Saphirblau

“Not that the request surprised us, but all the same we did wonder whether to go along with it. After all, Charlotte really has no kind of obligation to them now. However,” and here the skinny, redheaded battle—er, Aunt Glenda—sighed theatrically, “Charlotte is also fully aware of the importance of this mission, so she is unselfishly ready to do what she can to contribute to its success.”



My mother also sighed, and gave me a sympathetic glance. Charlotte tucked a strand of her glossy red hair back behind her ear and batted her eyelashes in my direction.



“What?” said Nick. “So what’s Charlotte supposed to be teaching Gwenny to do?”



“Oh, my word!” said Aunt Glenda, her cheeks flushing red with emotion. “There’s a very great deal she should be taught, but it would be absurd to think that in such a short time Gwyneth can catch up with all the skills Charlotte has acquired over many years, not to mention the … er, unequal distribution of natural talents in this case. In particular, Gwyneth’s lack of general knowledge is positively disastrous, and she has no idea of the good manners appropriate to various historical periods—or so I have heard.”



What a nerve! And who was she supposed to have heard it from?



“Yes, and a person really needs to mind her manners, sitting around for hours alone in a locked cellar,” I said. “I mean, a woodlouse might see her picking her nose.”



Caroline giggled.



“Oh, no, Gwenny, I’m sorry to have to tell you, but it’s going to be just a little bit trickier for you in the near future.” Charlotte gave me what was probably meant to be a sympathetic look, but it came across as nasty and gloating.



“Your cousin is right.” I’d always been a bit afraid of Lady Arista’s penetrating gaze, but this time it really made me jump. “On orders from the highest places, you will be spending a good deal of time in the eighteenth century,” she said.



“And in company,” added Charlotte, “with people who would think it very odd if you didn’t even know the name of the king on the throne or what a reticule is.”



A reti-what?



“What’s a reticule?” asked Caroline.



Charlotte gave her a thin smile. “Get your sister to tell you.”



I stared crossly at her. Why did she always get so much pleasure out of making me look stupid and ignorant? Aunt Glenda laughed quietly.



“Kind of a silly handbag, usually full of stuff that no one needs,” said Xemerius. “Sewing things. And handkerchiefs. And little bottles of smelling salts.”



Aha!



“A reticule is an old-fashioned word for a handbag, Caroline,” I said, without taking my eyes off Charlotte. She blinked in surprise, but she kept the thin smile going.



“Orders from the highest places? What’s that supposed to mean?” My mother had turned to Lady Arista. “I thought we agreed that Gwyneth would be kept out of the whole thing as far as possible. She was only going to be sent to safe years to elapse. How can they change their minds now and decide to expose her to such danger?”



“It’s none of your business, Grace,” said my grandmother coolly. “You have done enough damage as it is.”



My mother bit her lower lip. Her angry glance went once from me to Lady Arista and back, and then she pushed back her chair and stood up. “I must start for work,” she said. She dropped a kiss on Nick’s head and looked over the table at Caroline and me. “Have fun at school. Caroline, don’t forget to brush your hair before you go. See you later.”



“Poor Mum,” whispered Caroline as my mother left the room. “She was crying yesterday evening. I don’t think she likes it one little bit that you’ve inherited this time-travel gene.”



“No,” I agreed. “I’d noticed.”



“And she’s not the only one,” said Nick, with a meaningful look at Aunt Glenda and Charlotte, who was still smiling.



* * *



I’D NEVER ATTRACTED as much attention on walking into the classroom before. That was because half the kids there had seen me being fetched in a black limousine yesterday afternoon.



“The betting’s still open,” said Gordon Gelderman. “Top odds on possibility number one: that cool-looking guy yesterday, the gay one, is a TV producer, and he was auditioning Charlotte and Gwyneth for a show, but Gwyneth won the part. Possibility number two: the guy is your gay cousin, and he runs a limo service. Possibility number three—”



“Oh, shut up, Gordon!” spat Charlotte, tossing her hair back and sitting down.



“Charlotte, couldn’t you explain how come you were necking with the guy but then Gwyneth got into the car with him?” asked Cynthia Dale in a wheedling tone of voice. “Lesley’s been trying to make out he’s a teacher giving Gwyneth private coaching after school.”



“Yes, and a teacher giving coaching is likely to turn up in a limousine and hold hands with our Ice Queen, right?” said Gordon, giving Lesley a nasty look. “That’s pathetic as a cover-up, if you ask me.”



Lesley shrugged her shoulders and grinned at me. “Couldn’t think of anything better in a hurry.” She sat down in her usual place.



I looked around for Xemerius. Last time I’d seen him, he was perched on the school roof, waving cheerfully down at me. He did have instructions to keep away from me during classes, but I didn’t think he was likely to follow them.



“The Green Rider looks like a dead end,” said Lesley under her breath. Unlike me, she hadn’t had much sleep last night. She’d spent hours on the Internet again. “A famous jade figurine from the Ming Dynasty goes by that name, but it’s in a museum in Beijing, and there’s a statue of a Green Rider in the marketplace of a German town called Cloppenburg, and it’s the title of two books—one a novel published in 1926, and the other a children’s book that wasn’t written until after your grandfather’s death. That’s all so far.”



“I thought it might be a painting,” I said. Secrets always get hidden behind or in paintings in films.



“No such luck,” said Lesley. “If it had been a Blue Rider, well, that would be different, but it isn’t. Then I hunted THE GREEN RIDER through an anagram-making site. But … well, unless DITHER GREENER means anything, no luck there either. I printed out a few. Anything ring a bell with you?” She handed me a sheet of paper.



“DEER THREE GRIN,” I read out. “ERRED HERE TING. Let me think for a moment.…”



Lesley giggled. “My favorite is REGRET HEN RIDE. Hang on, here comes Mr. Squirrel.”



She meant Mr. Whitman, of course. At the time we nicknamed him that, we had no idea who he really was.



“I keep expecting us to be called to see the principal and told off because of yesterday,” I said, but Lesley shook her head.



“Don’t worry,” she said. “Do you think he wants Mr. Gilles knowing his English and history teacher is an important member of a terribly secret secret society? Because that’s what I’d say if he told on us. Oh, shit, here he comes. And looking so … so supercilious again!”



In fact, Mr. Whitman did come over to us. He put the fat folder that he’d confiscated in the girls’ toilets yesterday down in front of Lesley. “I thought you might like to have this … very interesting collection of papers back,” he said, with a touch of sarcasm.



“Oh, thank you!” replied Lesley, going a little red in the face. The collection of papers was her big file of research into time-travel phenomena. It contained absolutely everything that the two of us (but mainly Lesley, of course) had found out so far about the Guardians and Count Saint-Germain. On page thirty-four, just after all the entries on the subject of telekinesis, there was a note about Mr. Whitman himself. Squirrel also member of the Lodge? Ring, meaning of? We could only hope that Mr. Whitman hadn’t jumped to the connection with him.



“Lesley, I don’t like to say this, but I think your energy could be better invested in some of your school subjects.” Mr. Whitman was smiling, but there was something other than just sarcasm in his voice. He lowered it. “Not everything that seems interesting is necessarily good for you.”



Was that by any chance a threat? Lesley picked up the folder in silence and put it away in her school bag.



The others were looking at us curiously. Obviously they were wondering what Mr. Whitman was talking about. Charlotte was sitting close enough to hear him, and she definitely had a gloating expression on her face. When Mr. Whitman said, “And, Gwyneth, by now you should be beginning to understand that discretion is not only desirable but essential,” she nodded in agreement. “It is a pity that you are turning out to be so unworthy.”



How unfair! I decided to follow Lesley’s example, and Mr. Whitman and I stared at each other for a few seconds in silence. Then his smile grew wider, and he suddenly patted my cheek. “Chin up! I’m sure there’s still a lot you’ll be able to learn,” he said as he moved on. “Now, then, Gordon, is your essay copied from the Internet again lock, stock, and barrel?”



“You’re always telling us to use all the sources we can find,” Gordon defended himself. His voice covered two octaves from bass to squeaky treble in the process.



“What was Whitman saying to you two?” Cynthia Dale leaned back and looked at us. “What was that folder? And why did he stroke you, Gwyneth?”



“No need to be jealous, Cyn,” said Lesley. “He doesn’t like us a bit better than he likes you.”



“I’m not jealous,” said Cynthia. “I mean, hello … why does everyone think I’m in love with the man?”



“Maybe because you’re president of the William Whitman Fan Club?” I suggested.



“Or because you’ve been seen writing Cynthia Whitman twenty times on a piece of paper, saying you wanted to find out what it felt like?” said Lesley.



“Or because—”



“Okay, stop that,” hissed Cynthia. “Anyway, it was only once, and it was ages ago.”



“It was the day before yesterday,” said Lesley.



“I’m more mature and adult now.” Cynthia sighed and looked around the class. “It’s all because of the boys—stupid, overgrown babies! If only we had reasonably sensible boys in this class, no one would need to fancy one of the teachers. By the way—tell us about the cool guy who picked you up in the limousine yesterday, will you, Gwenny? Is there something going on between you?”



Charlotte let out a snort of amusement, which instantly attracted Cynthia’s attention. “Oh, don’t keep us on tenterhooks, Charlotte. Do you have something going with him, or does Gwenny?”



By now Mr. Whitman was behind his desk, telling us to put our minds to Shakespeare and his sonnets.



For once I was truly grateful to him. Better Shakespeare than Gideon! The chatter died down around us, giving way to sighs and the rustling of paper. But I did hear Charlotte saying, “Well, certainly not Gwenny.”