His head hurt.
Not the dull kind that came after too little sleep, but the kind that pulsed from deep inside, like his skull was echoing with its own heartbeat.
He tried to open his eyes. Slowly, the world became clear, a pale plaster ceiling with a dim gleam of lamplight licking the beams. Somewhere nearby, a fire crackled, its warmth cutting through the faint chill in the air.
He frowned. The ceiling wasn't his. The air wasn't his. None of this was
Where the hell am I?
He turned his head and took in the room. Gas lamps glowed from brass sconces on the wall, burning with that distinct hissing sound. The cream wallpaper, with a fading floral print, curled slightly near the corners. A sturdy oak wardrobe stood by the door. There was a washstand with a porcelain basin and a mirror framed in wood darkened by years of polish.
Everything looked… old-fashioned. Not antique, lived-in. Real.
"This isn't my room," he muttered, voice hoarse.
The bed beneath him sagged slightly, the linen sheets rougher than anything he owned. His apartment in the city had been sleek, minimal, a product of too many nights working overtime. This space was cozy, disorganized, and uncomfortably authentic, as if it were from a historical drama.
He tried sitting up, only for a sharp pain to twist through his abdomen. He hissed, clutching his stomach. Pulling up the hem of his shirt, someone else's shirt, he froze.
Bandages. Wrapped tight and neat.
"Okay, what the hell…" He let the words drift into the air. "Who patched me up?"
The last thing he remembered was the glow of his monitor, spreadsheets open, deadlines looming. Then nothing. Just black.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, wincing as the wooden floor pressed cold against his feet. The fireplace across the room threw a soft amber light that danced across polished furniture and the faint shimmer of a framed photograph on the mantel, a family he didn't recognize.
His gaze caught movement, a book on the small desk near the window fluttering as the night wind crept through. The window had been left ajar, letting in a thin line of cold air.
He crossed the room slowly. The closer he got, the clearer the night became.
Outside, the street stretched quiet and dim. Gas lamps lined the pavement, their glow blending with the mist that hovered just above the cobblestones. The road gleamed faintly—it must have rained not long ago. A horse-drawn carriage clattered somewhere distant, echoing between the rows of narrow, brick-fronted houses.
He gripped the window frame, breath fogging against the glass.
"I definitely don't know where the hell I am."
Shutting the window, he turned back to the table. The notebook lay open, a few loose pages scattered across it. On the exposed page sat a small gold coin, gleaming softly in the lamplight, and beside it, a line written in hurried ink:
Dr. Foyle, beware the Pembrokes.
He read it twice, his mind blank.
"Doctor who?" he murmured. "And… the Pembrokes?"
A faint pulse began behind his eyes again, sharper this time. He pressed a hand to his temple, stumbling slightly as the pain flared. Images burst behind his eyelids—flashes of firelight, a man's hand in a chest of gold, voices he didn't recognize whispering in urgency.
He clutched the edge of the desk and lowered himself into the chair, gasping through clenched teeth as the headache roared to life.
The last thing he saw before everything went black again was the faint shimmer of the gold coin in the lamplight and the words on the page blurring into one another.