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“She understood me perfectly.” Gideon shook his head. “Because she already knew that the first chronograph had been stolen and that I’d be wanting some of her blood for the second one.”
“But how could she have guessed what wouldn’t happen until many years later? Could she see into the future?” No sooner had I asked than I knew the answer. Slowly, I was really getting the hang of this time travel business.
“Someone got in ahead of you and told her,” I said.
Gideon nodded appreciatively. “And persuaded her not to let any of her blood be taken, whatever happened. Even stranger was the fact that she refused to speak to me. She called the Guardians to help her and told them to keep me away from her.”
“But who can it have been?” I stopped for a moment to think about it. “I suppose it can only have been Lucy and Paul. They can travel in time, they want to keep the Circle from closing.”
Mr. George and Gideon exchanged a glance.
“When Gideon came back, we faced a real puzzle,” said Mr. George. “We did have a vague idea of what might have happened, but no proof. So Gideon traveled back into the past again this morning for another visit to Margaret Tilney.”
“You’ve had a busy time, haven’t you?” I searched Gideon’s face for signs of weariness, but I couldn’t find any. Far from it—he looked wide awake. “How’s your arm?”
“Fine. Listen to what Mr. George is saying. It’s important.”
“This time Gideon visited Margaret directly after her initiation journey in 1894,” said Mr. George. “I must explain that the time travel gene, Factor X, seems to show in the blood only after that first journey. Obviously the chronograph can’t recognize blood taken from travelers before that. Count Saint-Germain did some experiments on that subject in his own time, and they nearly led to the destruction of the chronograph. So there’s no point in visiting a time traveler to take blood in his or her childhood. Although it would make things much easier. Do you understand?”
o;We’ll see,” I said. “Anyway, he knows his way around the eighteenth century. After all, it’s where he comes from.”
Gordon Gelderman caught up with us on the steps. “You were talking to that niche in the wall again, Gwyneth. I saw you.”
“Yes, it’s my favorite bit of wall, Gordon. I’d hurt its feelings if I didn’t stop and talk to it.”
“You do know you’re weird, right?”
“Yes, Gordon dear, I know. But at least my voice isn’t breaking.”
“That’s a passing phase,” said Gordon. “It will go away.”
“It would be nice if you went away,” said Lesley.
“I suppose you two want to talk again,” said Gordon. He was always hard to shake off. “I can understand that. After all, you’ve only had your heads together for five hours today. See you at the cinema later?”
“No,” said Lesley.
“I can’t anyway, come to think of it,” said Gordon, as he followed us through the front hall like a shadow. “I have to write that stupid essay about signet rings. Did I ever tell you I can’t stand Mr. Whitman?”
“Yes, but only a hundred times so far,” said Lesley.
I saw the limousine waiting outside the school gate even before we came out of the building. My heart began beating a little faster. I still felt terribly embarrassed about yesterday evening.
“Wow! Look at that car, will you?” Gordon whistled softly through his teeth. “Maybe the rumors are true and Madonna’s daughter really is at this school—incognito, of course.”
“Of course,” said Lesley, blinking at the bright sunlight. “That’s why they send a limousine to fetch her. So no one will notice that she’s incognito.”
Several of the students were gaping at the limousine. Cynthia and her friend Sarah were standing on the steps as well, eyes popping out of their heads. But not at the sight of the limousine—at something farther to the right of it.
“And I thought that twit wouldn’t have anything to do with boys,” said Sarah. “Not even hot guys like that.”
“Could be he’s her cousin,” said Cynthia. “Or her brother.”
My hand was clutching Lesley’s arm tightly. Sure enough, there stood Gideon in our school yard, very casual in jeans and a T-shirt. And he was talking to Charlotte.
Lesley identified him at once. “And I thought he had long hair,” she said accusingly.
“He does,” I said.
