by Kerstin Gier
“Hey, looks like Puffylips has hurt your feelings,” said Xemerius. “If you’re looking for a nasty name to call him back, I’ll happily prompt you.”
Puffylips wasn’t bad for a start.
“A soirée is a boring evening party,” Xemerius went on. “Just in case you didn’t know. People sit together after supper, play little pieces on the pianoforte, and try not to go to sleep.”
“Oh, thanks,” I said.
“I still can’t believe they’re really going to risk it,” said Charlotte, draping her coat over a chair. “It’s against all the rules of secrecy to let Gwyneth go into company. You only have to look at her to see there’s something wrong.”
“My own idea exactly,” said Puffylips. “But the count is famous for his eccentric notions. Her cover story is over there. Hair-raising. Take a look at it.”
Charlotte leafed through a folder lying on the grand piano. “She’s to play the part of Viscount Batten’s ward? And Gideon’s going to pretend to be his son. Isn’t that rather risky? There could be someone at the soirée who knows the viscount and his family. Why didn’t they pick a French viscount in exile?”
Giordano sighed. “Because of her poor command of foreign languages. The count is probably just testing us. Well, we’ll show him we can magically transform this girl into an eighteenth-century lady. We must!” He was wringing his hands.
“I guess if Keira Knightley could do it, I can do it too,” I said confidently. I mean, Keira Knightley was about the most modern girl in the world, and still she was terrific in costume films, even wearing the craziest wigs.
“Keira Knightley?” The black eyebrows almost touched his hair extension. “That may pass muster in a film, but Keira Knightley wouldn’t last ten minutes in the eighteenth century without being unmasked as a modern woman. Even the way she keeps showing her teeth when she smiles would do it, or the way she tosses her head back and opens her mouth wide when she laughs! No woman would have done that in the eighteenth century!”
“You can’t know for certain,” I said.
“What was that, may I ask?”
“I said, you can’t know for—”
Puffylips flashed his eyes at me. “We had better get one thing settled right away: you don’t question what the master says.”
“And who’s the master—oh, I see, you are,” I said, going a bit red, while Xemerius cackled. “Okay, no showing my teeth when I laugh. I get that bit.” I didn’t expect any problem there. It wasn’t likely I’d find anything to laugh about at this soirée thing.
Slightly mollified, Master Puffylips cranked his eyebrows down again, and as he couldn’t hear Xemerius up under the ceiling shouting, “Silly old fool!” at the top of his voice, he began taking stock of the sad state of affairs. He wanted to find out what I knew about politics, literature, and habits and customs in the year 1782, and my answer (“I know what they didn’t have then—flushing toilets, for example, and votes for women”) made him bury his face in his hands for a couple of seconds.
“I’m falling about laughing up here,” said Xemerius, and unfortunately he was beginning to infect me. It was only with a great effort that I managed to suppress the laughter bubbling up from deep inside me.
Charlotte said, gently, “I thought they’d explained to you that she really is completely unprepared, Giordano.”
“But I … at least the basic principles, surely…” The master’s face emerged from his hands. I dared not look, because if his makeup was smeared, it would finish me off.
“How about your musical skills? Can you play the piano? Can you sing? Perform on the harp? And then there are the dances usual in polite society. I suppose you will have mastered a simple menuet à deux, but what about the other dances?”
Harp? Menuet à deux? Oh, sure! I just couldn’t control myself any longer. I began giggling helplessly.
“Glad to see that at least one of us is enjoying herself,” said Puffylips, baffled, and that must have been the moment when he decided to torment me until I didn’t want to laugh one little bit.
In fact it didn’t take him long. Only fifteen minutes later, I was feeling like the greatest idiot and worst failure in the world. Even though Xemerius, up under the ceiling, was doing his best to encourage me. “Come on, Gwyneth, show those two sadists that you can do it!”
There was nothing I’d have liked better. But unfortunately I couldn’t do it.
“Tour de main, left hand, you silly child, now turn to the right, Cornwallis surrendered and Lord North resigned in 1781, which led to— Turn to your right—no, I said right! Dear heaven! Charlotte, please show her how to do it again!”
Charlotte showed me how to do it again. She danced wonderfully well, you had to give her that. It looked like child’s play when she did it.
And basically, that’s what it was. You walked this way, you walked that way, you walked around in a circle and smiled nonstop without showing your teeth. The music came from loudspeakers hidden in the paneling on the walls, and I have to say it wasn’t exactly the kind of music that made your legs itch to get moving.
Maybe I could have memorized the sequence of steps better if Puffylips hadn’t also been going on at me about history the whole time. “Very well, then. At war with Spain from 1779 on … now the mouline, please, curtsey low, with rather more charm, if you don’t mind. Now, step forward again, don’t forget to smile, head straight, chin up. Great Britain has just lost her North American colonies, good heavens, no, right, turn right, arm at breast height and outstretched, it was a bitter blow, and no one has a good word for the French, that would be unpatriotic … don’t look down at your feet. You can’t see them in those clothes anyway.”
Charlotte confined herself to sudden peculiar questions (“Who was king of Burundi in 1782?”), shaking her head all the time. That made me even more uncertain.
After an hour of this, Xemerius was getting bored. He flew down from the chandelier, waved to me, and disappeared through the wall. I’d have liked to tell him to go and look for Gideon, but there was no need for that, because after another fifteen minutes of torture by minuet, Gideon himself came into the Old Refectory, along with Mr. George. They arrived just as Charlotte, Puffylips, I, and a fourth imaginary dancer were performing a figure that Puffylips called le chain, in which I was supposed to give my invisible dancing partner my hand. Unfortunately I gave him the wrong hand.
“Right hand, right shoulder, left hand, left shoulder,” cried Puffylips angrily “Is that so difficult to remember? See how Charlotte does it. It’s perfect that way.”
Charlotte went on dancing in her perfect way long after she’d noticed our visitors, while I stood there feeling embarrassed and wishing the ground would open and swallow me up.
“Oh,” said Charlotte at last, pretending that she’d only just seen Mr. George and Gideon. She sank into a charming curtsey, the sort that I now knew you performed at the beginning and end of a minuet, and from time to time in the middle as well. It ought to have looked silly, particularly as she was wearing her school uniform, but she somehow managed to make it sweetly pretty.
I immediately felt twice as bad, for one thing because of the hooped skirt with its red and white stripes worn over my own uniform (I looked like one of the traffic cones they put around roadworks and building sites), for another because Puffylips lost no time in complaining of me: “… doesn’t know right from left … clumsiest creature I ever saw … not very quick on the uptake … an impossible task … stupid thing … can’t turn a duck into a swan … no way she can go to that soirée without attracting the wrong sort of attention … I mean, look at her!”
Mr. George did just that. So did Gideon. I went bright red. At the same time, I felt fury gathering inside me. I’d had enough of this! I quickly unbuttoned the hooped skirt and took off the padded frame that Puffylips had strapped around my waist under it, and as I did so, I snapped, “I really don’t know why I have to talk about politics in the eighteenth century. I don’t even
talk about politics today—I haven’t the faintest idea of them! So what? If someone asks me about the Marquis of Thingy, I’ll just say that politics don’t interest me. And if anyone is really hell-bent on dancing a minuet with me, which I think is more than unlikely because I don’t know a soul in the eighteenth century, then I’ll smile nicely and say no thank you, I’ve sprained my ankle. I expect I can get that much out without showing my teeth.”
“See what I mean?” asked Puffylips, wringing his hands again. It seemed to be a habit of his. “Not even prepared to show willing! And shocking ignorance and lack of talent in all areas. Then she bursts out laughing like a five-year-old, just because the name of Lord Sandwich is mentioned.”
Oh, yes, Lord Sandwich. Imagine, he really was called a sandwich! Poor man.
“She will certainly—” Mr. George began, but Puffylips cut him short.
“Unlike Charlotte, the girl has no … no espièglerie at all!”
Whatever that might be, if Charlotte had it, I was happy to do without.
Charlotte had put out the sheet music and was sitting at the grand piano, giving Gideon a conspiratorial smile. He smiled back.
As for me, he’d condescended to give me only a single glance, although it said a lot. And not in any very nice way. He was probably embarrassed to be in the same room as a failure like me, particularly when he seemed to know only too well how good he looked himself in his old jeans and a close-fitting black T-shirt. For some reason, that made me even angrier. I was almost grinding my teeth.
Mr. George looked from me to Puffylips in a worried way and back again. Then, frowning anxiously, he said, “I’m sure you can do it, Giordano. And you have an expert assistant in Charlotte. Anyway, we still have a couple of days to go.”
“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 pur
suing 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?”