“Cranford-upon-Reslington is not the sort of place that attracts tourists and I can tell by the way you carry yourself that you are not local, so what brings you to this place?”

“You are Miss Eleanor Fetsbury, are you not?”

“I am. And you are?”

“A simple observer sent to bear witness.”

“You speak in riddles, sir.”

“I am bound by a code.”

I have neither the time nor the interest—”

“To know your future?”

“You have chosen your victim poorly, sir. I am not the sort to fall prey to street mountebanks.”

“I would hold no respect for you if you were, madame.”

“You respect me?”

“How could I not respect a single mother who is extremely unpleasant in the most pleasant manner possible, deeply spiritual in an atheistic fashion, and so very fortunate in a There-But-for-the-Grace-of-God-Go-I sort of way?”

“Single mother? You have tripped yourself up, charlatan, for I have no children.”

“Not yet, but soon. And although you will show that child not one ounce of affection because you love to be hated and hate to be loved, you will battle a regiment of armed soldiers single-handedly in order to keep him safe.”

“Stuff and nonsense.”

“And that child will love you enough to break temporal codes to travel back in time to try to prevent your untimely demise.”

“And you claim to be—”

“Hello, mother. It has been a while.”

Don’t bother searching for meaning. This is just me trying to get back into the swing of writing by playing with dialogue. Move along, nothing to see here.