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She doesn't scream - she makes a little strangled squeaky noise instead, and her heart, already stressed by the adrenaline, does something that could generously be called 'freaking out'.

The stale, flat, vague feeling of the botfly's moment vanishes. The air doesn't change temperature, but it suddenly gains character, life, reality. Smells thicken, the sweet of sugar-beets, the sour smell of sweat, the tang of metal grease and treacle, and the thousand other odors of a living world, all at once.

And people.

And noise.

Somewhere nearby, a dozen people are hauling a podium up onto a small stage made of wooden pallets.

They have arrived in 1911.