Reader, I must whisk you away into the county of Cambridgeshire, and all its unmistakable grandeur. I must bring you to the walls of the Newnham College library, though we must travel further, further into the labyrinth of mahogany and oaken shelves. I must bring you to the last shelf on the western wing of the library; a place where the vast illumination of the crackling fire cannot reach, we must visit it for this is a place where a story ends. Words were left unsaid, and aspirations splintered. A burgundy stain was all that was left of the occurrence; it was a haunting reminder of the tragic finish of a tale that didn’t deserve such a travesty.

However, what ends physically transcends beyond, and this is a story that transcends time itself. It is a story that binds and intertwines; it is a story seeking victory, even in another time.

1896, London

"Well," he gave a boisterous laugh, grey eyes mischievously twinkling, “It’s exceptionally delightful to watch you come up with ridiculously amusing alibis." My face might have crumpled in incredulity and repugnance, as his sheepish grin widened. My throat tightened. His bleeding nerve! What new breed of man is he putting forward? I could feel the prickly heat filling my cheeks and ears, though it was merely of embarrassment, more of fury instead. Raising my hand to slap him - "Why you little bas-"

"Miss Kensington!" Shutting my eyes with a grimace, I need not be a genius to know the deep water that awaited myself, feeling the warm tears that threatened to fall.

Later that very same day

I could hear the pitter patter of the raindrops falling monotonously on the roof, no matter how futile it was compared to the unmistakable grumbling of my stomach. The orange light of the candle was a haze, with my tears blurring all that was visible. Cambridge, its towers and crackling fire, its beacon of knowledge that can only quench my thirst was now implausible. I can never fathom the stupidity of that pathetic creature, Thornton. The pig was just too daft to grasp what was a serious matter, and that not the entirety of society is as well off as they are. The thought of him just sickens me.

An irksome pecking abruptly ended my unpleasant reverie, as the barn owl continued its tirade. Heaving a sigh, I reluctantly pulled myself up from the creaky mattress, wrapping my body with a grey shawl. I stepped onto each step, the mice underneath scurrying about. Clasping the cold metal latch of the porthole window, I tugged it open, with the freezing wind of an English winter blowing at my cheeks.

"Out with you, you crazy bird!" I yelled, putting a hand outside, wildly waving at it, in an attempt to banish the creature.

"It can't understand you, you know, putting aside that storytellers may have said otherwise," an all too familiar voice remarked, as furiously scrambled at the window to curse at Thornton. He seemed to be wearing clothing of formal function, complete with a ruffled cravat, as if he just escaped a ball. I hated him with a passion, and that was not going change anytime soon.

"The nerve you have got to come here, you cretin! You ruin my life, and now, you just disturb my brooding as if you just tripped me on the streets!" I yelled, not minding whether Mistress Violette could hear me. I gasped for breath, just expecting his fits of laughter...but it didn't come.

"Look," he said his grey eyes twinkling against the darkness, "I am sincerely sorry, Helene, I -"

"That's Kensington, to you!" I corrected, still in slight astonishment that he was actually apologising.

"I- I had not the slightest idea what that was all about, I didn't know about your pursuits for the scholarship," he reasoned, though I stood my ground, flinching at the mention of "scholarship".

"Master Thornton, your mother will be furious!"

"I'll be quick, Collins," he replied, quickly checking the time, before looking up again, "I'm sorry, Helene."

The only thing I could do was to give a sigh, emitting a puff of cloud into the air. I could not possibly pardon him, I could not possibly.

Present Day, London

"Need a ride, Thomason?” he asked, attempting a smile, as if giving a peace offering. He was holding a black binder atop his head, to shield him from the rain. He was the last person I wanted to see - I can't bear to set my eyes on that cold-hearted toerag, Avery. What is he doing here in the first place? To rub everything in, that I should have said goodbye to Cambridge before it would have said it to me? He should save it, his Armani shoes might get all shabby under the rain. If he was just going to make me feel inferior, then I believe he had fulfilled his life mission - he already made me feel and look inferior.

I shot him a glare, the prat who successfully robbed me of my future. Well, if he wanted to pull a prank, he might as well have done it in another time. For the first time in those 30 minutes standing in my own personal monsoon, I was grateful for the torrential rains, making my tears less apparent. I had long made sure that none of enemies would see me weeping my own tears; those vultures would take every opportunity to take what my meagre frame could offer, and use it as nourishment for their overly-inflated egos. Those bloody cretins – death to their kind.

I wanted to scream my lungs out at him right there and then, as it was just the only thing I was capable of doing without causing any substantial physical harm, yet all that came out me was an angry, repressed sigh – a pathetic excuse for a scream at all. The git might be even stifling a laugh and will soon start howling in his pleasurable fits of laughter – the idiot.

However, what I assumed was wrong, surprisingly his face fell, seemingly quite sad - even remorseful. I soon realized he might have noticed the tears quickly brimming in my eyes and the only rational act I could think of was to turn around and walk away, and so I did. To my absolute dismay and misfortune, the direction I was going through was against the wind’s orientation, practically blowing away my soul.

Just to make it clear, no characters would be time-travelling. I was apparently vague the first time, so I’m clarifying this (Well, let’s just say the iceberg theory doesn’t work well on me), it’s an intertwining story, not a time-travelling one.

A preview of a story of mine. It's semi-romance, but not the tres romantique sort, more of a blooming one instead. Au revoir, tout le monde!