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“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.”
