“Even if we had weeks, it’s never going to be long enough to prepare her for a grand ball,” said Puffylips. “A soirée, maybe, with a lot of luck and if there are not many guests, but a ball, possibly even in the presence of the duke and duchess—out of the question. I can only assume that the count is allowing himself a little joke.”
Mr. George’s eyes were chilly. “He most certainly is not,” he said. “And it is not for you to cast doubt on the count’s decisions. Gwyneth will manage all right, won’t you, Gwyneth?”
I didn’t answer. My self-esteem had taken too much of a battering over the last two hours. If it was only a case of not making a disagreeable impression, I thought I could get by. I’d just stand in a corner and wave my fan about. Or rather, not wave my fan about, because who knew what that might mean? I’d stand there and smile without showing my teeth. So long as no one disturbed me or asked me about the Marquis of Stafford or wanted me to dance.
Charlotte began tinkling the piano keys. She was playing a pretty little tune in the style of the music we’d been dancing to earlier. Gideon went to stand beside her, and she looked up at him and said something I couldn’t make out, because Puffylips was sighing so loudly.
“We have tried teaching her the basic steps of the minuet in the conventional way, but I fear we shall have to resort to other methods.”
In spite of myself, I couldn’t help admiring Charlotte’s ability to talk, look Gideon in the eyes, show her delightful little dimples, and play the piano all at the same time.
Puffylips was still grousing away. “Diagrams might help, or chalk circles on the floor, we could try.…”
“You can go on with the lessons tomorrow,” Mr. George interrupted him. “Gwyneth has to elapse now. Coming, Gwyneth?”
I nodded, relieved, and picked up my coat and my school bag. Let off the hook at last! My sense of frustration instantly gave way to a certain excitement. All being well, today I’d be sent to elapse to a date after my meeting with Grandpa, and then I ought to find the key and the password in the secret hiding place.
“Let me carry that.” Mr. George took the school bag from me and gave me an encouraging smile. “Only four hours, and then you can go home. You don’t look nearly as tired today as yesterday. We’ll find you a nice quiet year—how about 1953? Gideon says it’s very comfortable in the old alch—in the chronograph room. He tells me there’s even a sofa there.”
“Nineteen fifty-three is perfect,” I said, trying not to sound quite so enthusiastic. Five years after my last meeting with Lucas! I could expect him to have found something out in all that time.
“Oh, and Charlotte, Mrs. Jenkins has ordered a car for you. You can take the rest of today off.”
Charlotte stopped playing the piano. “Thank you, Mr. George,” she said politely. Then she put her head on one side and smiled at Gideon. “Do you get the rest of the day off now, too?”
Hello? Was she about to ask if he’d like to go to the cinema with her? I held my breath.
But Gideon shook his head. “No, I’m going to elapse with Gwyneth.”
Charlotte and I must have looked equally surprised.
“You are not,” said Mr. George. “You’ve already fulfilled your quota for today.”
“And you look exhausted,” said Charlotte. “Which isn’t surprising. You ought to use the time to catch up on some sleep.”
For once I entirely agreed with Charlotte. If Gideon came with me, I wouldn’t be able to collect the key or go in search of my grandfather.
“On her own, Gwyneth would be spending four totally pointless hours in the cellar,” said Gideon. “If I go with her, she can learn something while she’s there.” He added, with a slight smile, “For instance, the difference between right and left. I’m sure she can get the hang of the minuet.”
Oh, for God’s sake! Not more dancing lessons!
“I have homework to do,” I said in as unfriendly a tone as possible. “And my Shakespeare essay is due tomorrow.”
“I can help you with that, too,” said Gideon, looking at me. It was difficult to interpret his expression. To anyone who didn’t know him, it might seem innocent, but I knew better.
Charlotte was still smiling, but without the pretty little dimples now.
Mr. George shrugged his shoulders. “Well, if you say so. Then Gwyneth won’t be on her own, and there’ll be nothing to be afraid of.”
“I like being on my own,” I said despairingly. “’Specially when I’ve been with people all day, like now.” With totally stupid people.
“Oh, yes?” asked Charlotte sarcastically. “But then you’re never really alone, because you have all your invisible friends, don’t you?”
“Exactly,” I said. “Gideon, you’d only be in the way.”
Go to the cinema with Charlotte. Or found a book club or something, why don’t you?
Well, that’s what I thought. But did I really mean it? On one hand there was nothing I wanted more than to talk to my grandfather and ask what he’d found out about the Green Rider. On the other hand, vague memories of all that oh and hmm and more! stuff from yesterday were surfacing in my mind.
Oh, hell! I must pull myself together and think of all the things I’d found to hate about Gideon.
But he didn’t give me time for that. He was already holding the door open for me and Mr. George. “Come on, Gwyneth. Off we go to 1953.”
I was fairly sure that Charlotte’s eyes would have been burning holes in my back if they could.
* * *
ON THE WAY down to the old alchemical laboratory, Mr. George blindfolded me again—not without apologizing first—and then, sighing, took my hand. Gideon had to carry my school bag.
“I know Mr. Giordano is not an easy man,” said Mr. George when we had the climb down the spiral staircase behind us. “But maybe you could make a little effort for him.”
I snorted. “He could make a bit more of an effort for me! Reiki master, creative jewelry designer, fashion designer … what on earth is he doing in the Lodge? I thought all the Guardians were top-flight scientists and politicians.”
“You could call Mr. Giordano the odd one out among the Guardians,” Mr. George admitted. “But he has a brilliant mind. As well as pursuing his … well, rather exotic professions, which incidentally have made him a multimillionaire, he is recognized as a good historian, and—”
“And five years ago at the latest, when he published an essay using previously unknown sources of material concerning a secret society which is based in London and has connections with the Freemasons and the legendary figure of Count Saint-Germain, the Guardians decided they must get to know him better as a matter of urgency,” said Gideon from somewhere ahead of us. His voice echoed back from the stone walls.
Mr. George cleared his throat. “Er, yes, there’s that, too. Careful, we’re coming to a step.”
“I get the idea,” I said. “Giordano was made one of the Guardians so that he couldn’t give the rest of them away. What kind of unknown sources were they?”
“Every member brings the Society something that makes it stronger,” said Mr. George, without actually answering my question. “And Mr. Giordano’s abilities are particularly varied.”
“You bet,” I agreed. “Who else do you know who can glue a rock to his own fingernail?”
I heard Mr. George cough as if choking back a laugh. For a while we went on side by side in silence. I couldn’t hear Gideon at all, not even his footsteps, so I assumed he’d gone on ahead (my blindfold meant that we were crawling along at a snail’s pace). Finally I plucked up the courage to ask, keeping my voice down, “Exactly why do I have to go to this soirée and then a ball, Mr. George?”
“Oh, hasn’t anyone told you? Yesterday evening—or rather, it was last night—Gideon went to see the count to tell him about that last … adventure the two of you had. And he came back with a letter in which the count expressly says he wants you and Gideon to accompany him to a soirée given by Lady Brompton and a big ball a few days later. In addition you’ll be paying him an afternoon call in the Temple. The whole idea is for the count to get to know you better.”
I thought of my first meeting with the count and shuddered. “I can understand that he wants to know more about me. But why does he want me to mix with a lot of strangers? Is it some kind of test?”
“Well, it shows, yet again, that there is really no point in trying to keep you out of everything. To be honest, I was glad to hear of his letter. It shows that the count has far more confidence in you than many of our Guardian friends, those who think you just have a walk-on part in the game.”
“And they also think I’m a traitor,” I said, with Dr. White in mind.
“Or they think you’re a traitor,” said Mr. George casually. “Opinions differ. Well, here we are, my dear. You can take the blindfold off.”
Gideon was already waiting for us. I tried, one last time, to get rid of him by saying I had a Shakespeare sonnet to learn by heart, and I could only do that by reciting it out aloud, but he just shrugged his shoulders and said he had his iPod with him, so he wouldn’t be listening to me. Mr. George liberated the chronograph from the safe and warned us not to leave anything lying around in the past. “Not the smallest snippet of paper, do you hear, Gwyneth? You will bring the entire contents of your school bag back to this room. And the bag itself, of course. Understand?”
I nodded, took my bag back from Gideon, and clutched it firmly. Then I held my finger out to Mr. George. My little finger this time—my forefinger had been punctured enough already. “Suppose someone comes into the room while we’re in it?”
“That won’t happen,” Gideon assured me. “It’s the middle of the night there.”
“So? Someone could get the idea of holding an inspiratorial meeting in the cellar.”
“Conspiratorial,” said Gideon. “Even so.”
“Even so, what?”
“Don’t worry,” said Mr. George, putting my finger into the chronograph through the open flap. I bit my lip as the now familiar roller-coaster feeling took me over, and the needle went into my flesh. The room was bathed in ruby-red light, and then I landed in pitch-darkness.
“Hello?” I asked quietly. No answer, but a second later, Gideon landed beside me, and immediately switched on a flashlight.
“There, you see, it’s not so uncomfortable here,” he said as he went over to the door and pressed the switch. It was still only a naked electric lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, but the rest of the room had improved a lot since my last visit. My first glance was at the wall where Lucas had been going to make our secret hiding place. There were chairs stacked in front of it, but much more neatly than last time. There was no more old junk lying around. Compared with five years ago, the room was positively clean and tidy, and much emptier. Apart from the chairs against the wall, the only pieces of furniture were a table and a sofa covered with shabby green velvet.
