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“Oops. Here he is already,” said Xemerius. “I wanted to warn you, sweetheart, but I couldn’t decide which of them to follow. Obviously Charlotte’s taken over babysitting duties for Gideon’s little brother this afternoon. They’ve gone off to eat ices, and then they’re going to the cinema. Looks to me like cinemas are the haystacks of the modern era.”
“Everything all right, Gwyneth?” asked Gideon, raising one eyebrow. “You look nervous. Would you like a cigarette to calm your nerves? What was your favorite brand, did you say? Marlboros?”
I could only stare at him speechlessly.
“Leave her alone,” said Xemerius. “Can’t you see she’s unhappy in love, bonehead? All because of you! What are you doing here, anyway?”
Mr. Whitman had taken the chronograph out of the safe and put it on the table. “Then let’s see where to send you today…”
“Madame Rossini is expecting you for a fitting, sir,” said Mr. Marley, turning to Gideon.
“Damn,” said Gideon, put off his stroke. He looked at his watch. “I totally forgot it. Was she very cross?”
“She did seem rather annoyed,” said Mr. Marley. At that moment the door opened again, and Mr. George came in. He was out of breath, and as always when he’d been making an effort, his bald patch was covered with tiny beads of sweat. “What’s going on here?”
Mr. Whitman frowned. “Thomas? Gideon said you were still deep in conversation with Falk and the home secretary.”
“So I was. Until I had a call from Madame Rossini and heard that Gwyneth had already been fetched to go and elapse,” said Mr. George. This was the first time I’d seen him really angry.
“But—Gideon said you’d asked us to—” said Mr. Whitman, clearly confused.
“I hadn’t! Gideon, what’s going on?” All the kindliness had vanished from Mr. George’s little eyes.
Gideon had crossed his arms over his chest. “I thought you might be glad if we relieved you of that task,” he said smoothly.
Mr. George mopped the beads of sweat off with his handkerchief. “How very thoughtful of you,” he said, with a distinct sarcastic undertone. “But there was no need for that. You’d better go straight up to Madame Rossini.”
“I’d be happy to go with Gwyneth,” said Gideon. “After yesterday’s events, it might be better for her not to be on her own.”
“Nonsense,” said Mr. George. “There’s no reason to suppose there’s any danger for her, as long as she doesn’t travel too far back.”
“Quite true,” said Mr. Whitman.
“Like for instance to the year 1956?” asked Gideon slowly, looking Mr. George straight in the eyes. “I was leafing through the Annals this morning, and I must say the year 1956 certainly sounds peaceful enough. The reports of the men on guard say no unusual incidents more often than anything else. A report like that is music to our ears, wouldn’t you say?”
By now my heart was in my mouth. The way Gideon was acting, he must have found out what I’d really been doing yesterday. But how on earth could he know? After all, I’d only smelt of cigarette smoke, which might be suspicious but couldn’t possibly have told him what had really happened back in 1956.
Mr. George returned his glance without batting an eyelash. At the most, he looked slightly irritated. “That wasn’t a request, Gideon. Madame Rossini is waiting. Marley, you can go too.”
“Yes, Mr. George, sir,” muttered Mr. Marley. He almost saluted.
When the door had latched shut behind Marley, Mr. George, eyes flashing, looked at Gideon. Mr. Whitman, too, was looking at him in surprise.
“What are you waiting for?” asked Mr. George coolly.
“Why did you let Gwyneth land in the afternoon, in broad daylight? Isn’t that against the rules?” asked Gideon.
“Uh-oh,” said Xemerius.
“Gideon, it is not your—” Mr. Whitman began.
“It makes no difference what time of day or night she landed,” Mr. George interrupted him. “She traveled to a locked room in the cellars.”
“I was scared,” I said quickly, and perhaps my voice was a little too shrill. “I didn’t want to be alone in that cellar in the middle of the night, right beside the catacombs—”
Gideon turned his gaze briefly to me, raising one eyebrow again. “Ah, yes, you’re such a timid, shrinking little thing. I’d quite forgotten.” He laughed softly. “Nineteen fifty-six—that was the year when you became a member of the Lodge, wasn’t it, Mr. George? What a strange coincidence.”
Mr. George frowned.
