The next morning, I awoke to a soft, rhythmic tapping on my bedroom door. With a yawn and a stretch, I called out, "Come in."

Sophie entered, wearing a warm smile. "Good morning, Miss. I mean, Felicity."

"Good morning, Sophie," I replied, sitting up in bed. "Did you manage to catch any of the party last night?"

"I was there for the clean-up, Miss Felicity," Sophie said, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "Everyone appeared to be having a splendid time. Charlotte dragged Mr. Blake to the dance floor a few times." She giggled, but there was something in her expression—a tightness in her smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

Jealousy pricked at me when Charlotte's name came up. "Ah, yes, Charlotte. She seemed... pleasant," I said, struggling to find a kinder word.

Sophie hesitated, glancing toward the door as if to ensure no one could overhear. Her hands smoothed the already neat curtains, her movements slow and deliberate. "She can be... well, she has her moments, but not with everyone," she said carefully, her tone light but her meaning clear. "She doesn't much care for those she feels are... beneath her."

"Has she ever treated you poorly?" I asked, curiosity overriding my usual restraint.

Sophie's hand stilled on the curtain for a moment before she resumed, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "There was one time, Miss, when I accidentally spilled tea near her shoes. She wasn't pleased. But it's nothing, really." She hesitated, then added, "She's always very charming when Mr. Blake is around." Her words were cautious, but the flicker of unease in her eyes spoke volumes.

It didn't surprise me, though hearing it from Sophie made me feel a pang of protectiveness toward her. If Charlotte could treat someone as sweet as Sophie poorly, what else was she capable of?

I shifted the focus away from the party, saying, "Well, enough about that. I should start getting ready for the day. Would you mind helping me choose an outfit?"

Sophie's expression brightened instantly, and she beamed as she helped me select a cream cricket jumper and black trousers. She artfully arranged my hair into a ponytail, securing it with a black bow as a finishing touch. "Breakfast is being served now, Miss Felicity. Mr. Blake mentioned he would meet you in the dining room," she informed me as I left my bedroom, thanking her for her assistance.

Descending the grand staircase, I entered the dining room, where Blake was already seated at the table. The smell of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the faint sweetness of jam and butter on warm toast. A shaft of sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting golden patterns across the gleaming tableware. Blake, engrossed in a newspaper, looked up at my entrance.

He smiled, the expression slow to form, as though he'd been lost in thought moments before. Standing, he courteously pulled out a chair for me. "Good morning," he said as I took my seat. "How did you sleep?"

His tone was polite but distant, and I couldn't help but sense a subtle shift in his demeanour. "Very well, thank you," I replied, trying to match his formality.

The dining table was laden with an impressive breakfast spread. A basket of warm croissants sat at the centre, their flaky layers catching the morning light. Next to it, a wooden board held an assortment of cured meats and cheeses, their earthy aroma mingling with the sweetness of freshly sliced fruit—orange segments, ripe strawberries, and melon wedges glistening with juice. A plate of toast rested beside small pots of honey, jam, and butter, while steam rose steadily from two polished coffee pots.

I couldn't hide my amazement as I took in the spread. "This is quite the feast. Is breakfast always like this?" I asked, reaching for a croissant.

Blake shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "Not always. You never know what you might fancy, so it's best to have a bit of everything."

I poured myself a glass of orange juice and began buttering a slice of toast. "Where are Gwen and Meryl this morning?" I asked, curious about their absence.

"My grandmother lives in her own house nearby," Blake explained. "Gwen left early to join her for some shopping. I believe they're planning to head to London for a few days—shopping, theatre, that sort of thing."

His tone was casual, but his hand idly folding his napkin suggested he was only half-focused on his words. I took a bite of toast, mulling over the idea that had been simmering in my mind since waking.

After a moment of silence, I finally voiced it. "I was thinking—what if I tried going back into the dumbwaiter? Maybe it'll send me back to my time."

Blake, mid-sip of his coffee, paused and set the cup down. His eyes brightened slightly as he clicked his fingers. "Of course! I hadn't even thought of that."

"Me neither," I admitted. "It just occurred to me this morning. But how will we manage it? The kitchen's usually bustling with Cook and the staff."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as he considered. "They finish their work after breakfast on Sundays—it's their day off."

A smile tugged at my lips as the pieces of the plan began to fall into place. "Perfect."

After breakfast, we waited patiently for the staff to leave, which they didn't do until well into lunchtime. Blake explained that most of the staff departed the premises on Sundays to enjoy their day off. Once we were sure the kitchen was empty, we discreetly entered through the back door.

The kitchen was immaculate, the faint scent of soap and polish lingering in the air. Every pot and pan had been neatly stowed away, and the counters gleamed under the midday light. The room's stillness was almost eerie, a stark contrast to the usual clatter and chatter that filled it.

Blake walked over to the dumbwaiter and lifted the hatch. The small compartment yawned open, dark and unassuming, yet carrying the weight of an inexplicable journey. He leaned in slightly, inspecting its interior before straightening. "What exactly happened when you first arrived here?" he asked, his voice calm but edged with curiosity.

I stepped closer, the memory vivid. "I climbed in, and it started moving on its own—lowering until it crashed at the bottom. When I opened it, I found myself here."

Blake nodded thoughtfully, his brow furrowing. "Right," he said, stepping back and gesturing to the dumbwaiter. "Go ahead. Climb in."

I hesitated, the weight of the moment pressing down on me. The dumbwaiter seemed impossibly small, the idea of entrusting it again with my fate both absurd and inevitable. Taking a deep breath, I stepped toward the hatch.

"Blake," I began, pausing as I placed a hand on the edge of the compartment. My voice wavered slightly. "If this works—if I end up back where I came from—I can't thank you enough for everything you've done."

He gave me a small, reassuring smile, his dimples deepening as he reached for the hatch door. "It's nothing," he said, his tone light but sincere. "You'd do the same for me."

Just as he moved to close the hatch, I held up a hand, stopping him. "Wait—one more thing." I hesitated, searching for the right words. "Sophie has been so kind, and I can't help but feel she deserves better. She has an eye for detail—maybe something in styling or a role where she could really shine. Could you... I don't know, talk to Gwen or see if something could be done for her?"

Blake blinked, caught slightly off-guard, but his expression softened. "She does seem like a sweet girl," he said, nodding slightly. "I'll think about it."

With that, he carefully closed the hatch. The faint thud of the door sealing shut echoed in the still room. Inside the dumbwaiter, the silence was oppressive, and as the seconds stretched on, my anticipation turned to doubt.

Blake tilted his head slightly, his blue-grey eyes holding a hint of intrigue. "She does seem to be a sweet girl," he said with a faint smile, the corners of his mouth lifting briefly before he gently closed the hatch.

Inside the dumbwaiter, the silence was almost oppressive. The close air carried a faint mustiness from the aged wood, mingled with a lingering scent of polish from the kitchen. I sat with my knees tucked to my chest, the small space amplifying my awareness of every breath, every sound. Experimentally, I tugged at the rope, trying to replicate the motion I'd made the first time.

"Anything?" Blake's voice called through the hatch after what felt like an eternity.

"Nope," I replied, the single word heavy with deflation. I shifted slightly, the wooden walls pressing against me as my hopes dimmed. Another ten minutes passed, filled only by the sound of my own shallow movements, before the hatch finally creaked open. Blake's hand reached in, steady and firm, helping me climb out.

"It was worth a try," I sighed, brushing off my trousers as if shaking loose the disappointment that clung to me. My voice betrayed how much I'd hoped for a different outcome.

Blake leaned against the counter, arms crossed, his thoughtful gaze fixed on me. "What if we try it from the other end?" he suggested, his tone calm but laced with determination. "That's the way you found yourself here, after all."

I nodded, his persistence a quiet comfort. Together, we climbed the stairs, retracing the path I'd taken on that strange, bewildering day. The house seemed to hold its breath as we worked, the air heavy with anticipation. Yet, despite our efforts, the dumbwaiter remained stubbornly unresponsive.

"Argh," I groaned, resting my forehead against the cool plaster of the wall. My eyes fluttered shut, the chill grounding me even as frustration simmered beneath the surface. The futility of it all weighed heavily, gnawing at the edges of my resolve.

Blake's voice broke the silence, steady and warm. "It was worth a try, like you said." There was no pity in his tone, only quiet reassurance that softened the edges of my disappointment.

I turned to face him, catching a flicker of hesitation in his expression before he cleared his throat and straightened. His hand brushed through his hair, an almost absent gesture that betrayed his own uncertainty. "Right," he said, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. "Shall we head to the cottage and get started on those journal entries?"

"Yeah," I replied, exhaling slowly as I pushed off the wall. His suggestion felt like a lifeline, a way to channel the energy of my frustration into something tangible.