Return of the Heroine

Jane skipped down the first few stairs of West Point’s Administration Building when she felt the back of her neck tighten. Something was out of place. Though it was a warmish March day, cold seeped out of the walls and slid icy fingers down her spine. She forced herself to focus on the hem of her gray slacks.
Suddenly Jane’s vision shifted. Her slacks morphed into a natural-fiber cloth, heavy linen. Soft-soled leather boots covered slightly smaller feet. The feel of cold stone through the thin leather sent a paralyzing chill through her legs, and the fine blond hairs on her arms stood alert. Right before her eyes the square stairwell transformed into antiquated rounded castle walls. She put a hand on her chest and let out an audible gasp.
She heard shuffling footfalls echoing in her head while her heart beat out a more rapid rhythm with each downward step. She grabbed hold of the handrail to steady herself; she was in two locations at once, a palimpsest of sorts. Impressions of a time long gone bled through into this time: split, in mind and spirit.
Some unseen hand tethered her to a dark, fearful scene. Death hovered quietly by her side, waiting. Her chest constricted as she gasped for air. The scent of burning wood stung her nostrils.
Somehow she had parted the delicate fabric of time. French voices swam in her head. Movement was all around her, hands pulled at her. Tired, hungry, and discouraged, she wanted to slump down, give up. Far off noises of a gathered crowd made her ears ring. Jane could hear Jehanne crying out, Oh, dearest God, help me!