Chapter 1 - The Assignment

---

The fluorescent lights in Ms. Chen's classroom buzzed like dying hard drives, each flicker sending another spike of anxiety through my already overstressed nervous system. I slouched deeper into my seat, shoulders hunching inward in a defensive posture I'd perfected over three years of academic social warfare. My fingers drummed against the desk in the rapid-fire pattern I couldn't control when cornered.

Maybe if I made myself small enough, invisible enough, she'd forget I existed.

Right. Like that had ever worked before.

"Mr. Ramirez." Her voice sliced through my protective bubble with the precision of a well-aimed SQL injection. "Since you seem captivated by whatever's illuminating your laptop screen, perhaps you'd grace us with your insights on today's Victorian literature assignment."

My fingers froze mid-keystroke. The cursor blinked accusingly on the screen, and I felt sweat bead on my forehead despite the classroom's aggressive air conditioning. I glanced down at my screen, where elegant lines of Python code cascaded in neat, logical hierarchies. Beautiful. Predictable. Following rules that made sense, unlike every other aspect of my existence at Preston Prep Academy.

"I, um..." My throat constricted, words catching like syntax errors in my vocal cords. My leg bounced under the desk—another nervous tic I couldn't suppress. Her laser-focused gaze had already pinned me like a bug in a collector's display case. "I was just—"

"Programming. Yes, I'm aware of your extracurricular passions." She adjusted her rectangular glasses with one finger—a gesture I'd learned to interpret as incoming academic doom. "However, this class is Advanced Placement English Literature, not Computer Science. The assignment, Mr. Ramirez?"

Twenty-three pairs of eyes swiveled toward me with the synchronized precision of a bot network launching an attack. My skin prickled with familiar heat—the same burning sensation I got whenever the popular kids made their little jokes about scholarship students who "didn't belong here." I could feel myself shrinking further into my hoodie, hands instinctively moving to pull the hood up before I caught myself.

This was why I preferred code to conversation—algorithms never judged you for being different, and computers never forced you to analyze some overwrought Victorian melodrama about—

"The Chronicles of Lady Vivienne Ashworth," I muttered, the title sitting in my mouth like corrupted data.

"Louder, please. For those of us who aren't fluent in mumble."

I cleared my throat, my fingers now fidgeting with my hoodie strings. "The Chronicles of Lady Vivienne Ashworth, Detective Extraordinaire." The subtitle emerged like I was coughing up malware. Who even uses 'extraordinaire' anymore?

"Excellent. And have you begun reading this literary masterpiece?"

Define 'begun.' I'd opened the cover with all the enthusiasm of debugging someone else's spaghetti code. I'd stared at the first page for thirty-seven seconds before my brain began rejecting the purple prose like a security system blocking malicious input. Did that count as reading?

"Yeah," I lied, attempting what I hoped was convincing eye contact while my hand unconsciously pushed my glasses up my nose—my most obvious tell.

Ms. Chen's lips compressed into a line thinner than a deprecated API. She stalked toward my desk with the predatory efficiency of a heat-seeking missile locked onto its target. My whole body tensed, fight-or-flight instincts firing even though both options were equally futile.

"Then surely you'll have no difficulty describing Lady Ashworth's character development in the opening chapters?"

My mind went as blank as an uninitialized array. "She's..." I scrambled for anything that sounded remotely literary. My hands had gone clammy, and I wiped them on my jeans under the desk. "She's very... independent?"

Someone snickered. Definitely Ashley Chen (no relation to our teacher, despite sharing the same surname and apparent genetic predisposition to make my life miserable). My face burned hotter, and I could feel the telltale blotchiness creeping up my neck—another betrayal by my body.

"A fascinating micro-analysis," Ms. Chen said, her tone suggesting it was anything but. "Perhaps you could elaborate on her utilization of deductive reasoning versus the intuitive methodologies she employs? Or provide commentary on how she simultaneously challenges Victorian gender norms while reinforcing existing class structures?"

She might as well have been speaking Klingon. Actually, I understood more Klingon than whatever academic gibberish she'd just spouted.

"I'll interpret your silence as a negative." She straightened, addressing the entire class while keeping her eyes locked on me like targeting software. "This assignment represents thirty percent of your final grade. I strongly suggest you all approach it with appropriate gravity. Mr. Ramirez, please remain after class."

The remaining twenty minutes crawled by like an O(n²) algorithm trying to process a massive dataset. I attempted to focus on my code, but Ms. Chen's surveillance made concentration impossible. My fingers kept slipping on the keys, introducing bugs I'd never normally make. When the bell finally rang, I packed up with deliberate slowness, watching my classmates file out with the kind of envy usually reserved for people with functioning social skills and trust funds.

"Mr. Ramirez." Ms. Chen had positioned herself behind her desk like a final boss in her academic dungeon. Her fingers steepled in that way that always made my stomach drop. "Your performance in my class has been... profoundly disappointing."

"I know, I just—" The words tumbled out, but she raised a hand to stop me.

"You're brilliant at mathematics. Your computer science teacher sends me emails about your exceptional problem-solving abilities. Yet in my class, you barely maintain a C average. Explain this discrepancy."

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, my backpack straps cutting into my shoulders. My hands found my hoodie pockets, seeking refuge. "English isn't really my thing."

"Literature," she corrected with the patience of someone who'd made this correction many times before, "is everyone's 'thing.' It's the study of human nature, emotion, society—all the variables you claim to find so confusing in real life are laid out on the page for systematic analysis."

"Variables in code make sense," I mumbled, staring at a fascinating spot on the floor. "They follow rules. People don't."

Something flickered across her face—not quite sympathy, but something adjacent to understanding. For a moment, she looked less like an academic authority figure and more like someone who'd wrestled with their own isolation.

"The Victorian era was obsessed with rules, Mr. Ramirez. Social protocols are as rigid as any programming syntax. Perhaps if you approached the text as a system to decode rather than a story to endure, you might find unexpected relevance."

She pulled something from her desk drawer—a book that immediately commanded attention. Even from several feet away, I could see it was old. Really old. The leather binding looked soft with age, and gilt edges caught the afternoon light filtering through the blinds.

"This is a first edition," she said, handling it with the reverence usually reserved for ancient artifacts or mint-condition comic books. "From my personal collection. I acquired it from a rather... unusual dealer who specializes in Victorian curiosities."

She held it out to me, and I stepped forward to take it. The moment my fingers made contact with the leather, I jerked back. Something was wrong. My arm felt weird—numb but also buzzing, like I'd hit my funny bone, but all over. My vision went fuzzy for a second, and I had to blink hard to clear it. My hand trembled as I reached for it again, some magnetic pull overriding my instinct to flee.

"Careful!" Ms. Chen's voice sharpened as I nearly dropped it. "That book is over a century old and quite... unique."

I gripped it more firmly, though my hands were shaking now. It was heavier than it looked—much heavier, as if the pages were made of lead instead of paper. The leather felt... warm? That couldn't be right. Books didn't generate heat. But as I shifted my grip, I could swear it was getting warmer, like it had been sitting in direct sunlight. My palms started to sweat. The smell hit me next—vanilla and dust and something else, something that made my head swim and my stomach turn. My fingers found an odd ridge along the spine, like something was hidden in the binding.

"Is it just me, or is this book..." I paused, not sure how to describe the wrongness of it. The way it seemed to vibrate against my palms, the way the room temperature seemed to drop several degrees around it.

"Special?" Ms. Chen supplied, and there was something hungry in her expression that made me take an involuntary step back. "Yes, Mr. Ramirez. This particular edition possesses quite a history. They say it was bound with materials from the author's personal effects. Hair, some claim. Others suggest... more intimate materials."

That was deeply disturbing on multiple levels, but I kept my expression neutral even as nausea rolled through me. The book grew warmer in my hands, and I could swear I felt it breathing.

"Read the first five chapters by Monday," she instructed, but her eyes never left the book, tracking it with an intensity that seemed almost possessive. "And Mr. Ramirez? Try to genuinely engage with it this time. You might find it more... transformative than you expect."

I mumbled something that might have been agreement and escaped into the hallway, clutching the book against my chest. It thrummed against my ribs like a second heartbeat, and I had to resist the urge to drop it and run.

By the time I got home, the afternoon sun had given way to San Francisco's trademark fog, enveloping everything in a gray gauze that made the city feel suspended between realities. Our apartment—a cramped two-bedroom in the Mission that Abuela had somehow held onto through three decades of gentrification—smelled like sofrito and strong coffee, which meant she was cooking even though I'd specifically told her I'd handle dinner.

"¡Luis! ¿Cómo fue la escuela?" Her voice carried from the kitchen, warm despite the slight wheeze that had been getting worse lately.

"Fine, Abuela." I kicked off my sneakers by the door and padded down the narrow hallway, dodging the gallery of family photos that felt more like a memorial these days. Mom and Dad smiled from behind dusty glass, forever frozen at my eighth birthday party—three months before a drunk driver decided to run a red light and rewrite our entire lives.

I found Abuela at the stove, stirring a pot with her good hand while her other arm stayed tucked protectively against her side. The arthritis had been winning more battles lately, but she'd rather die than admit it.

"You're cooking?" I set the cursed book on the counter, trying to sound casual. "I told you I'd make dinner."

"Bah." She waved the wooden spoon at me like a tiny weapon, sending droplets of sauce flying. "You make quesadillas and ramen. That's not food, mijo. That's what college students eat when they've given up on life."

"Let me help, at least." I moved to take the spoon, but she hip-checked me away with surprising agility for a seventy-two-year-old with joint problems.

"You help by doing your homework. How else will you get into MIT? You think they accept students who fail English?"

"It's literature, and I'm not failing." Yet. The word hung unspoken between us.

She turned to look at me properly, and I saw her eyes catch on something—my hands were still trembling slightly from the book encounter. "You look different today, mijo. Worried, like you're carrying something heavy."

If only she knew. I glanced at the book on the counter. It sat there innocently enough, but I could still feel its warmth from here, like it was radiating some kind of toxic energy.

"Just homework stress," I said. "Speaking of which..."

I picked up the book, trying not to react when it pulsed against my palms again. Abuela glanced at the cover and made a small sound of interest.

"Pretty girl on the cover," she observed with a sly smile.

"Abuela!"

"What? I'm old, not blind. Look at that tiny waist—probably can't even breathe properly. These modern girls with their plastic surgery, they don't know what real beauty is."

"It's from 1895," I pointed out. "Not exactly modern."

"Hmm." She stirred the pot thoughtfully. "You know what your problem is, mijo? You spend too much time with those computers. When was the last time you went out with friends? Talked to a real girl instead of staring at screens?"

I didn't answer. We both knew I didn't really have friends, not since we'd moved after the accident and I'd started at Preston Prep on scholarship. The kids there existed in a different universe—one where problems meant choosing between Yale or Harvard, not whether the electricity would stay on through the month.

"Computers don't judge," I said quietly.

The stirring slowed. Abuela turned to face me fully, her eyes soft behind thick glasses. "No, mijo. But they don't love, either. They can't hold you when you're sad or celebrate when you're happy. They're tools, not companions."

"Sometimes tools are easier," I admitted.

She reached up to touch my cheek with one weathered hand that smelled like cumin and comfort. "My beautiful boy. So smart, but so afraid. Life isn't supposed to be easy. It's supposed to be lived."

We ate dinner mostly in silence, punctuated only by the clink of forks against Abuela's good plates—the ones with tiny painted roses that had belonged to her mother. I helped with the dishes despite her protests, then retreated to my room, where the Victorian brick of supernatural wrongness loomed.

My bedroom was a shrine to organized chaos. Three monitors dominated my desk, surrounded by half-built Raspberry Pis, tangled cables, and enough electronic components to build a small army of robots. Movie posters covered the walls—The Matrix, Blade Runner, Ghost in the Shell—all comfortable dystopias where the line between human and machine blurred into irrelevance.

I flopped onto my bed and cracked open the book. The spine protested with a sound like breaking bones, releasing a smell that was both vanilla and wrongness, even stronger now. The first page was covered in fancy old-timey writing that made my eyes hurt. The letters wouldn't... they kept... I couldn't read them properly. Like trying to focus on something through water. Must have been the weird font. Or I needed new glasses.

"Being the True and Extraordinary Adventures of Lady Vivienne Ashworth, as Recorded for Posterity, Wherein Our Heroine Employs Both Wit and Wisdom to Unmask the Most Dastardly Villains of London Society..."

Jesus. The title alone made me want to throw it across the room.

But Ms. Chen's threat, which accounted for thirty percent of my grade, echoed in my head, so I forced myself to continue. The first chapter wouldn't shut up about Lady Vivienne. Something about green eyes like gems—who describes eyes like gems? And her hair was amazing in some particular way I'd already forgotten. Oh, and somehow she was both super proper and athletic, which made zero sense.

I rolled my eyes so hard it actually hurt. Of course, she was perfect. Of course, she was beautiful and brilliant and rich and—

The words began to swim on the page. I blinked. Still swimming. Wait, were they actually—? No, that was impossible. Words didn't move. I was just tired. Really tired.

I rubbed my eyes hard enough to see stars. Looked again.

The text was... different? But that couldn't—I must have been reading the wrong paragraph. Or maybe I was having some kind of stress hallucination. Too much coding, not enough sleep.

Except the page now said: Come home, Vivienne.

That definitely wasn't there before. Was it?

My laptop chimed. Thank God. A distraction.

I rolled over to check the notification. Someone had responded to my Stack Overflow post about the recursive function problem I'd been debugging. Their solution was elegant, simple—exactly what I'd been missing. I pulled my laptop closer, the book sliding off my chest onto the floor with a heavy thud that seemed to echo too long.

Just a quick fix. Five minutes, tops. Then back to Lady Perfect and her extraordinary adventures.

My fingers flew across the keyboard as I implemented the solution, tested edge cases, and optimized performance. The familiar rhythm of code soothed my brain like a digital lullaby. This made sense. This had rules. This—

A sound from the floor made me look down. The book lay open on the floor. Wait—hadn't it closed when it fell? I could have sworn... but maybe I was wrong. Had to be wrong. Books didn't open themselves. Was the book... fluttering? No, that was stupid. Books didn't flutter without wind. I glanced at my window—still shut tight. Must have been my imagination. Or maybe I'd breathed on it weird when it fell.

"Luis?" Abuela's voice drifted through the door. "It's midnight, mijo. Sleep."

Midnight? I blinked at the clock. How was it midnight?

"Just a few more minutes, Abuela."

"You said that two hours ago. Sleep, or I'll come in there with the chancla."

The chancla threat was serious business. I saved my work and closed the laptop, suddenly aware of how heavy my eyes felt. The book lay on the floor, now definitely open, its pages glowing faintly in the darkness.

Wait—glowing? No. That was insane. Just a streetlight through the fog. Had to be. Books didn't glow.

I rubbed my eyes. Just the streetlight filtering through fog. Had to be.

But when I picked it up, careful not to touch it more than necessary, that weird warmth was back. No—stronger than before. Hot enough that I almost dropped it, like grabbing a mug I didn't know had coffee in it. My fingers found that weird ridge in the binding again. This time, when I pressed it—more by accident than anything—something clicked. A section of the binding popped open like a hidden pocket. Inside were folded papers, old and brown and wrong-looking. The rational part of my brain started to wonder what could make ink turn that color, then immediately shut down that line of thinking. Nope. Not going there.

Before I could examine them more closely, that vanilla smell got stronger. Too strong. Other smells crashed in—couldn't tell what. My head swam. Vision went fuzzy. Was I allergic to old books? This felt like more than dust. My hands felt numb and disconnected, as if they didn't belong to me.

"Fine," I muttered, setting it on my nightstand. "One chapter. That's it."

I crawled into bed and flipped to where I'd left off, squinting in the dim light. Lady Vivienne was attending some fancy party, using her "remarkable powers of observation" to deduce that the Countess of Whatever was having an affair because of the way she held her fan, or some equally ridiculous—

Something was wrong with the words. Worse than before. They wouldn't stay still—or was it my eyes that wouldn't stay still? Everything seemed to be doubling, tripling, like looking through water.

I couldn't read. Couldn't focus. The Victorian prose turned into meaningless shapes that hurt to look at. My eyes burned. Head spinning.

Was I having a seizure? A stroke? This wasn't how books worked. This wasn't how anything worked. The sentences seemed to pulse with their own rhythm, drawing me in, pulling me down.

That vanilla smell got stronger—way too strong. It filled my nose and mouth, making it hard to breathe. There was something else mixed in, but I couldn't identify what it was. Just wrong. Like when you smell something burning but can't find the source. My stomach rolled. My eyelids felt weighted with lead. My chest felt tight. Tighter. Why was it so hard to breathe? Couldn't breathe right. Chest felt tight. Like someone was sitting on me. I shifted position, but it didn't help. Why was breathing so hard all of a sudden? Was I having a panic attack? An allergic reaction? Something was pressing down, but that didn't make sense—books didn't get heavier. The pages rustled without any breeze, sounding almost like whispers in a language I didn't recognize.

Panic flickered at the edges of my consciousness, but my body wouldn't respond to commands. Classic sleep paralysis, the rational part of my brain supplied. Except this felt different. Older. Hungrier. Like something had been waiting a very long time.

...Lady Ashworth glided through the ballroom with preternatural grace, her emerald eyes missing nothing. The murderer was here, amongst the glittering throng, hidden behind a mask of propriety. She could feel it in the very air, that electric tension that preceded violence, as familiar to her as her own heartbeat...

My head hit the pillow, the book still splayed across my chest. The last coherent thought I managed was that 'preternatural' was still a stupidly pretentious word. Then even that thought scattered, fragmenting into static as consciousness slipped away like a crashed program finally shutting down.

Then darkness claimed me. But not the normal darkness of sleep—this was different. Viscous. Aware. It pulled me down like digital quicksand, each struggle only hastening my descent. I tried to scream, to wake up, but my body had already disconnected from my mind. I was falling, falling, falling through layers of reality that peeled away like corrupted data.

For a moment—or an eternity—I existed nowhere.

Then: wrong.

Everything wrong.

Can't breathe right. Chest won't— Tight. Everything tight. Squeezing. Like bands around—around—

No. Breathe. Just breathe.

But breathing hurts. Not hurts. Wrong. Air tastes wrong. Smells wrong. Everything touching me is wrong but I can't—can't think why—

Sound. Someone talking. Far away? Close? Can't tell. Words but not words. Just noise. Everything's noise.

Try to move. Nothing moves right. Heavy. Everything's heavy. But also light? But also—

"My lady?"

Those words. Those words mean something. Lady? Who's—

Eyes. Open eyes. Try to—

Too bright. Everything swimming. Red? Something red above. Moving? Not moving? Can't focus. Blink. Blink again.

Shape. Person shape. Standing there. Woman? Dress. Black dress. Why is there—

"My lady, are you well?"

British. That's British. accent. Why is someone British in my—

Where am I?

The thought cuts through the fog like ice water. WHERE AM I?

Not my room. Not my ceiling. Not my anything. Red fabric above me hanging from—from what? Bed? Some kind of—

"You've been in bed rather late, and Inspector Blackwood is due within the hour."

Words. I know these words, but they're wrong. Everything's wrong. My mouth opens to say "what" or "where" or just scream, but what comes out is—

"I..."

No.

NO.

That's not my voice. That's not—can't be—too high, too smooth, too—

The woman moves closer. Her face swims into focus. Stern. Older. Wearing clothes that look like—like—

My brain scrambles for a reference point and lands on: movie. Period movie. But real. Too real. She's too real and I'm—

"My lady?" Her eyebrows draw together. Concern? "You've gone quite pale."

My lady. She keeps saying My lady. Why does she keep—

I try to sit up. Everything moves wrong. The weight is in the wrong places. Hair—so much hair—pulling at my scalp, falling over my shoulders, getting in my face. I push it back and my hand—

That's not my hand.

Smaller. Smoother. No scar on the thumb from skateboarding. These aren't my hands.

"I just..." The words come out in that wrong voice again. British. Female. Not mine. "I need a moment."

"Shall I send word to the Inspector that you're indisposed?"

Inspector. The word triggers something. A memory? But not my memory. Or is it? Everything's fuzzy. Everything's—

"No." Where did that come from? That firmness? "I'll... I'll be ready."

The woman studies me. There's something about her face. Something familiar but not familiar. As if I should know her, but I don't. Like—

"Very well, my lady. Shall I send Sarah to help you dress?"

Dress. The word penetrates the fog. Dress because... because...

I look down.

Green. Not my shirt. Not my anything. Green fabric with—with things. Buttons? Lace? This isn't—

My hands move without thinking, pressing against my chest, and—

Oh God.

Soft. Curves. Real curves that move when I breathe. This isn't my body. This can't be my body.

"Yes. Please." The words come out steady somehow, even though everything inside me is screaming.

She nods and turns to leave, pausing at the door. "I'll have Sarah bring up your morning tea while you compose yourself, my lady. And remember—you've faced worse and conquered it. You are Lady Vivienne Ashworth. You bow to no one."

Lady Vivienne Ashworth.

The name hits like a sledgehammer.

The book. The fucking Victorian book. The one that—

The door clicks shut.

I'm alone.

In the wrong body. In the wrong time. In the wrong everything.

The panic hits full force now that there's no one watching. My hands—her hands—shake as I push back the covers. More green. Layers of fabric that go on forever. Nightgown. This is a nightgown. I'm wearing a nightgown because I'm—

No. Don't think it. If you don't believe it, it's not real.

But my body—this body—moves without permission. Sitting up. Swinging legs over the side of the bed. Shorter legs. Different legs. Everything's different and wrong and—

Standing is a mistake. The center of gravity is all wrong. I stumble, catch myself on something—bedpost?—and the nightgown tangles around legs that aren't the right length.

There's a mirror across the room. Big. Fancy. Carved wood frame. My reflection will tell me what's going on. Show me this is all some weird dream or hallucination. I just need to see myself, see Luis Ramirez with bedhead and acne scars and everything normal.

I stumble toward it, desperate for something familiar.

The mirror shows a woman.

My brain short-circuits. That's not—there must be someone else in the room. I spin around, looking for her, but there's no one. Just me and the fancy furniture and—

I turn back to the mirror. The woman turns too.

No.

I raise my hand slowly, watching. She raises hers at exactly the same time. I tilt my head. She tilts hers. I open my mouth, and she—

That's me.

The thought doesn't compute. Can't compute. The reflection shows someone who is definitely not Luis Ramirez.

Heart-shaped face instead of my square jaw. Delicate features, rather than my prominent nose. Skin like porcelain instead of my uneven complexion. Green eyes—bright, shocking green—instead of brown. Auburn hair falling in waves past shoulders that aren't—can't be—

I reach up to touch my face, watching the woman in the mirror do the same. The moment my fingers make contact with skin that's too soft, too smooth, the last shred of denial shatters.

This is my face. These are my hands. This is my reflection.

"This isn't real," I whisper, and the beautiful woman in the mirror moves her lips with mine. Her voice—that melodious British voice—comes from my throat. Comes from me.

I stumble closer, palms pressed against the glass as if I could push through to my real reflection hidden somewhere behind this impossible image. But she mimics every movement perfectly. When I blink, she blinks. When tears start gathering in my eyes—her eyes—those green eyes I'd read about in the book fill with moisture too.

The book. Mrs. Whitmore was calling me "my lady." Lady Vivienne Ashworth.

Understanding crashes over me like a system failure. I'm in the book. Literally in the book. In her body. Looking at her face. My face. Our face?

"¡Joder!"

The Spanish curse sounds insane coming from this posh British voice—my voice—but it's the only thing that feels like me in this whole impossible situation.

I study the reflection with the kind of horrified fascination usually reserved for particularly gruesome error messages. She's—I'm—wearing a white nightgown that's all ruffles and lace. The face looking back could have stepped out of a Victorian painting. High cheekbones. Perfect cupid's bow lips. The kind of face that launched a thousand ships, or whatever that quote was.

Even with a shocked expression and tears streaming down her cheeks, she remains stunning. I'm stunning. The thought makes me want to laugh, scream, or both.

My hand—her hand—this hand—traces the unfamiliar features. The skin is soft, unblemished. No trace of the acne scars that had mapped my real face like a constellation of teenage misery. The bone structure is completely different. Even my expressions seem foreign on this face, as if I'm operating someone else's avatar with my inputs.

I try to find something, anything, of Luis in the reflection. But there's nothing. Just Lady Vivienne Ashworth staring back at me with my consciousness behind her green eyes.

The room starts to come into focus now that the initial panic is fading to a kind of numb horror. It's huge. Fancy. Everything is dark wood and rich fabrics. A fireplace with actual fire. Paintings on the walls. This is precisely the kind of room a Victorian lady detective would have.

Because that's what I am now. Somehow.

My legs give out, and I sink to the floor, the nightgown pooling around me. How is this possible? How is any of this possible?

*¡Dios mío, estoy completamente jodido.*​

---

Next Time...

Luis faces his first challenge in Lady Vivienne's body: getting dressed in Victorian women's clothing. But corsets and crinolines are just the beginning of his troubles...