Intervention

      “Alex?”       They were lying on the cobblestone road with their arms outstretched. The rays of the dawn glided unpleasantly over their faces, forcing them to squint. Not to say that lying on the cold ground was an exciting activity, but there was no choice. Especially when you woke up in an unfamiliar place just a couple of minutes ago.       “Tell me, at what point did it seem to us that getting drunk in the car would be a great idea?”       “At the same moment when we thought it was a great idea to go to the store at two in the morning, Lynn.”       Lynn Mitchell opened eye and propped herself up on her elbows.       “Where’s my car?”       Her eyes were still double, her body obeyed every other time, and the hangover itself was already knocking at Lynn’s head with a disgusting pulsation in temples.       “What the hell happened anyway?”       Alexandra turned her head sideways, and a dirty cold stone scratched her cheek.       “We were driving down Fifth Avenue, then we lost control and flew into a pole,” Lynn scratched her chin, “but we’re nowhere near Fifth Avenue right now, and… it doesn’t even look like we’re in New York…”       “What?”       Mitchell didn’t say anything. Rubbing the back of her head, she immediately brought her fingers to her eyes. Blood.       “I feel like I fell off a cliff…”       “Where to?”       Being ignored again, Alex frowned: 'What are we doing in here, where is my bag and where, after all, are we? '       “You’re lying on it.”       Just as Hamilton was about to utter a short “oh”, she suddenly jumped to her feet, running away somewhere into the corner of a dirty alley. Nausea rolls up in her throat, and Al rests her hand against the wall, folding in half. The air was musty, stank of dampness and something sour, which only worsened the condition and irritated the receptors until the next attack of vomiting.       “Here, here,” Lynn pats Alex lightly on her shoulder, “wait a sec, I’ll hold your hair.”       She picks up a bag from the ground and quickly collects Alexandra’s wavy hair.       The corner of Lynn’s lips rises in an interested grin and she said: 'Quite heavy, what’s in it? '       “The most necessary things,” Alex grimaces from the bitter lump rolling into her throat, “don’t…”       Along with the dinner, all the last thoughts come out of Hamilton. Having cleared her stomach, she buries her soaked forehead against the cold wall, painfully raises her bleary gaze upward, slightly rolling her eyes, and exhales through the force; nausea does not pass.       “I don’t want to vomit again,” she finally stops vomiting, moaning plaintively, swallowing the saliva that suddenly filled her mouth, “god forgive me, never again, I promise, please.”       After a while, she manages to calm her stomach, but it didn’t get any easier for Hamilton.       “Do you have water with you?” Lynn fumbled in her bag. Not feeling anything even close to a plastic bottle, Lynn sighs bitterly. She was just as thirsty, “we’ll have to look for it outside the alley.”       She takes one last look at the dirty walls of the alley, and then, grabbing Alex by the elbow, went to the exit.       “To begin with, I suggest you find out where we are,” Alexandra tried to wipe the wet dirt from her face, but it seems that she only rubbed it harder, “How long have we been lying?”       “Considering that my most recent memory is that we drove at about two in the morning, and woke up at dawn,” a light slightly dissipating clouds hit Mitchell’s eyes, and she stumbled, covering her face with her free hand, “we lay all night.”       If you look around, any fool will understand that the current realities are not New York at all and not even modern America. Mitchell squeezed her eyes shut and slapped her already sore head with annoyance. Along with the blow came a heavy realization.       If it wasn’t her imagination, then she had just been pricked by an awl of conscience. Oddly enough, such concepts as shame and conscience still had their place in Lynn’s character, which made her think right now: what can I say to Alex — completely unaware of the danger they are in. And, if the panic can be calmed, where to start adapting, and how to finally return home.       “You know what, Al,” Mitchell swallowed, “we have a problem. No, it’s not like that: we’re fucked.”       “If we are alive and well, then this is not a problem.”       Alexandra finally looked up from the pavement. Pavement? When did pavements appear in New York? There were no people or cars on the street. And the street was not at all like a square clogged with skyscrapers.       “Hey-y what kind of Broadway musical is this?” Hamilton looked around enthusiastically again.       The street was clogged with garbage, just like in New York, but now skyscrapers covered with wires and neon signs did not rise above them. There was a dilapidated cab nearby; it seems that if you blow on it a little, it will start creaking like old floorboards. It was possible to understand that the current realities are not New York at all and not even modern America.       Mitchell squeezed her eyes shut and slapped her already sore head with annoyance. Along with the blow came a heavy realization. If it wasn’t her imagination, then she had just been pricked by an awl of conscience. Oddly enough, such concepts as shame and conscience still had their place in Lynn’s character, which made her think right now: 'What should I say to Alex? She’s completely unaware of the danger we are in. What if she’ll panic? And, if the panic can be calmed, where to start adapting, and how to return home? '       “Don’t tell me it’s Big Ben, Mitchell,” Hamilton said with a laugh. In inspired disbelief, she looked around, “we can’t be in London, it’s not true!”       Lynn’s breath is interrupted by a headwind, her already untidy hair is blown by air currents, her mouth is slightly open in surprise, and her eyes clung fiercely to the surrounding landscape. She finally dares to move to the sides, continuing to examine everything that her vision could reach; she leans a little forward and sideways, looking behind Alexandra’s back: so it is — the Palace of Westminster. Her stomach suddenly twisted with a ticklish feeling that appears when, for example, you spin around your axis for a long time, and Lynn didn’t like it.       “Oh, yes, you’re right, in fact, our bodies were just dragged to the rehearsal of 'Hamilton'. But, wait a minute, the action there also takes place in America. Such an inconsistency.”       Lynn’s fingers dug a little harder into the strap of the bag, and she frowned tensely.       “I wouldn’t take drugs,” her shoulders shuddered, “yes, and one hallucination for two because of a concussion is nonsense. Therefore, that’s right, Alex, it’s Big Ben, and we’re in London. And yet, far from the two thousand and sixteenth year.”       Mitchell suddenly shifts her gaze to Alex, who was looking somewhere ahead, and falls silent in disbelief. She didn’t look scared at all, her face didn’t express an ounce of excitement. Lynn exhaled, calming the swarm of thoughts in her mind a little, bringing it into minimal order.       “Still, we need to find a way to get back as soon as possible.”       “Why?” Alex raised her eyebrows, “do you have something against the British? Agree, I’ve heard they’re terrible snobs.”       She seems to have completely ignored most of Lynn’s words. Maybe she’s in shock, so she’s talking all sorts of nonsense?       “Do we have any money left? I think dollars are not accepted here, we need to find a bank. Have you ever been to England?” Hamilton looks around, looking further and further at the buildings. The air here was completely different: it was moist and cold, which caused it to settle in the lungs somewhat differently; this made Hamilton dizzy and slightly buzzed her head.       “Well, don’t stand rooted to the spot, I don’t want to get lost,” Alexandra calls out to her friend.       A friend? Is it possible to consider a friend a person with whom you have somehow crossed an entire ocean? Hamilton promised herself that she would definitely think about it after breakfast — her stomach painfully cramped, and the nausea that had not gone away interfered with all thought processes.       Lynn frowns even more, either because of her aching head or because of Alexandra’s reaction. There are too many questions at once.       “Don’t you have unfinished business? I don’t know, won’t your family look for you? After all, there’s our…”       Mitchell hesitated. What was the word she wanted to say? A home? No, this word has a special meaning, which is not given to every place. Habitat? Lair?       ”…Our apartments. I have a pet turtle left all alone, and in principle I have a lot to do,” involuntarily, she starts moving after Hamilton anyway. Actually, there was no choice: it was necessary to start somewhere, and she didn’t want to leave the girl all alone, because, to tell the truth, Lynn was responsible for the fact that they were in such a situation. Mitchell rummaged in her pants pockets and bag: ten dollars for two, “about this place… I have been to the United Kingdom. In Scotland, however, closer to Stanrar. It was a very, very long time ago.”       “Cause of slow metabolism, turtles can live without food for two weeks to two months,” Hamilton said smugly, “and if you agree to arrange such drunkenness,” Alex looked around the street, “then you should be prepared for the fact that you will be lying around for several days with a hangover.”       Noticing that Lynn was starting to follow her, Alexandra quickened her pace. Alex had to walk backwards so as not to lose sight of Mitchell. She tried very hard to cheer her up, but only teachings came out. Lynn looks at her with restrained, rather feigned irritation.       “I know,” she grumbled, “He’s sick, so he’ll die faster than he’ll hibernate.”       In fact, Clipper the turtle worried Lynn a little less about the true important things: work, personal and business connections, and so on. She looked around. The landscape that has already become familiar has ceased to cause alarm, which means it’s time to remember her own instructions, what she does in such situations.       “Actually, I’m not sure that our money will agree to exchange,” Mitchell shook a slightly crumpled ten-dollar bill clenched between her fingers, “so, in order to survive, you need to look for a job. Where should we start?”       “A job? We can’t get a job, we’re immigrants,” Alex reasoned, “we have no documents, no belongings, nothing. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about.”       After thinking for a while, she added, “Let’s stay at least for a while? Then we can go to some embassy, tell them that the Romanian mafia stole us?”       She was noticeably depressed; in fact, she did not want to go back at all. She left the house with a large sports bag filled with personal belongings, hoping not to return. In England, she wouldn’t be found very soon.       “If you want to do business with the homeless, be prepared to get poisoned or something worse. I’d rather steal wristwatches in a crowd. Besides, immigrants from China were given jobs even in the nineteenth century…” Mitchell’s eyebrow twitched nervously, and Lynn grinned, “As maids, for instance, and if you’re lucky, governesses. You just have to know where to go and know how to behave. By the way, we need a newspaper: maybe we’ll find something interesting.”       Lynn realizes that with her last remark she gave mute consent to “stay at least for a while”, and her lips stretch into a more relaxed and non-malicious smile. There’s nothing to do. And her companion is very nimble. Brushing off the hem of his raincoat and adjusting the collar of her shirt, Mitchell comes to Alexandra.       “If you want to live, not survive, it’s better to reach out to those who are a little richer. As soon as you catch up, reach out to even richer ones. The higher the status, the easier it is, and if you start with the poor or, conversely, overestimate your capabilities, you risk getting stuck forever.”       Lynn looked around, — while they were talking, they had already reached a more busy street, — noticing a middle-aged man well dressed enough to recognize him as a high-class follower, Mitchell lightly elbowed Alex in the shoulder and said: 'Look.'       Carefully bypassing the man from behind, Lynn suddenly jumped out right in front of his nose with a friendly smile.       “Good day to you, honorable sir, would you mind giving me just a minute of your precious time!” she began, “My colleagues and I are raising money for the fund to support orphanages. Would you like to make a donation?”       The confused expression on the man’s face was replaced by a slightly concerned one: his bushy eyebrows lowered slightly, his mustache smoothed with his fingers, and the “honorable” man himself nodded his head with a short “yes, yes, of course.” As soon as the pound coin from his wallet appeared in his hand, Mitchell held out her palms with the same smile, only slightly raised her eyebrows in surprise and mute gratitude.       “Oh please, good sir, that’s a lot! Could you look for the smaller ones?”       The man nodded again, found two shillings, on which they parted, nodding kindly to each other; the man even lifted his bowler hat.       Lynn came back with a triumphant and slightly mocking smile. She took Alex’s dumbfounded hand, turned it palm up and put three pounds, those two shillings and two gold cufflinks into it.       “Like I said. The main thing is to behave correctly.”       “I’ve never heard of such fund,” the lady who frowned at Lynn throughout her scam. Dark eyebrows are drawn down to the bridge of the nose, and brown eyes sparkle far from. The woman grabs Lynn by the wrist, “my eyesight didn’t let me down. This is a robbery.”       She examines the coins and cufflinks, and then wrinkles her nose. Most likely, she decides something for herself. The mistress finally lets go of Lynn’s hand.       “My name is Erica D’Amour,” having introduced herself, she straightens up, showing an even thin figure and a magnificent trained posture, and then again glares at Lynn and Alex with a predatory gaze, waiting for a reaction.       “Petty hooliganism — no more.”       Lynn smiles tightly, nods and puts her hands in the pockets of her raincoat, after quickly throwing one cufflink into the bag, and putting the other in Alexandra’s pocket. Her equally prickly and incredulous gaze slid over Erica, stopping longer in her eyes, and Mitchell thought she was about to see some kind of bad reflection in them. The stranger looked very, very wealthy: styled raven hair, leather gloves, polished manners (even if the lady allowed herself to push them into the background a little), posture and manner of movement — everything gave out in Madame D’Amour a representative of noble origin.       “Lynnhen Mitchell, " Lynn calls herself, remaining standing straight and only moving her shoulders a little, “and you, I see, have a feel for strangers?”       “Anything is possible. However, we are more alike than you may think. Didn’t my last name tell you anything?” perhaps Erica exaggerated the concept: she is clearly different, not like the two in front of her. Without waiting for an answer, she folded her arms across her chest, “D’Amour is an old French family of aristocrats. I can’t be mad at you for not knowing… Where are you from?”       “Didn’t hear the characteristic burr, I’m sorry,” Mitchell continued to smile.       She didn’t like arrogant people, especially if they were much younger, but if you snap at everyone, you won’t get far. Lynn only knows her for a couple of minutes, knowing only that she is a rich Frenchwoman with a special interest in pickpockets on the streets. There is not much choice: either they make their way into some useful circles with the help of a strange lady, or they continue to steal on the streets and sell “shiny trinkets” to a pawnshop until they save up for a room in a tavern. However, both sounded pretty good, but still…       “We came from overseas,” Mitchell says, answering and at the same time avoiding the question, “you know, seasickness is such a hard thing: you get lost in space and time, and we,” she gets a little closer to Hamilton, nodding her head confidentially, “are still stormy. We’d like some water.”       “And a newspaper” she hears from Alex.       “And a newspaper.”       Erica raises her eyebrows, as if confused for a second, and then looks intently at Lynn again, “'Burr'?”       Was it just a joke?       “Newspaper. And water.”       Madame D’Amour looks down, and then, turning on small heels, walks with a confident step to the nearest tavern, having previously thrown a short “let’s go.”