
A nervous, excited little laugh that hurt in her tightly-laced corset. Sam wore nothing that could be from anywhere near this century, she was sure of it. A long, dark blue gown, a tight, S-curve corset, and a parasol hooked over her arm. She was dressed for the Victorian Era. This was not then. “Goodness, this is just out of a story book, isn’t it?” she added, remembering some of the stories she had read as a kid. “What year, what year? Please, if you will.”
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