The Ghastly Murders on Whitechapel Street

The chill of March 1864 bit through Theophelia's modern clothes as she sat on a bench in Wellington, London. Her phone, a useless brick, lay in her bag. Just moments ago, she was admiring the city's history, wishing for a glimpse into the past. Now, she was living it.
A tall, sharply dressed man, Alastor Ides, interrupted her musings, his Victorian manners jarringly formal. As he spoke, the quiet streets transformed, horse-drawn carriages filling the air with the clatter of hooves, maidens with parasols strolling by. The reality of her displacement hit her with dizzying force.
She found herself being whisked away by Alastor, his intentions unclear, to a grand house in Spitalfields. The opulence of his home was a stark contrast to her growing unease. She longed for the familiar comfort of her own time, for her dog, Chesnutt.
