As the clock struck twelve, Elizabeth slipped through the curtains. Time-traveling was not as glamorous as the historians had made it out to be. She found herself in the middle of a robotic renaissance, where men in suits of chrome and women adorned in circuits held discussions on the proper etiquette of digital beings.
Just last week in the 17th century, she had convinced a duke to invest in "futures" without even a hint of irony. The term, still foreign among the paper-thin walls of his castle, resonated with echoes of the stock market crash yet to come.
In the fabric of night, the dream weaver whispered, "Herald of the past and future," as Elizabeth adjusted her neon bowler hat, iridescent under the candlelight of an age long consigned to history.
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