She had studied England's medieval era exhaustively. Every book she could find on the history of the age, she had devoured. Every historical fiction set in the period, she had pored over for details and critiqued its failures. Historical accounts from lords to knights to serfs — mostly lords — she had absorbed. Friends found her singular focus endearing, but even so she frustrated them with a complete inability to discuss issues of the day. Ready to pen her own historical novel, accurate in every way but for the original tale of love, ambition, greed, and loss, she cleared space at her hand-made desk. Armed with a period-appropriate quill, she wove an intricate tapestry, a description of the world so detailed that she could see it. When she raised her eyes from her writing, she was truly there.
She exulted in it, the language and people, for five minutes. Pure joy gave way to a rational nausea. Medicine was mysticism. Her gender had few rights. Even fewer, without noble blood she couldn't claim. Rushing to her desk, she raised her quill to write herself home, to describe her home so completely she would be there... and found her mind blank.