Indian herbs, if you please.  And that 50P note, also, Stinson.  It worked!  I sent Clark back in time.  Quite the debate, too, has been settled, methinks.  Was it because he belonged there or because of the herbs?  A bit of both.  When I’ve taken them, they’ve created time travel, certainly.  It was by way of a trance that put me nine hours into the future after a period of prolonged unconsciousness.  Oh, wait.  That was the Bilderberg keynote.

Miss Winters, desperate to escape antibiotics and palatable hygiene, has gotten to be quite the little general, telling me what I “must” do, re: sending her back to the 1790’s.  After all of that bad rot with the Sisterhood of the Crimson Blades, “must” is a word to which I’m keenly sensitive.  I can or I cannot.  I wish to or I do not wish to.  Must is a word I do not recognize.  Not until the bottle of Plymouth is half empty and the glass of possibility is awful.

However, she wants the Indian herbs, and I may need more.  (Hint, hint.) I’ve tried to scare her off with the old, “the only way to travel through time is death” line that served me so well with Dr. Cameron.  Will it work, here?

T. Herbaceous Stokes



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