by Kerstin Gier
I frowned. “Could we maybe…?”
“I’m trying to think of too many things all at once, right? It’s still more than I can grasp, knowing that these things are still going to happen although they took place long ago. Where were we?”
“How could the count commit a murder in 1602 … oh, I see! He did it on one of his own journeys back in time!”
“Yes, exactly. And when he was a very much younger man. It was an amazing coincidence that Lucy and Paul happened to be in just the same place at just the same time. If you can talk about coincidences at all in this connection. The count himself writes, in one of his many books, Those who believe in coincidence have not understood the forces of destiny.”
“Who did he murder? And why?”
Lucas looked around the café again. “That, my dear granddaughter, is something that we ourselves didn’t know at first. It was weeks before we found out. His victim was none other than Lancelot de Villiers. Amber. The first time traveler in the Circle.”
“He murdered his own ancestor? But why?”
“Lancelot de Villiers was a Flemish baron who moved to England with his whole family in 1602. The chronicles, and the writings of Count Saint-Germain that he left for the Guardians, say that Lancelot died in 1607, which threw us off the track for a while. But the fact is—I’ll spare you the details of our detective work—the baron’s throat was cut as he sat in his own coach in the year 1602.…”
“I don’t understand,” I murmured.
“I haven’t been able to fit all the pieces of the jigsaw together myself yet,” said Lucas, taking a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lighting one. “In addition, there’s the fact that I never saw Lucy and Paul again after 24 September 1949. I suspect that they went back to a time before my own, taking the chronograph with them, or they’d have visited me by now. Oh, damn … don’t look that way!”
“What’s the matter? And how long have you been smoking?”
“Here comes Kenneth de Villiers with his battle-ax of a sister.” Lucas tried to get into cover behind the menu.
“Just say we don’t want to be disturbed,” I whispered.
“I can’t—he’s my boss. In the Lodge and in everyday life. He owns those legal chambers.… If we’re in luck, they won’t see us.”
We weren’t in luck. A tall man in his mid-forties and a lady wearing a turquoise hat were making purposefully for our table. They sat down, unasked, on the two free chairs.
“Both of us playing hookey this afternoon, eh, Lucas?” said Kenneth de Villiers affably, slapping Lucas on the shoulder. “Not that I wouldn’t have turned two blind eyes after you brought the Parker case to such an excellent conclusion yesterday. My congratulations again. I heard that you had a visitor from the country.” His amber eyes were subjecting me to close scrutiny. I tried to look back as naturally as possible. It was weird the way the de Villiers men, with their pronounced cheekbones and straight, aristocratic noses, looked so like each other through the years. Kenneth was another impressive specimen, if not quite as good-looking as, say, Falk de Villiers in my own time.
“Hazel Montrose, my cousin,” Lucas introduced me. “Hazel, meet Mr. and Miss de Villiers.”
“We’re brother and sister,” said Miss de Villiers, giggling. “Oh, good, you have some cigarettes—I really must cadge one.”
“I’m afraid we were just leaving,” said Lucas as he gallantly gave her a cigarette and lit it for her. “I have to look through some files.”
“But not today, my dear fellow, not today!” His boss’s eyes had a friendly twinkle in them.
“It’s so boring with only Kenneth,” said Miss de Villiers, puffing the smoke from her cigarette out through her nostrils. “One can’t talk to him about anything but politics. Kenneth, please order more tea for us all. Where do you come from, my dear?”
“Gloucestershire,” I said, coughing slightly.
Lucas sighed, resigned. “My uncle, Hazel’s father, has a large farm there with a lot of animals.”
“Oh, how I love the country life,” said Miss de Villiers enthusiastically. “And I do so love animals.”
“Me too,” I said. “Particularly cats.”
0700h: Novice Cantrell, reported missing during the nocturnal Ariadne test, reaches the way out seven hours late, unsteady on his feet and smelling of alcohol, suggesting that although he failed the test, he found the lost wine cellar. For once, I allow him in on yesterday’s password. Otherwise, no unusual incidents.
Report: J. Smith, Novice, morning shift
1312h: We see a rat. I am in favor of running it through with my sword, but Leroy feeds it the rest of his sandwich and christens it Audrey.
1515h: Miss Violet Purpleplum reaches the way out after taking a path unknown to us, a shortcut from the Royal Courts of Justice. She is word-perfect in the password of the day. At her request, Leroy escorts her up to the offices.
1524h: Audrey comes back. Otherwise, no unusual incidents.
Report: P. Ward. Novice, afternoon shift
1800h to 0000h: no unusual incidents
Report: N. Cantrell, Novice, evening shift
0000h to 0600: no unusual incidents.
Report: K. Elbereth, M. Ward, Novices
FROM THE ANNALS OF THE GUARDIANS
“RECORDS OF THE CERBERUS WATCH”
24–25 JULY 1956
“Nam quod in iuventus non discitur, in matura aetate nescitur.”
EIGHT
THE GUARD at the foot of the stairs was fast asleep with his head against the banister.
“Poor Cantrell,” whispered Lucas as we stole past the sleeping man. “I’m afraid he’ll never make the grade to Adept if he goes on drinking like a fish.… Still, all the better for us. Come on, quick!”
I was already breathless. We’d had to run the whole way back from the café. Kenneth de Villiers and his sister had kept us there forever, talking for what seemed like hours about country life in general; country life in Gloucestershire in particular (here I’d managed to steer the conversation around to some anecdotes about my cousin Madeleine and a sheep called Clarissa); about the Parker case (all I understood about that was that my grandfather had won it); about that cute little boy Charles, the heir to the throne (hello?); and about all the Grace Kelly films and the star’s marriage to the Prince of Monaco. Now and then, I coughed and tried to interest them in the health risks of smoking, but I got nowhere. When we were finally able to leave the café, it was so late that I didn’t even have time to go to the toilet, although I had pints of tea in my bladder.
“Another three minutes,” gasped Lucas. “And there was so much else I wanted to say to you. If my wretched boss hadn’t turned up—”
“I didn’t know you worked for the de Villiers family,” I said. “After all, you’re the future Lord Montrose, you’ll be a member of the Upper House of Parliament.”
“Yes,” replied Lucas gloomily, “but until I inherit from my father, I still have to earn a living for my family. And I was offered this job … never mind that, listen! Before Saint-Germain died, he censored everything he left to the Guardians: his secret writings, the letters, the chronicles, the entire lot. All the Guardians know is what Saint-Germain saw fit to tell them, and all the information that we do have obviously aims to get later generations putting all their efforts into closing the Circle. But the Guardians don’t know the whole secret.”
“Then you do?” I cried.
“Shh! No, I don’t know it either.”
We turned the final corner, and I flung open the door of the old alchemical laboratory. My stuff was lying on the table just where I’d left it.
“But I’m convinced that Lucy and Paul do know the secret. The last time we met, they were on the point of finding the missing documents.” He looked at his watch. “Damn.”
“Go on!” I begged him, as I snatched up my school bag and the flashlight. At the last moment I remembered to give him back the key. The familiar flip-flop sensation was alre
ady taking me over. “Oh, and please shave that mustache off, Grandpa!”
“The count had enemies who are mentioned only briefly in the Chronicles,” gasped Lucas, speaking as fast as he could. “In particular, there was an old secret society with close ties to the Church that had its knife into him. It was called the Florentine Alliance, and in 1745, the year when the Lodge was founded here in London, the Alliance got its hands on some documents that Count Saint-Germain had inherited— Don’t you think the mustache suits me, then?”
The room was beginning to spin around.
“I love you, Grandpa!” I called.
“Some documents showing, among other things, that reading the blood of all twelve time travelers into the chronograph isn’t the whole story! The secret will be revealed only when—” I heard Lucas say, before I was swept off my feet.
A fraction of a second later, I was blinking at bright light. And I was close up to a white shirt front. Half an inch to the left, and I’d have landed right on Mr. George’s feet.
I let out a small cry of alarm and took a few steps back.
“We must remember to give you a piece of chalk next time, to mark the spot where you land,” said Mr. George, shaking his head, and he took the flashlight from my hand. He hadn’t been waiting for my return on his own. Falk de Villiers stood beside him; Dr. White sat on a chair at the table; the little ghost boy, Robert, was peering at me from behind his father’s legs; and Gideon, with a large white plaster on his forehead, was leaning against the wall by the door.
At the sight of him, I had to take a deep breath.
He was in his usual attitude—arms crossed over his chest—but his face was almost as pale as his plaster, and the shadows under his eyes made the irises look unnaturally green. I felt an overpowering desire to run to him, fling my arms around him, and kiss his forehead better, the way I always used to with Nick when he hurt himself.
“Everything all right, Gwyneth?” asked Falk de Villiers.
“Yes,” I said, without taking my eyes off Gideon. Oh, God, I’d missed him. Only now did I realize how much! Had that kiss on the green sofa been only a day ago? Not that you could describe it as one kiss.
Gideon looked back at me impassively, almost indifferently, as if he was just seeing me for the first time. Not a trace of yesterday was left in his eyes.
“I’ll take Gwyneth upstairs so that she can go home,” said Mr. George calmly, putting his hand on my back and propelling me gently past Falk to the door. And right past Gideon.
“Have you … are you all right again?” I asked.
Gideon didn’t reply. He just looked at me. But there was something very wrong with the way he did it. As if I wasn’t a person at all, only an object. Something ordinary and unimportant, something like a … a chair. Maybe he did have concussion after all, and now he didn’t know who I was? I suddenly felt very cold.
“Gideon ought to be in bed, but he has to elapse for a few hours if we don’t want to risk an uncontrolled journey through time,” Dr. White brusquely explained. “But it’s ridiculous to let him go alone—”
“Only to spend two hours in a peaceful cellar in 1953, Jake,” Falk interrupted him. “On a sofa. He’ll survive.”
“How right you are,” said Gideon, and his look became if anything even darker. Suddenly I felt terrible.
Mr. George was opening the door. “Come along, Gwyneth.”
“Just a moment, Mr. George.” Gideon was holding my arm. “There’s one thing I’d like to know. What year did you send Gwyneth to?”
“Just now, you mean? Nineteen fifty-six. July 1956,” said Mr. George. “Why?”
“Well—because she smells of cigarette smoke,” said Gideon, and his grip on my arm tightened until it hurt. I almost dropped my school bag.
Automatically, I sniffed the sleeve of my blazer. He was right. Hours in that smoky café had left obvious clues behind. How on earth was I going to explain that?
All eyes in the room were on me now, and I realized that I needed to think up a good excuse in a hurry.
“Okay—I admit it,” I said, looking at the floor. “I did smoke, just a little. But only three cigarettes. Honestly!”
Mr. George shook his head. “Gwyneth, surely I’d made it perfectly clear to you. You can’t take—”
“I’m sorry,” I said, interrupting him. “But it’s so boring in that dark cellar, and a cigarette helps me not to get scared.” I was trying my best to look embarrassed. “I collected the stubs carefully and brought them all back. You don’t have to worry someone will find a pack of Marlboros and be surprised.”
Falk laughed.
“It seems that our little princess here isn’t quite such a good girl as she makes out,” said Dr. White, and I breathed a sigh of relief. “Don’t look so shocked, Thomas. I smoked my first cigarette at the age of thirteen.”
“So did I. My first and also my last.” Falk de Villiers was leaning over the chronograph again. “Smoking really isn’t a good idea, Gwyneth. I’m sure your mother would be rather shocked if she knew.”
Even little Robert nodded hard and looked at me reproachfully.
“It does your looks no good, either,” added Dr. White. “You get bad skin and ugly teeth from smoking.”
Gideon said nothing. But he still hadn’t relaxed his firm grip on my arm. I forced myself to look him in the eye as naturally as possible, trying to summon up an apologetic smile. He looked back at me with his eyes narrowed, shaking his head very slightly. Then he slowly let go of me. I swallowed hard, because I suddenly had a lump in my throat.
Why was Gideon acting like this? Nice to me one moment, kind and affectionate, next moment chilly and unapproachable? It was more than anyone could bear. Well, I couldn’t for one. What had happened down here, between him and me, had felt real. And right. And now all he could find to do was expose me to the entire team at the first chance he got? What was his idea?
“Come along,” Mr. George told me again.
“I’ll see you the day after tomorrow, Gwyneth,” said Falk de Villiers. “Your big day.”
“Don’t forget to blindfold her,” said Dr. White, and I heard Gideon laugh briefly as if Dr. White had made a bad joke. Then the heavy door closed behind me and Mr. George, and we were out in the corridor.
“You’d think he didn’t like smokers,” I said quietly, though I felt like bursting into floods of tears.
“Let me put the blindfold on, please,” said Mr. George, and I stood still until he had tied the scarf into a knot behind my head. Then he took my school bag from me and carefully helped me forward. “Gwyneth … you really must be more careful.”
“A couple of cigarettes won’t kill me stone dead this minute, Mr. George.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“What did you mean, then?”
“I meant you should be careful about showing your feelings.”
“What? What feelings?”
I heard Mr. George sighing. “My dear child, even a blind man could see that you … you really should take care where your feelings for Gideon are concerned.”
“But I—” I stopped. Obviously Mr. George saw more than I’d given him credit for.
“Relationships between two time travelers have never turned out well,” he said. “Nor, come to that, have any relationships at all between the de Villiers and Montrose families. In times like these, we have to keep reminding ourselves that, fundamentally, no one is to be trusted.” Maybe I was only imagining it, but I thought his hand on my back was trembling. “Unfortunately it’s an incontrovertible fact that sound common sense flies out of the window as soon as love comes in through the door. And sound common sense is what you need most of all at this point. Careful, there’s a step coming.”
We made our way up from the chronograph room in silence, and then Mr. George took off the blindfold. He looked at me very seriously. “You can do it, Gwyneth. I firmly believe in you and your abilities.”
His round face was covered with
little beads of perspiration again. I saw nothing but concern for me in his bright eyes—it was the same with my mother when she looked at me. A huge wave of affection swept over me.
“Here’s your signet ring,” I said. “How old are you, Mr. George? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“Seventy-six,” said Mr. George. “It’s no secret.”
I stared at him. Although I’d never thought of it before, I’d have guessed he was a good ten years younger. “Then in 1956 you were…?”
“Twenty-one. That was the year when I began work as a legal clerk in the chambers here and became a member of the Lodge.”
“Do you know Violet Purpleplum, Mr. George? She’s a friend of my great-aunt’s.”
Mr. George raised one eyebrow. “No, I don’t think I do. Come along, I’ll take you to your car. I’m sure your mother will be anxious to see you.”
“Yes, I think so, too. Mr. George…?”
But Mr. George had already turned to move away. I had no option but to follow him. “You’ll be collected from home tomorrow,” he said. “Madame Rossini needs you for a fitting, and after that Giordano will try teaching you a few things. And after that, you’ll have to elapse.”
“Sounds like a wonderful day,” I said wearily.
* * *
“BUT THAT … that’s not magic!” I whispered, shocked.
Lesley sighed. “Not in the sense of hocus-pocus magical rituals, maybe, but it’s a magical ability. The magic of the raven.”
“More of an eccentricity, if you ask me,” I said. “Something that makes people laugh at me—and anyway no one believes I can do it.”