Eighteen year old Devon O'Hare was dead. She'd had a trying year which included suffering with cancer, losing hair with treatment whilst getting steadily weaker and then a painful death. The blonde, born in 1991, had left family and friends. A boyfriend too. One she'd had a close bond with- that tended to happen when you'd known your boyfriend all your life and gone through so much with them. It was horrible and quite the story.

So why was I here? I'm being put in a corset as I stand in front of a full length mirror. It's as elegant as my dress, the room and corset. All gold, expensive and heavy. I hated them. I'd asked on my first day to find I was in the year 1888, daughter of a very good man, and to meet a man later today. I was apparently to marry the man who was a perfect suiter.

As if.

I'm Devon. Are you as confused as me?