Meet James.

"I... what is happening to me?" she asked in a strange accent. It was kind of Southern, kind of English, and kind of Australian. "Where am I?"

He sighed with relief. At least he could finally communicate with her. "Connie?" he asked hopefully.

She looked at him blankly, then looked around. Her eyes widened as she took in her surroundings. "Who's Connie? My name is James. What happened to my voice?"

A glance at the remote confirmed Mark's worst fears.

James Tyburn
Merchant
London, England, 1792 CE

Connie was staring around the kitchen with wonder. "What is all of this? Where am I? Why-"

She gasped as she looked down at her arms. Glancing over her body, she cried out in shock. She reached up to cup her breasts through the thin tank top and let out a small **** sound. "I'm a woman? His nails, I've got a bosom!"

"James, listen to me. What's the last thing you remember?"

Connie continued to stare down at her chest as she ran her hands along her smooth, toned legs. "I don't know. I don't really remember a last thing."

"Do you know who you are?" Mark asked.

"Of course," she said, looking up at him dismissively. "I'm James Tyburn of Smithfield, London. I sell wool and Italian dyes. At least, I did."

"You did?" Mark prompted.

"Until I grew too old and my son took over. Only a few years later, I died. It was terrible, I wasted away with consumption. Christ our Savior, it feels good to breathe again!"

She attempted to stand only to lose her balance and fall back to the floor. "But you haven't answered my questions. Why am I a bloody woman? Who are you?"