I expected to be groggy when I woke up and even expected a slight ache in my back from sleeping on the couch. What I didn't expect was to be roused awake by a deep rumble of my bed that felt close to an earthquake as hollers attacked my ears. I shot up and opened my eyes to entirely unfamiliar surroundings. Gone was my sleek apartment, and instead, I found myself on a thinning feather bed that felt to be set upon nothing more than three boards. A thin but rough canvas material covering everything, including the thinning pillow, replaced my 200 thread count cotton sheets.

"I must still be in a dream," I murmured to myself as the racket outside drew me to the wavy panes of glass the composed my rattling window.

I looked down on a narrow street flooded with all walks of people and animals. I opened my window to peer out further, only to be struck in the face with the overwhelming smell of filth. The oppressive rattle came from the near-constant carts and carriages that barreled down the tiny muddy street with entirely too much disregard for the men, women, and children working, walking, and meandering their way through life. I pulled myself back into the room and clenched my eyes tightly shut.

"It is just a dream; it is just a dream," I chanted to myself again. "I fell asleep to Romeo and Juliet; this is just an extension of my mind working through those images."

But these were not the lavish images of Romeo and Juliet. I was not at a stately ball with luxurious surroundings and young suitors offering their hands for a dance. I appeared to be in a dingy, claustrophobic hell. It was then that I really began to let my surroundings sink in; this dream was a nightmare. I glanced eagerly around, looking for an exit. I rushed to the only door available to me and yanked it open only to find that I was in a boarding house of sorts. Rolling down the hallway of closed doors was the rumbling of voices from downstairs. I slammed the door shut and slumped against it as I puddled to the floor. It was then that I noticed my nightgown bunching as I wilted; my nightgown.

I clutched at the off-white fabric that enrobed me. It flowed to my ankles with long sleeves. Gone were my joggers, my comfortable t-shirt, and my pale pink, oversized sweatshirt. I rose and tore through the room looking for my glasses, my hideous glasses that would bring me some sense of home, but to no avail. Instead, within a small pouch set beside two pots of what looked like white and red mud sat what could hardly pass as eyeglasses. They were two small round frames hinged together at the center. There were no arms to rest on my ears; instead, I must have been expected to perch them on my nose and hope for the best. I attempted only to find that, while they did help some, the prescription was not customized to me. It reminded me of when I forgot my glasses on a trip to Boston and made do with a generic pair from a drugstore. It helped but was not great.

Panic surged through me as I realized the nefarious dream had replaced all my belongings with those of the late 1500s. I feared what I would find in the clothing department. I knew not to hope for comfortable jeans or soft t-shirts. I had seen enough period pieces to know that I was destined to be uncomfortable. As if on cue, my eyes fell to what I had thought initially was an awkwardly placed curtain. It was not; it was my dress. I clutched at the bodice first; it was as stiff as a board. I shuffled through the pieces to determine what was what. In an unexpected turn of events, I did not find a constructed dress; the bodice, sleeves, and skirt were all separate. In fact, I puzzled over the two skirts that were piled before me. I sighed as my eyes landed on the box of pins next to the garments. Apparently, I was supposed to pin my outfit to me like some kind of 1950s paper doll.

I pulled on what I guessed were my undershirt and underskirt first, followed by the bodice, which was nearly impossible to tighten by myself; although, my lungs were grateful for this struggle. Next, I pulled on my blue skirt and held it in place with a belt of pins at my waist. I moved to the sleeves and was successful in the most far-reaching manner of the term before I finally pinned on an itchy, starched pink ruffle around my neck. I glanced in the dingy, warped mirror to find a stranger staring back at me. I lifted the tiny pots of white and red mud and gave them a sniff. The nasty smell dissuaded me from any further consideration.

The stairs creaked beneath my feet as I neared a bustling main hall below. I had expected little activity given the early time of the day. My mind slipped to images of inn taverns with burly men drinking ale while a team of barmaids in low-cut corsets buzz between them. This imaged was shattered by the room bustling with well-dressed men and woman enjoying their breakfast, among others that appeared to be conducting business. In one corner, it even seemed there was a tiny banking window setup.

I slipped to a seat but struggled to get comfortable. While my outfit did not include a skirt cage as I had feared, it had garnered the same effect by tying what appeared to be a rounded pillow around my waist. This pillow did provide me with the accented hips that the other woman around me seemed to be striving for, but it made sitting in a chair quite tricky. I perched on the edge of the seat, my back held straight by the confines of the corset.

The space was loud, with the voices of those around me matching the yells from outside and the continued rumble of the structure threatening to tumble around us all. It was so loud that I should not have heard the whisper, but the words were directed at me in that way women can manage with ease. It sizzled through the air like a snake to my ear.

"She's forgotten her face," one woman giggled with audacity.

"It looks like she has forgotten how to pin as well," the other giggled.

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat at the chiding. "Great, bitches were in the 1500s too; noted," I muttered to myself.

"Breakfast," a spry woman announced as she dropped a plate of what looked like bread and cold fish with a large mug of beer.

She was gone before I could gather myself to utter a word. I hadn't ordered. If I had, I would not have ordered the cold fish and bread plate; nor would I have ordered a beer. I glanced around to see everyone's meals were identical. My stomach growled, beckoning me to at least try it. I took a tentative nibble of the bread; it was fantastic. Perhaps it was because I had denied myself bread for years, my rumbling stomach, or that there was a magical baker nearby, but it was the best bread I had ever tasted. I could not say the same for the ale, and aside from a few glances, the fish did not get any attention.

As my breakfast crawled to an end, I had to determine my next steps. I was in London; Shakespeare's London. A brief wish that I had watched The Great Gatsby instead of Romeo and Juliet crossed my mind, but I stifled it down. For lack of a better option, I escaped back to my room. Unfortunately, all the doors were the same. I wandered down the hall, glancing up and down until I came to the door that seemed to be roughly located where I left. I opened it tentatively. It was not my room.

This room was much more robustly furnished. I would have even said it was downright lived in for a rented room. Thick fabrics of rich reds and blues adorned a lavish four-post bed. Instead of my room's meager furnishings, this space held solid wood dressers and even a desk with stacks of papers.

I was drawn to the quill and ink that sat next to the papers. I let my fingers glide across the softness of the crisp white feather. I was lost in thoughts of writing with the instrument. The art of writing with a quill had always fascinated me. Years ago, in an art class, we attempted to write with feather quills. It resulted in many pieces that resembled a Rorschach test and even more blackened fingers.

"It's a swan feather," a lively voice from behind me caused me to pull my hand back quickly. "It's ok," the smooth voice of the man continued, "it is rare. I get them as gifts from the Queen."

"The Queen?" My voice came out with the appropriate amount of awe, but for the wrong reason. I was not impressed by the Queen's gift; I was confused by the Queen using a feather as a pen. It was a silly misstep, given my current surroundings. Still, it elicited a delighted laugh from my company.

I lifted my gaze to meet his eyes, dark pools of brown with flecks of gold. I instantly knew who had joined me, but he did not look as I had recalled from my high school English class. He was a slight man, hardly taller than my 5'5" height. Despite expecting a bald man, he had a healthy mane of brown hair that was only beginning to show receding signs. Still, his heavy-lidded eyes and thin mustache tipped him to the man that would grow to the image I knew.

"I'm sorry," I stammered.

He let out another impish laugh that pulled a golden twinkle from his eyes. "Have you wronged me in some manner of which I am unaware? All these rooms look the same. I've found myself in a few compromising positions of my own from time to time, although usually a bit of drink has played its part."

"I'm sorry, sir," I murmured again.

Sir felt appropriate; he was William fucking Shakespeare. My mind didn't bother to slip to the anti-love thesis I had conjured the night before in the safety of my modern New York City apartment.

"I did not catch your name, Miss..."

"Sadie," I sputtered, desperately looking for a way to escape this moment.

"How informal. I suppose that makes me William," he gave a slight nod.

"Of course," fell from my lips before I could catch the words.

"You know of me?" A pleased expression settled on his face. "Are you a patron of the theatre?"

"Yes," I said shyly, hoping that my face would not reveal the three-point diatribe I had created the night before and paint me as a liar.

It was then, as his lips toyed with a teasing smile that looked over his long-oval face that I realized William Shakespeare was a flirt.

"I apologize again. I will get out of your way," I paced by him with my face down.

"Out of my way, I did not sense you were impeding me." He shifted to block my path. "Where are you from, Sadie," jest filled his voice.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," I mumbled.

"I am one for fantastical stories," his eyes gleamed with the possibilities as I met his gaze. "I feel a deal is in order. I will tell you a true tale, and then you will tell me yours. Agreed?"

In a thought that I had never believed I would entertain with William Shakespeare, I murmured, "a tale for a tale."

"I will commit to both a tail and a bite for your lone tale," his eyes twinkled enticingly.

"Agreed," I managed.