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I had not fallen asleep yet anyway, I was just reading on my Kindle. Mom kneeled next to the bed and lightly brushed my cheek with her fingers. I twitched away nervously, dropping the Kindle. Luckily it only fell on the mattress and not the floor. Those things were overpriced and broke easily. I guess I shouldn’t have reacted so nervously, but my mother really wasn’t a touchy-feely type, or at least hadn’t been since I’d been a baby.“Mom, what are...?” I asked, since she hadn’t said anything, but I fell silent when I saw how her hand moved to the hem of the nightgown and raised it. My eyes widened and my jaw dropped when I saw a bush of bristly dark hairs. I was completely frozen, unable to turn my gaze until she let the hem fall back down. Then I quickly turned away from her and realized my heart was pounding vigorously.“Sorry...” mom sighed when she saw how my reaction, and lightly kissed my cheek before she left.I was thinking about that disturbing yet somehow entrancing sight for. She has some sort of tight fitting pants covering her legs with a kilt-like skirt to her knees and a short over wrap keeping her warm on the chilly winter day.No longer is she wearing the inspector's usual clothing of striped trousers held up by leather braces, a silken white shirt with billowed sleeves and a ruffled scarf, long overcoat of dark grey wool, and a high top hat. No more highly polished black boots covering the calves. She is missing the normal goggles consistently at rest upon the neck.And even more oddly there seems to be no type of brass firearms or sheathed knifes upon her person.She adjusts her blouse covering her distaff parts and physique. Her strange, unfamiliar undergarments are causing a rather uncomfortable chaffing and abrading in the delicate, tender area under her not overlarge bosoms. Even though she is certainly used to wearing this womanish clothing he is rather certain that females of his own time were not employing concealed garments that covered each.
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’ The child turned to stare at Mr Fergus in bewilderment. When she turned back, her uncle was already making for the door. ‘But Uncle Davie,’ she cried, ‘when will you be back for me? How long?’ Davie McAllister paused in the doorway, and glanced back at his niece, sheepishly. Then, without another word, he left. Tears of alarm springing into her eyes, Brigid tried to follow him, but the other man caught her by the arm and pulled her back. ‘Now look here, girly girl, don’t you be causing a fuss now’, he barked with false joviality. ‘Your uncle and me have done the deal fair and square, and I’m to be taking you to your nice new home.’ Brigid sank to the floor beside him and sobbed. Casting his eyes around in embarrassment, Fergus pulled the girl to her feet and dragged her struggling and wailing from the pub. She was terrified, she had heard tales of how bad girls were sold to brothel keepers in Dublin to serve men’s carnal desires, only to die maddened from syphilis and be condemned.

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