“Yep. It says here, ‘The polo team of the Vincent School, Greenwich, has won the All England Schools Polo Championship again this year. Celebrating with the cup, from left to right, headmaster William Henderson, team manager John Carpenter, team captain Gideon de Villiers…’ and so on and so forth. Wow, so he’s the captain too. Only it’s such a tiny picture you can’t make out where the horses leave off and the team members begin. Where are you now, Gwen?”
“Still in Duke Street. That figures: school in Greenwich, polo, yeah, that must be him. And does it say he sometimes disappears? Maybe straight off his horse?”
“Oh, I’ve just noticed, this report is three years old. He must have left the school by now. Are you feeling dizzy again?”
“Not so far.”
“Where are you now?”
“Oh, Lesley, still in Duke Street. I’m walking as fast as I can.”
“Okay, we’ll stay on the phone until you get to your front door, and the moment you’re home, you have to talk to your mum.”
I looked at my watch. “She won’t be back from work yet.”
“Then wait until she is, but you really must talk to her, okay? She’ll know what to do to keep you out of harm’s way. Are you still there? Did you hear what I said?”
“Yes, I’m here, and yes, I did. Lesley?”
“Hm?”
“I’m so glad I have you. You’re the best friend in the world.”
“You’re not so bad as a friend yourself,” said Lesley. “I mean, you’ll soon be able to bring me back cool stuff from the past. What other friend can do that? And next time we have a history test, you can research the whole thing on the spot.”
“I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have you.” Listening to myself, I realized how pathetic I sounded—but what the hell, I was feeling pretty pathetic right now.
“Can time travelers bring stuff back from the past?” asked Lesley.
“No idea. Not the faintest. I’ll try it next time. I’m in Grosvenor Square now.”
“Nearly home, then,” said Lesley, relieved. “Apart from the polo business, Google hasn’t found anything about any Gideon de Villiers. But there’s a whole lot about the de Villiers private bank and the de Villiers legal chambers in the Temple.”
“That must be them.”
“Any dizzy feelings?”
“No, but thanks for asking all the same.”
Lesley cleared her throat. “I know you’re scared of it, but all this is kind of cool. I mean, it’s a real adventure, Gwen! And you’re right in the middle of it.”
Oh, yes, I was certainly right in the middle of it.
Just my luck.
LESLEY WAS RIGHT. There was no reason to think that Mum wouldn’t believe me. She had always listened to my “ghost stories” as seriously as they deserved. I’d always been able to go to her with anything, so why should this time be any different?
When we were still living in Durham, I’d been followed about for months on end by the ghost of a demon who was supposed to be haunting the cathedral roof in the form of a stone gargoyle. His name was Asrael, and he looked like a cross between a human, a cat, and an eagle. When he realized that I could see him, he’d been so pleased to be able to talk to someone at last that he followed me everywhere, even wanting to sleep in my bed at night. After I got over my first fright—like all gargoyles, he had a rather scary face—we slowly became friends. Sadly, Asrael hadn’t been able to move from Durham to London with me, and I still missed him. The few gargoyle demons I’d seen here were not very nice creatures. So far I hadn’t met one who was as sweet as Asrael.
If Mum had believed me about Asrael, then she’d probably believe me about the time-travel gene as well. I waited for a good moment to talk to her. But somehow the right moment never seemed to come. As soon as she was home from work, she had to discuss something with Caroline, who had put down her name to look after her class’s terrarium in the summer, particularly the class mascot, a chameleon called Mr. Bean. The summer break was still months away, but it seemed that the discussion couldn’t wait.
“You can’t look after Mr. Bean, Caroline! You know perfectly well that your grandmother won’t have pets in the house,” said Mum. “And Aunt Glenda is allergic.”
“But Mr. Bean doesn’t have any fur,” said Caroline. “And he’ll be in his terrarium all the time. He won’t be in anyone’s way.”
“He’ll be in your grandmother’s way.”
“Then my grandmother is just silly!”
“Caroline, we can’t keep him this summer. No one here knows the first thing about chameleons. Suppose we did something wrong, and Mr. Bean got sick and died?”
“He wouldn’t. And I do know how to look after him. Please, Mummy! If I don’t bring him home, then Tess will have him again, and she’s always saying that she’s Mr. Bean’s favorite in the class.”
“Caroline, I said no!”
Quarter of an hour later, they were still arguing, even when Mum went into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. Caroline stood outside the door and said, “Lady Arista wouldn’t need to know. We could smuggle the terrarium into the house while she wasn’t here. And she never goes into my room.”
“Can’t a person get any peace around here, at least when she’s in the loo?” Mum called back.
“No,” said Caroline. She could be a terrible pain. She didn’t stop going on about it until Mum promised that she personally would plead with Lady Arista to let Mr. Bean spend the summer with us.
I spent the time that Caroline and Mum were wasting on their argument getting chewing gum out of Nick’s hair.
We were sitting in the sewing room. He had about half a pound of the stuff sticking to his head and couldn’t remember how it got there.
“You must have some idea!” I said. “I’m going to have to cut some of these strands of hair off.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Nick. “You can cut it all off. Lady Arista said I looked like a girl the other day.”
“Lady Arista thinks everyone with hair longer than stubble looks like a girl. It would be a real shame to cut your lovely curls so short.”
“They’ll grow back. Cut it all off, okay?”
“Not with nail scissors. You’ll have to go to the barber’s.”
“Oh, go on, you can do it,” said Nick confidently. Obviously he’d completely forgotten that I’d already cut his hair with a pair of nail scissors once, and he’d looked like a freshly hatched vulture chick. I’d been seven at the time, and he was four. I’d needed his curls to make myself a wig. But it hadn’t worked, and I got a scolding and a day’s house arrest.
“Don’t you dare,” said Mum, who had come back into the room. She took the scissors away from me for safety’s sake. “If it has to be done, it’ll be done by a barber. Tomorrow. We must go down to supper now.”
Nick groaned.
“Don’t worry. Lady Arista is out today!” I grinned at him. “No one will scold you for the chewing gum. Or the dirty mark on your sweatshirt.”
“What dirty mark?” Nick looked down at himself. “Oh, darn. That must be pomegranate juice.”
“Like I said, you won’t get in trouble.”
“But it isn’t even Wednesday,” said Nick.
“Well, they’re not here today either.”
“Cool.”
When Lady Arista, Charlotte, and Aunt Glenda were there, dinner was tense and uncomfortable. Lady Arista criticized people’s table manners, mostly Caroline’s and Nick’s (but sometimes Great-aunt Maddy’s as well); Aunt Glenda was always pestering me about my marks at school so she could compare them with Charlotte’s. Then Charlotte would smile like Mona Lisa and say, “None of your business,” if anyone asked her anything.
All things considered, we could have done without these cozy get-togethers, but our grandmother insisted on having all of us there.
The only way you could get out of family dinner was if you had a note from the doctor or a noticeably infectious disease like the plague. Mrs. Brompton, who was the housekeeper during the week, cooked all our meals. (Unfortunately, at weekends either Aunt Glenda or Mum did the cooking, which was usually so gross, Nick and I could barely force it down—and we never got to order out.)
But on Wednesday evenings, when Lady Arista, Aunt Glenda, and Charlotte were away, busy with their mysteries, supper was much more relaxed. And we all thought it was great that today felt like a Wednesday evening, although it was only Monday. Not that we slurped our food, smacked our lips, and belched, but we did venture to interrupt each other, put our elbows on the table, and discuss subjects that Lady Arista would have thought unsuitable.
Chameleons, for instance.
“Do you like chameleons, Aunt Maddy? Wouldn’t you like to have one someday? A really tame one?”
“Well, er, now that you mention it, I realize I’ve always wanted a chameleon,” said Great-aunt Maddy, heaping rosemary-seasoned potatoes on her plate. “Yes, definitely.”
Caroline beamed. “Maybe your wish will come true someday soon.”
“Did Lady Arista and Glenda leave any message?” asked Mum.
“Your mother called this afternoon to say they wouldn’t be home for supper,” said Great-aunt Maddy. “I said how sorry we’d all be not to see them. I hope that was all right.”
“You bet.” Nick giggled.
“And Charlotte? Has she…?” asked Mum.
“I don’t think so. Not yet.” Great-aunt Maddy shrugged. “But they’re expecting it any moment now. The poor girl keeps feeling dizzy, and now she has a migraine as well.”
“Oh, dear, I do feel sorry for her,” said Mum. She put her fork down and stared absentmindedly at the dark paneling of the dining room, which looked as if someone had confused the walls with the floor and covered them with wooden parquet.
“Suppose Charlotte doesn’t travel back in time at all?” I asked.
“It will happen sooner or later,” said Nick, imitating our grandmother’s confident tones.
Everyone laughed except for Mum and me.
“But suppose it doesn’t? Suppose they’ve made a mistake, and Charlotte doesn’t have this gene after all?” I persisted.
This time Nick imitated Aunt Glenda’s voice. “Even when she was a baby, anyone could see that Charlotte was born to higher things. She can’t be compared with ordinary people.”
Once again everyone laughed. Except for Mum. “What makes you think that, Gwyneth?”
“I was only…” I hesitated.
“I told you why there can’t possibly be any mistake, dear,” said Great-aunt Maddy.
“Yes, because Sir Isaac Newton was a genius, and a genius can’t get his sums wrong,” I said. “I know. But why did Newton work out Charlotte’s date of birth in the first place?”