Victoria Salem wakes up in Hammersmith, near Kensington, London.

She wakes up to a breakfast table, at a breakfast table. She is awake to a mug full of hot coffee, sitting on a chair she has never sat on before. She is awake to the sound of the radio, playing a program whose host sounds so deeply British she doesn’t understand a word of what he’s saying.

She is awake to the image unfolding before her. She recognizes the setting. Her brain turns locks of information with the waking first sip of coffee.

The smell of the relentless fireplace and a faint scent of yesterday’s broth. The texture of the mug, smoothed over with decades of usage. The struggling London morning light and its struggling Londoners, amiably arguing over a piece of bread and a butter knife. The low ceiling, the blue squares on the tablecloth. The wooden floor that has drank her blood before.

The Porters’ house.

“Peggy”, says Mrs. Porter, as if that train of thought was her cue to join the stage. Salem somehow knows what it means when she doesn’t refer to her daughter as ‘Margaret’. “You’ll be late, darling.”

Salem follows the woman’s eyes, and a couple more bolts turn right in the invisible lock her mind is picking.

Margaret Porter, Peggy Porter. The archivist. Her assistant. The coffee in her mouth feels saline. Peggy's lashes look very pale under the foggy light, and the halo of unbrushed hair framing her head looks like that of a nightlight. How many times has Salem seen her like this? Enough to have memorized the sight, she would say. She does have an outstanding memory and a penchant for all-nighters, but that doesn’t mean it’s been enough times. Not under this kind of peace and quiet. Actually, she doubts it’ll ever be enough, but she would also sooner die than let her know any of this.

“We’ve barely sat down!” she protests. Her voice stands out from the rest. It’s clearer, higher, it’s also the only one that echoes in Salem’s chest as if she was hollow inside.

“And yet your boss here has almost finished her cup! Work is leaving without you if you don’t make a run for it.” She says it like a joke, Salem notices, a bit startled that she would mention her that lightly. A couple of her brothers, the ones that were fighting over butter, diligently laugh at it, and Peggy’s face flares up in shades of pink.

She looks down at the coffee, as she’s gotten used to every time something like this happens, and is surprised to see that she has, in fact, almost drank it all. She doesn’t remember taking more than one sip. She looks back at Peggy, ready to scrutinize her face in search of a reaction to what her mother just said, but the archivist’s eyes meet hers instead.

“What’s the hurry? I thought you didn’t like going to the archives.”

That’s true. They are going to the archives, Salem remembers. She can’t recall what they’re looking for, though, not while she’s busy processing that Peggy’s joking with her this casually. The answer to her comment forms in her head in a fraction of a second, but before she can say issue the order of speaking it aloud, her mouth opens by itself.

And then, her chest works by itself.

And her throat, alone, triggers an action, by itself.

“I don’t.”

She feels every word leave her own lips with a clawing horror that should only be found in puppets. A half smile carves its way into her face, sideways. Intent.

Unwanted.

Salem breaks into a panic, and only her heart notices. She has not chosen these words and she has not chosen this smile. She has chosen to stand up so quickly she could throw the chair backwards, but instead she leans forward, hand on her chin, vague smile still on, mug on a blue square on the tablecloth.

“Shall I take my time, then?” Says Peggy.

This time she doesn’t even have time to fight back.

“Take all the time you want, of course,” She smiles. The way Peggy beams at her words is radiant. Salem feels blood at the sides of her mouth. “Suppose it’s Sunday, after all.”

She wants to scream.

Her jaw is screwed shut, but tears have started forming in one of her eyes. With a speeding pulse, she prays for Peggy to see them. When she doesn’t, she begs for Mrs. Porter to intervene, for anyone to notice that something’s off and deeply, deeply wrong.

Instead, Fred Porter snorts a small laugh and Kit shoots her a soft look, almost proud.

She turns back to the youngest of the Porter women, bewildered. She knows her better than any of them, after all. She must know. She must notice. She pleads to her with contracted pupils, as she seems to have lost control of roughly everything else in her body, and for a rush of an instant, something seems to quiver in Peggy’s façade of perfect homely joy.

“So you─Salem…?” She frowns a little and reaches a hand towards her. “Are you…? Are you alright?”

Yes, Salem thinks, look at me. See me, see through me, do whatever the hell you somehow keep doing time and time again. See what’s wrong, point it out.

“What?” Salem says, only mildly sarcastic. She would stab herself in the throat with the butter knife if that were to stop any sound from coming out of her mouth ever again. Her hands, instead, gesture according to the question. “Do I look any different from usual?”

Peggy stops herself mid-motion.

Look at me, Porter. Look deeper.

“Still half-asleep?”

Hollow.

“After having your coffee?”

“Tired?”

Please.

“Please,” she scorns. “When am I not.”

Peggy smiles.

“I should suppose that’s true.”

A billion things unleash at once in that instant on the first floor of this little house in Hammersmith, near Kensington, London.

With the comment, Peggy Porter lets out a short laugh, and Salem’s vision falters into what can only be described a sight of death. A burning log rolls over, weakened though unbothered, into the deeper side of the fireplace. Kit Porter drinks his first sip of tea of the morning, from the only cup that’s been untouched this entire time. Church bells start furiously announcing the ninth hour into the morning and the sound swallows everything and anything that Salem ─or anyone─ might’ve heard from then on, the butter knife stains the tablecloth and Peggy’s left hand brushes gently over Salem’s right cheekbone, tracing what she can only assume would’ve been the outline of the dark circles under her eyes, though she will never know, not today, not tonight.

The moment the tips of her fingers reach her face, the cup of tea slips from Christopher’s hands as Fred’s movement in returning the butterknife to its source gets in the way, Nathan Porter’s fingers reach the volume wheel on the radio, the ninth bell ring blasts into the morning, her eyes shift involuntarily and she meets Peggy Porter’s gaze, everything shuts down at once, and Victoria Salem feels no more.