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I cautiously made my way over to it. The door was locked. Oh, well, at least I didn’t need the loo anymore.
I searched the room by the beam of the flashlight. Maybe I’d find something to tell me what year I’d landed in. There might be a calendar on the wall or lying on the desk.
The desk was covered with rolled-up papers, books, opened letters, and little boxes. The beam of my light fell on an inkwell and some quill pens. I picked up a sheet of paper. It had a rough, heavy texture, and the handwriting was so full of ornate flourishes that it was difficult to decipher.
“My dear and highly respected Doctor,” it said. “Your letter reached me today, having been on its way for a mere nine weeks. Considering what a long journey your entertaining account of the present situation in the colonies has made, one can only marvel at such speed.”
That made me smile. Nine weeks for a letter to arrive! Okay, so I seemed to be in a period when letters were still delivered by carrier pigeon. Or maybe snail mail—using actual snails.
I sat on the chair at the desk and read a couple of other letters. Rather boring stuff, and the names meant nothing to me either. Then I investigated the little boxes. The first one I opened was full of seals with elaborate designs on them, for sealing letters. I looked for a twelve-pointed star, but there were only crowns, intertwined letters, and organic patterns. Very pretty. And I found sticks of sealing wax in every color, even gold and silver.
The next little box was locked. Maybe there was a key in one of the desk drawers. I was beginning to enjoy my treasure hunt. If I liked what I found in the box, I’d take it back with me. As a kind of test. The cookie had traveled without a problem. I’d bring Lesley back a little souvenir. Surely that was allowed, since the box was neither human nor animal.
I found more quill pens and bottles of ink in the desk drawers. Letters, carefully folded and tied up, bound notebooks, a kind of dagger, a little crescent-shaped knife—and keys.
Lots and lots of keys, of all shapes and sizes. Lesley would have loved this. Probably there was a lock in this room for every one of these keys, and a little secret behind the lock. Or a treasure.
I tried some of the keys that looked small enough for the lock of the little box, but I couldn’t find the right one. What a shame. There was probably valuable jewelry in it. Maybe I should just take the whole box. But it was a rather awkward shape for that, and much too big to fit neatly in the inside pocket of my jacket.
There was a pipe in the next box. A pretty one, elaborately carved, probably made of ivory, but that wasn’t right for Lesley either. Maybe I should take her one of the seals? Or the pretty dagger? Or a book?
Of course I knew I shouldn’t steal, but this was an exceptional situation, and I thought I had a right to some compensation. Also I had to see whether I could take objects from the past back to the present with me. I didn’t have any guilty conscience, which surprised me, since I was usually disapproving when Lesley nibbled more than one of the free samples in the Harrods delicatessen department or—like only the other day—picked a flower in the park.
I couldn’t decide. The dagger looked like it was probably the most valuable thing. If the stones in the handle were real, then it must be worth a fortune. But what would Lesley do with a dagger? I felt sure that she’d like a seal better. Which one, though?
The decision was taken out of my hands, because the dizzy feeling came back. When the desk blurred in front of my eyes, I grabbed the first thing within reach.
I made a soft landing on my feet. Bright light dazzled me. I quickly dropped the key I had snatched up at the last minute into my pocket along with my mobile, and looked around the room. It was just like before, when I was having a cup of tea with Mr. George, and the flickering fire in the hearth made the room nice and warm.
But Mr. George wasn’t on his own anymore. He was standing in the middle of the room with Falk de Villiers and grumpy gray-faced Dr. White (along with the little fair-haired ghost boy), and they were talking quietly. Gideon de Villiers was leaning back casually against one of the bookcases. He was the first person to notice me.
“Hi, Winnie,” he said.
“Gwyneth,” I replied. Surely it wasn’t that difficult to remember? I didn’t go calling him Gilbert or anything.
The other three men turned and stared at me, Dr. White with his eyes narrowed suspiciously, Mr. George obviously delighted.
“That was almost fifteen minutes,” he said. “How was it, Gwyneth? Are you feeling all right?”
I nodded.
“Did anyone see you?”
“There wasn’t anyone there. I didn’t move from the spot, just like you said.” I handed Mr. George the flashlight and his signet ring. “Where’s my mum?”
“Upstairs with the others,” said Mr. de Villiers briefly.
“I want to talk to her.”
“Don’t worry, you can. Later,” said Mr. George. “First … oh, I really don’t know where to begin.” But he was beaming all over his face. What was he so pleased about?
ught about it. “Not very far back. Only ten years. Then I could see my father again and talk to him.”
Mr. George looked at me sympathetically. “A very understandable wish, but I’m afraid it won’t do. You can’t travel back within your own lifetime. The closest you can come to that is the time just before your birth.”
“Oh.” That was a pity. I’d imagined traveling back to when I was at nursery school and a boy named Gregory Forbes called me an ugly toad in the school yard and kicked my shin four times. I’d have walked in like Superwoman, and Gregory Forbes would never have kicked little girls again, that was for sure.
“Your turn again,” said Mr. George.
