[ her umbrella goes from weapon to walking stick. peggy leans its tip into the ground, though she doesn't make any motion as though to walk anywhere. ]

Haven't the foggiest, I'm afraid. Last I knew for certain, it was May in 1946. Heaven knows what day this one is meant to be.

[ time travel -- the notion of it -- throws her for a serious loop. it keeps a haunted concern in her eyes even as she speaks with measured tone. she's more alarmed than she lets on, now that the immediate threat of his height and presence has passed. ] I take it today isn't meant to be your today, either.