Sapphire Blue

by Kerstin Gier

  Lord Alastair lowered his sword. “Very sensible of you.”

  Appearing to breathe with difficulty, Paul pushed himself off from the wall and tossed the brown envelope to Lord Alastair. At the same time he rushed after it himself, but Lord Alastair seemed to have been prepared for that. He let the envelope drop to the ground, and easily parried Paul’s attack.

  “I can see through any demon’s cunning tricks!” he cried, laughing. “And now let’s take a look at the color of your blood!” He feinted neatly, and Paul felt Lord Alastair’s blade slit open the sleeve of his coat and, under it, his skin. Warm blood ran down his arm. It didn’t hurt too badly, so he assumed it was only a slight scratch, but the malicious grin on his adversary’s face, and the fact that Alastair hardly seemed to be at all out of breath, while he himself was gasping for air, didn’t strike him as a promising state of affairs.

  “What are you waiting for?” Lord Alastair called over his shoulder to the two servants. “We mustn’t give him time, or do you want to see him vanish into thin air before your eyes, like the last of them you fought?”

  The black-clad men reacted at once. As they ran past the sheets and toward him, Paul knew he had lost. At least, the thought went through his head, Lucy was safe. If she had come with him, she would have died as well.

  “Speak your last words,” said Lord Alastair, and Paul thought of dropping his sword, falling on his knees, and starting to pray. Maybe his devout lordship would wait a little while on the grounds of piety before murdering him. Or maybe he would be dead even before his knees touched the ground.

  At that moment, he caught sight of a movement on the other side of the sheets and one of Lord Alastair’s men collapsed without a sound before he could finish turning toward it. After a split second of alarm, the other lunged with his sword at the newcomer, a young man in a green coat who now emerged from behind the sheets and casually parried the stroke with his own sword.

  “Gideon de Villiers!” Paul exclaimed as he plucked up new courage and tried to defend himself against Lord Alastair’s swordplay. “I’d never have expected to be so glad to see you, boy.”

  “I felt curious, that was all,” said Gideon. “I saw the coach with Lord Alastair’s crest on the panels standing out there in the street, and I thought I’d see what was going on in this deserted backyard—”

  “My lord, this is the demon who killed Jenkins in Hyde Park!” Lord Alastair’s man gasped.

  “Do what you’re paid to do,” Lord Alastair spat at him, seeming to redouble his own strength. Paul felt it himself for the second time, on the same arm but a little higher up. This time the pain went right through him.

  “My lord…” The servant seemed to be in difficulty.

  “You deal with this one!” Lord Alastair cried angrily. “I’ll see to the other!”

  Relieved, Paul gasped for air as his lordship moved away. He cast a brief glance at his arm—it was bleeding, but he could still hold his sword.

  “We’ve met before!” Lord Alastair was standing opposite Gideon, his sword blade dark with Paul’s blood.

  “Quite correct,” replied Gideon, and Paul admired—if rather reluctantly—the calm assurance of his manner. Had the boy no fear at all? “Eleven years ago, shortly after your failed attempt on Count Saint-Germain’s life, we met at Galliano’s fencing school.”

  “Marquis Weldon, wasn’t it?” said his lordship scornfully. “I remember. You brought me a message from the devil himself.”

  “I brought you a warning, which, unfortunately, you ignored.” There was a dangerous glint in Gideon’s green eyes.

  “Demon riffraff! I knew it as soon as I set eyes on you. And you parried neatly, but you may recollect that I won our little fencing match.”

  “I remember it very well,” replied Gideon, shaking the lace cuffs at his wrists as if they were bothering him. “As if it were only last week. Which from my point of view, in fact, it was. En garde!”

  Metal clashed against metal, but Paul couldn’t see who had the upper hand, for the remaining servant had gathered his wits together and was making for him with his drawn sword.

  The man fought less elegantly than his master, but very fiercely, and Paul felt the strength in his injured arm quickly failing him, in spite of that short breathing space.

  When would he finally travel back? It couldn’t be much longer now! He gritted his teeth and feinted. For several minutes, no one spoke—there was only the clashing of blades and hard breathing to be heard—and then, out of the corner of his eye, Paul saw Lord Alastair’s valuable sword fly through the air. It landed on the paving of the yard with a dull clang.

  Thank God!

  The servant took a couple of steps back. “My lord?”

  “That was a sly trick, demon!” said his lordship angrily. “Against all the rules! I was winning!”

  “Seems to me you’re a bad loser,” said Gideon. He was bleeding from a wound to his arm.

  Lord Alastair’s eyes were burning with rage. “Kill me if you dare!”

  “Not today,” said Gideon, putting his sword back into his belt.

  Paul noticed the slight movement of Lord Alastair’s head and saw the servant tense his muscles. Quick as lightning, Paul threw himself between them and parried the stroke before the point of the servant’s sword could drive in between Gideon’s ribs. At the same moment, Gideon had drawn his own sword again. He ran the man through the chest with it. Blood spurted from the wound, flowing profusely, and Paul had to turn away.

  Lord Alastair had used the moment to pick up his sword and spit the brown envelope lying on the paving on the point of it. Without another word, he turned and ran away through the arched entrance of the yard.

  “Coward!” shouted Paul angrily. Then he turned to Gideon. “Are you hurt, boy?”

  “No, it’s only a scratch,” said Gideon. “But you don’t look so good. Your arm … all that blood…” He pressed his lips together and picked up his sword. “What were those papers you gave Lord Alastair?”

  “Family trees,” said Paul unhappily. “The ancestral lines of the male and female time travelers.”

  Gideon nodded. “I knew you two were the traitors, but I didn’t expect you to be quite so stupid! He’s going to try killing all the count’s descendants! And now he knows the names in the female line. If he gets his way, we’ll never be born.”

  “You ought to have killed him when you had the chance,” said Paul bitterly. “He took us for a ride. Listen, I don’t have much time left. I’ll be traveling back any moment now, but it’s important for you to listen to me.”

  “Not likely!” Those green eyes flashed angrily at him. “If I’d known I was going to find you here today, I’d have brought a test tube with me.”

  “It was a mistake to get in touch with the Alliance,” said Paul quickly. “Lucy was against it from the first. But I thought that if we could help them to render the count harmless…” He put his hand to his stomach. As he did so, his fingers met the package of letters that he had stowed away under his coat. “Damn! Here, take this, boy!”

  Hesitantly, Gideon took the package. “Stop calling me boy. I’m taller than you.”

  “These are part of the prophesies that the count has always kept from the Guardians. It’s important for you to read them before you get the idea of running straight off to your friend the count to tell tales of us. Shit, Lucy will murder me if she hears about this!”

  “How do I know they’re not fakes?”

  “Just read them! Then you’ll know why we stole the chronograph. And why we have to keep the count from closing the Circle of Blood.” He was gasping for air. “Gideon, you have to look after Gwyneth,” he said quickly. “And you must protect her from the count.”

  “I’d protect Gwyneth from anyone!” There was an arrogant look in Gideon’s eyes. “But I don’t know what that has to do with you.”

  “It has a great deal to do with me, boy!” Paul had to exercise self-control not to come to blows with
the lad. God, if only he had the faintest idea!

  Gideon folded his arms. “Alastair’s men almost killed Gwyneth and me in Hyde Park the other day, all because of your treachery! So you can hardly expect me to swallow this sudden concern for her welfare!”

  “You have no notion—” Paul interrupted himself. He was running out of time. “Never mind. Listen.” He thought of what Lucy had said and tried to put all his sense of urgency into his voice. “A simple question, a simple answer: do you love Gwyneth?”

  Gideon never took his eyes off him. But something flickered in his gaze, Paul clearly saw that. Was it uncertainty? Wonderful—the boy could use a sword, but he seemed to be something of a beginner in emotional matters.

  “Gideon, I have to know the answer!” His voice was sharp.

  Some of the anger left the boy’s face. “Yes” was all he said.

  Paul felt his own fury evaporate. Lucy had known it. How could he ever have doubted her? “Then read those papers,” he said quickly. “That’s the only way you can understand the part that Gwyneth is really playing and how much there is at stake for her.”

  Gideon stared at him. “What do you mean?”

  Paul leaned forward. “Gwyneth is going to die if you don’t prevent it. You’re the only one who can. And the only one she trusts, it seems.”

  He tightened his grip on Gideon’s arm as he felt the dizzy sensation threaten to overwhelm him. What he wouldn’t have given for one or two minutes’ delay!

  “Promise me, Gideon!” he said desperately.

  But he couldn’t hear Gideon’s answer. Everything around him blurred. He was torn off his feet and flung through time and space.

  THE CAST OF MAIN CHARACTERS

  IN THE PRESENT

  IN THE MONTROSE FAMILY:

  Gwyneth Shepherd, in Year Ten at school, discovers one day that she can travel in time

  Grace Shepherd, Gwyneth’s mother

  Nick and Caroline Shepherd, Gwyneth’s younger brother and sister

  Charlotte Montrose, Gwyneth’s cousin

  Glenda Montrose, Charlotte’s mother, Grace’s elder sister

  Lady Arista Montrose, grandmother of Gwyneth and Charlotte, mother of Grace and Glenda

  Madeleine (Maddy) Montrose, Gwyneth’s great-aunt, sister of the late Lord Montrose

  Mr. Bernard, butler in the Montrose household

  Xemerius, ghost of a demon in the form of a stone gargoyle

  AT ST. LENNOX HIGH SCHOOL:

  Lesley Hay, Gwyneth’s best friend

  James Augustus Peregrine Pympoole-Bothame, the school ghost

  Cynthia Dale, in Gwyneth’s class

  Gordon Gelderman, in Gwyneth’s class

  AT THE HEADQUARTERS OF THE GUARDIANS IN THE TEMPLE:

  Gideon de Villiers, like Gwyneth, can travel in time

  Raphael de Villiers, Gideon’s younger brother

  Falk de Villiers, Gideon’s uncle twice removed, Grand Master of the Lodge of Count Saint-Germain, to which the Guardians belong

  Thomas George, member of the Inner Circle of the Lodge

  Mr. William Whitman, member of the Inner Circle of the Lodge, teacher of English and history at St. Lennox

  Dr. Jacob White, medical doctor and member of the Inner Circle of the Lodge

  Mrs. Jenkins, secretary

  Madame Rossini, dress designer and wardrobe mistress

  IN THE PAST

  Count Saint-Germain, time traveler and founder of the Guardians

  Miro Rakoczy, his close friend, also known as the Black Leopard

  Lord Brompton, acquaintance and patron of the count’s

  Lady Brompton, his lively wife

  Margaret Tilney, time traveler, Gwyneth’s great-great-grandmother, Lady Arista’s grandmother

  Paul de Villiers, time traveler, younger brother of Falk de Villiers

  Lucy Montrose, time traveler, niece of Grace, daughter of Grace and Glenda’s elder brother, Harry

  Lucas Montrose, later Lord Lucas Montrose, Lucy’s grandfather, Glenda and Grace’s father, Grand Master of the Lodge until his death

  Mr. Merchant, Lady Lavinia Rutland, guests at Lady Brompton’s soirée

  Lord Alastair, English peer descended from Italian forefathers, head of the Florentine Alliance in the eighteenth century

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  “When you change, everything around you changes. That’s magic!”

  While I was writing this book, an amazing number of wonderful things happened, and I met more delightful people than I can count. Let me just say how extremely grateful I am for all the magical events that brought me together with them. And no—I don’t believe in coincidences.

  My thanks to all the readers—your approval and your enthusiasm were incredibly helpful in motivating me.

  Thanks to Daniela Kern, Eva Schöffmann-Davidoff, Thomas Frotz—you are the very best!

  Thanks to all those who have been so patient with me this year—I’ve been really lucky with you.

  For reasons of time, I will thank only four people by name: my wonderful agent Petra Hermanns, my excellent editor Christiane Düring, my dear friend Eva, and my tireless little mama.

  Thanks for everything, Mama, including the way you read these books with the enthusiasm of a fourteen-year-old. Eva, without your moral support, there would have been many days when I didn’t write a word. Petra, I am sure you were sent to me by heaven! Christiane, I don’t know how you do it, but in the end I always think the ideas were all my own, although the best of them were yours! Thank you both, too, for those wonderful days in London.

  HERE IS A SNEAK PEEK AT

  EMERALD GREEN

  AVAILABLE FALL 2013!

  THE END OF THE SWORD was pointing straight at my heart, and my murderer’s eyes were like black holes threatening to swallow up everything that came too close to them. I knew I couldn’t get away. With difficulty, I stumbled a few steps back.

  The man followed me. “I will wipe that which is displeasing to God off the face of the earth!” he boomed. “The ground will soak up your blood!”

  I had at least two smart retorts to these sinister words on the tip of my tongue. (Soak up my blood? Oh, come off it, this was a tiled floor.) But I was in such a panic that I couldn’t get a word out. The man didn’t look as if he’d appreciate my little joke at this moment anyway. In fact he didn’t look as if he had a sense of humor at all.

  I took another step back, and came up against a wall. The killer laughed out loud. Okay, so maybe he did have a sense of humor, but it wasn’t much like mine.

  “Die, demon!” he cried, plunging his sword into my breast without any more ado.

  I woke up, screaming. I was wet with sweat, and my heart hurt as if a blade really had pierced it. What a horrible dream! But was that really surprising?

  My experiences of yesterday (and the day before) weren’t exactly likely to make me nestle down comfortably in bed and sleep the sleep of the just. Unwanted thoughts were writhing around in my mind like flesh-eating plants gone crazy. Gideon was only pretending, I thought. He doesn’t really love me.

  “He hardly has to do anything to attract girls,” I heard Count Saint-Germain saying in his soft, deep voice, again and again. And, “Nothing is easier to calculate than the reactions of a woman in love.”

  Oh yeah? So how does a woman in love react when she finds out that someone’s been lying to her and manipulating her? She spends hours on the phone to her best friend, that’s how, then she sits about in the dark, unable to get to sleep, asking herself why the hell she ever fell for the guy in the first place, crying her eyes out at the same time because she wants him so much … right, so it doesn’t take a genius to calculate that.

  The lighted numbers on the alarm clock beside my bed said 3:10, so I must have nodded off after all. I’d even slept for more than two hours. And someone—my mum?—must have come in to cover me up, because all I could remember was huddling on the bed with my arms around my knees, listening to my heart beatin
g much too fast.

  Odd that a broken heart can beat at all, come to think of it.

  “It feels like it’s made of red splinters with sharp edges, and they’re slicing me up from inside so that I’ll bleed to death,” I’d said, trying to describe the state of my heart to Lesley (okay, so it sounds at least as corny as the stuff the character in my dream was saying, but sometimes the truth is corny). And Lesley had said sympathetically, “I know just how you feel. When Max dumped me I thought at first I’d die of grief. Grief and multiple organ failure. Because there’s a grain of truth in all those things they say about love: it goes to your kidneys, it punches you in the stomach, it breaks your heart and … er … it scurries over your liver like a louse. But first, that will all pass off; second, it’s not as hopeless as it looks to you; and third, your heart isn’t made of glass.”

  “Stone, not glass,” I corrected her, sobbing. “My heart is a gemstone, and Gideon’s broken it into thousands of pieces, just like in Aunt Maddy’s vision.”

  “Sounds kind of cool—but no! Hearts are really made of very different stuff, you take my word for it.” Lesley cleared her throat, and her tone of voice got positively solemn, as if she were revealing the greatest secret in the history of the world. “Hearts are made of something much tougher, it’s unbreakable, you can reshape it any time you like. Hearts are made to a secret formula.”

  More throat-clearing to heighten the suspense. I instinctively held my breath. “They’re made of stuff like marzipan!” Lesley announced.

  “Marzipan?” For a moment I stopped sobbing and smiled instead.

  “That’s right, marzipan,” Lesley repeated in deadly earnest. “The best sort, with lots of real ground almonds in it.”

  I almost giggled. But then I remembered that I was the unhappiest girl in the world. I sniffed, and said, “If that’s so, then Gideon has bitten off a piece of my heart! And he’s nibbled away the chocolate coating around it too! You ought to have seen the way he looked when…”

  But before I could start crying all over again, Lesley sighed audibly.