Free To Say Nothing of the Dog by Connie Willis

Fujisaki says those are all statistically unlikely,” T.J. said, “and that the continuum is essentially stable or it would have been destroyed by now.”
    “What if there was no radical increase in slippage, but it was definitely an incongruity?” Mr. Dunworthy said. “Would that mean it had been corrected before it could have any effect on the continuum?”
    “Yes,” T.J. said. “Otherwise there’d have to be slippage.”
    “Good. Excellent job, Ensign Klepperman,” Mr. Dunworthy said. He went over to the seraphim, who was violently banging keys at the console. “Warden, I want a list of all the drops we’ve done to the 1880s and ‘90s with the recorded amount of slippage and the normal parameters.”
    “It’s Warder,” the seraphim said. “And I can’t do it now. I’ve got a rendezvous.”
    “The rendezvous can wait.” He went back over to T.J. “Lewis, I want you to look for unusual slippers.”
    Or at least that’s what I thought he said. The All-Clear had started up again, and now it was accompanied by a steady, thumping throb, like ack-ack guns.
    “And chicken drops.”
    “Yes, sir,” T.J. said and left.
    “Finch, where’s the hat?” Mr. Dunworthy said.
    “Right here,” Finch said, and that couldn’t be right either. I had white flannels and a waistcoat, but no hat. And Victorians always wore hats, didn’t they? Top hats and those hard round affairs, what were they called? It began with an “N.”
    The seraphim was leaning over me, which meant I must have sat down again. She stood me up to try on blazers.
    “Put your arm in this one,” she said, thrusting a maroon-striped one at me. “No, your right arm.”
    “The sleeves are too short,” I said, looking at my bare wrists.
    “What’s your name?”
    “My name?” I said, wondering what that had to do with the sleeves being too short.
    “Your name!” she said, yanking off the maroon-striped blazer and shoving a red one at me.
    “Ned Henry,” I said. The sleeves of this one came down over my hands.
    “Good,” she said, stripping it off and handing me a dark-blue-and-white one. “At least I won’t have to come up with a contemp name for you.” She tugged on the sleeves. “That’ll have to do. And don’t go diving into the Thames. I haven’t time to do any more costumes.” She clapped a straw boater on my head.
    “The hat was here. You were right, Mr. Dunworthy,” I said, but he wasn’t there. Finch wasn’t either, and the seraphim was back at the console, banging away at the keys.
    “I can’t believe Badri isn’t back yet,” she said. “Leaving me with this lot. Set the coordinates. Come up with a costume. And meanwhile, I’ve got an historian waiting three-quarters of an hour to come through. Well, your priority jump can jolly well wait for unmarried girls were constantly accompanied by chaperones, usually an older maiden aunt or cousin, and were never allowed to be alone with a man until after their engagement, Ned, pay attention.”
    “I am,” I said. “Unmarried girls were always accompanied by chaperones.”
    “I told you I didn’t think this was a good idea,” Finch, who was there, too, said.
    “There’s nobody else to send,” Mr. Dunworthy said. “Ned, listen carefully. Here’s what I want you to do. You’ll come through on June the seventh, 1888, at ten A.M. The river is to the left of the dessert fork, which is used for gateaux and puddings. For such desserts as Muchings End, the dessert knife is used with the . . .”
    Knife. Nice. Naiads. That was what they were called. Hylas and the Naiads. He went to fill his water jug, and they pulled him into the water with them, down and down, their hair and their wet sleeves twining about him.
    “As soon as it’s returned, you can do whatever you like. The rest of the two weeks is yours. You can spend it boating on the river or to the right of the dessert plate, with the blade pointing inward.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “Have you got