I Don't Follow

Then the record scratched.

“Wait a minute,” she said, taking a step back. “Did you say… carriage?”

“Yes…” Elias replied, a little confused. “Why? High society sorts do ride in carriages.”

“Oh no,” she said, slowly blinking as the realization hit her. “I’m sorry—is this some kind of immersive period drama town? Like, are there cameras somewhere? Is this a weird influencer prank? I swear, if this is for TikTok, I will cry. I will.”

*****

“I don’t follow,” Elias said, still trying to make sense of the strange blend of energy and insanity that was the woman before him.

Just then, the carriage rolled into view, pulled by two regal black horses, their hooves clicking rhythmically against the cobblestone. Lyra’s eyes lit up as though someone had just handed her a lifetime supply of chocolate and free Wi-Fi.

“Oh my God! It is!” she squealed, clutching her chest dramatically. “Why didn’t you say so? This is like every Jane Austen fantasy I’ve ever had!”

She giggled—a bright, delighted sound that echoed across the courtyard—before clambering up into the carriage with all the grace of a caffeinated squirrel. Her oversized T-shirt and shorts shifted in the process, riding up just enough to grant Elias, who stood directly behind her, a very unintended—and very intimate—view.

For a second, the logical part of his brain short-circuited. The royal guard could have sounded an alarm and he wouldn't have noticed.

“Holy heavens…” he muttered under his breath. How in the name of the sacred flame had he thought this woman could be Lirae?

He cleared his throat, told the driver their destination, and climbed in after her, deliberately sitting a solid foot away. Any closer and he feared he might catch whatever manic delight she was vibrating on. Or worse—start liking it.

The carriage jolted into motion.

“So,” Elias began, “are you a family member of Mark’s?”

Lyra gave him a confused glance as she gently poked the velvet-lined walls, then tapped the little tassel hanging near the window. “Nooo? I told you. My name is Lyra Beckham. B-E-C-K-H-A-M. Like the soccer guy.”

 “Visiting then?” Elias asked casually.

Lyra turned her head to him slowly, brows drawn. “No… I live there.” She gestured vaguely toward the carriage window. Her eyes scanned the landscape with suspicion, as if the trees themselves were lying to her.

Elias tilted his head slightly, studying her again. “You have never heard of Whisperthon Lane?”

“Sounds like a fancy toothpaste brand,” she muttered, then quickly followed up with, “No. Never.”

He arched a brow at her comment but didn’t push further. Instead, he said, “You can visit again. If you want.”

“What, like a field trip? Come back next week with a tour guide?”

“We are here,” Elias announced, just as the carriage came to a slow halt in front of a quaint house flanked by a small, elegant chapel.

Lyra leaned forward and peered out the window. “Here where?”

“St. Mark’s Place,” Elias replied confidently, gesturing.

Lyra squinted at the little house. Her nose scrunched. “This isn’t St. Mark’s Place.”

“Yes, it is,” Elias insisted, affronted. “Do you even know where you’re from? Or maybe I should be asking who your mental doctor is?”

Lyra turned to him, slowly, lips parted in disbelief. “Wow. Is that a posh way of calling me crazy? Because I’ll have you know my therapist said I’m completely functional—with only light seasonal anxiety.”

Elias blinked. “Posh?”

“Yeah. You know—fancy.” She rolled her eyes, then groaned. “Ugh! Listen, I live in apartment 2B, number 3, St. Mark’s Place… in New York City. New York. As in America. As in the land of Starbucks and overpriced rent.”

“New York City?” he echoed.

She nodded, growing more agitated. “Yes. The city that never sleeps.”

Elias looked away from her for a second, gazing at the chapel. “This is not… New York City,” he said carefully. “This is Terra Lucida.”

“Terra what-now?”

“Terra Lucida. The Kingdom of Light. You're standing in one of its provinces.”

Lyra stared at him, blinked twice, then leaned slightly out the carriage window and slapped her cheeks. Once. Twice.

Elias frowned. “Are you trying to injure yourself?”

“No. I’m trying to wake up from this acid trip of a dream I must be having.” She turned back to him. “Any second now I’ll be back in my bed, drooling on my pillow, and this will all be a weird episode inspired by too much lasagna and that one binge of Outlander.”

“You are not dreaming, Lyra Beckham of New York,” he said with a strange softness, her full name sounding almost reverent in his mouth. “There are two options I think are at work here.”

“What? Please… I need something that makes sense,” Lyra said. Her eyes darted around the carriage as if somewhere out the window a billboard might magically appear explaining everything. "I mean, did I take a wrong turn at Albuquerque? Because I’m pretty sure I haven’t had that many margaritas."

Elias leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his storm-gray eyes sharpening with concern. “This is either the work of magic… or you are definitely crazy.”

Lyra snorted, raising a hand. “Both options are equally crazy. So yeah, I guess I’m screwed either way.”

Elias let out a short, amused breath, but his voice softened. “We need to figure this out. When we get back to my estate, you’ll tell me, in detail, the last thing you remember before waking up covered in leaves and bird droppings.”

Lyra groaned, slumping back against the carriage’s plush seat, pulling the oversized shirt a little lower to cover her thighs. “Detailed? You want details? Like the exact moment my ex dumped me for a stripper?”

“Maybe start with the part after that,” Elias replied, amusement tinting his voice.

“Fine. But I’m warning you—this is a hot mess even by my standards.”

*****

By the time they arrived at Elias’s estate, the rhythmic clopping of the horses had become a lullaby, and Lyra was out cold.