Free No Time Like the Past by Jodi Taylor

stiffened petticoats. In fact, more stiffened petticoats than one woman could reasonably be expected to endure. No matter in which time period I found myself, female apparel is never conducive to comfort and easy movement.
    ‘I can’t lift my arms above my shoulders,’ I said.
    ‘Why would you want to?’ asked Mrs Enderby. ‘Are you going to be turning cartwheels?’
    My corset gave me the requisite tiny waist, but only at the expense of breathing. I wore a tight-fitting V-shaped bodice in a dark blue material. The skirt was flounced to within an inch of its life. I was offered an embroidered Paisley shawl, which I declined on the grounds I was encumbered enough, and a grinning Van Owen snapped it up. I discovered why when Mrs Enderby attempted to drape a dead fox over my shoulders.
    ‘No!’ I said, aghast.
    ‘It’s the height of fashion.’
    ‘It’s dead.’
    ‘Well of course it is. Do you know how difficult it would be to persuade a live animal to stay in place for hours on end?’
    ‘Can’t we give this one the day off? What was it anyway?’
    ‘A silver fox. And it’s not alive.’
    ‘So I should hope.’
    ‘I mean it never was. It’s artificial. Look.’
    I lifted the end with the face. Beady glass eyes peered at me and, I suspected, found me wanting. The other end was probably even more unpleasant. Realism is overrated.
    Without hope, I said to Van Owen, ‘Want to swap?’ and she pretended she’d gone suddenly deaf.
    Sands appeared and recoiled. ‘Why are you wearing roadkill?’
    ‘Dear God, what’s happened to your face?’
    He preened. ‘Victorian whiskers.’
    ‘Are they your own?’
    ‘Of course not. No one outside the Victorian era could possibly grow this amount of facial hair. I think they’re made from the same material as your polecat.’
    I pulled out an imaginary clipboard and made an imaginary giant cross.
    ‘Failed. Go and pack your bags.’
    ‘Sorry,’ he said, hastily. ‘You look lovely. Not everyone can pull off the dead animal look, but you …’
    ‘Shut up.’
    He, of course, looked pretty good, wearing a soft linen shirt, a floppy bow tie, an elaborate waistcoat, a thick dark coat, and lighter trousers in a different material. Suits hadn’t been invented yet. A glossy top hat completed his look.
    I had a blue bonnet with a deep poke and a bunch of depressed flowers pinned to one side. One consolation, however, muffs were fashionable. Mine was made of soft, cream-coloured velvet, into which I had stuffed my recorder, two copper pennies for emergencies, a handkerchief, a small can of pepper spray, and my stun gun.
    ‘Yes, I know we’re only visiting a trade fair,’ I said, not meeting Mrs Enderby’s reproachful gaze. ‘But you never know when things will go pear-shaped. Suppose the elephant gets frisky?’
    ‘It’s stuffed,’ she said.
    Muttering, I compromised by leaving the stun gun at home.
    Down in Hawking, we assembled in front of our pods. Schiller and Roberts were in Number Four, Clerk and Van Owen in Number Five, and Sands and I were in Number Eight.
    Schiller turned to Van Owen, winked, and said, ‘Love your muff.’
    Every techie head jerked around.
    Van Owen smiled demurely and I tried to pretend I couldn’t hear any of this.
    ‘I love how soft they are.’
    ‘I know. I’ve been stroking mine all morning.’
    ‘And, its capacity is amazing. You wouldn’t believe what’s nestling in mine.’
    Someone, somewhere, dropped a tool.
    ‘Is it loaded?’                                                                                                     
    ‘Locked, loaded, and ready to go.’
    Young Lindstrom looked as if he was ready to faint.
    It was a shame to tease him. He hadn’t been with us that long and was still finding his feet, although Leon spoke highly of him. He stood now, Adam’s apple bobbing uncertainly. Sands and Roberts were