Cecil felt his breath trapped, his world view shattered so completely that he was speechless. As he tried for a deeper breath the constriction only felt more intense. The conflicting, confusing sensation his body was feeling were too alien to process. Looking further afield, he wondered if he was dreaming.
It looked like a royal court from the middle ages, and the smell only served to confirm it. A cough, made Cecil take in the reality of the situation. There were dark glances shot in his direction. Attempting an apologetic smile, the sensations were finally getting processed.
There were courtly ladies: Ladies in Waiting shooting daggers at him. Then Cecil realised he was dressed in the same style, and the cut of the neckline confirmed that Cecil really wasn't an appropriate name any longer.
The dictaphone was a reassuring weight in her hand, and a cause for concern too. She considered using it to escape immediately. The opportunity gripped her, and held her back. Swallowing deeply and aware what she was taking on, Cecil slipped the dictaphone discreetly from side in the sleeve of her gown.
- - - - -
Across the room, you realise there's a queen sitting in the throne. Her eyes fixed on you, the displeasure clear even on her blank features.
That was frickin' Anne Bolyen! Cecil realised excitedly, a quick glance to her hand confirming the extra digit. Dipping her eyes, Cecil outlined a trace of a curtsey in apology for her cough.
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