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“Good night,” I said with dignity.
“Good night,” all the others murmured. All of them except Gideon, that is. He said, “Don’t forget to blindfold her, Mr. Whitman.”
Mr. George snorted crossly through his nose. As Mr. Whitman opened the door and propelled me out into the corridor, I heard Mr. George saying, “Have you stopped to think that this policy of excluding her could be the very reason why the things that are going to happen do happen?” Whether anyone had an answer to that I didn’t hear. The heavy door latched shut, cutting off the sound of their voices.
Xemerius was scratching his head with the tip of his tail. “That’s the weirdest secret society I ever came across!”
“Don’t take it to heart, Gwyneth,” said Mr. Whitman. He took a black scarf out of his jacket pocket and held it under my nose. “It’s just that you’re the new factor in the game. The great unknown in the equation.”
What was I supposed to say to that? Three days ago, I didn’t even have an inkling about the existence of the Guardians. Three days ago, my life had still been perfectly normal. Well, reasonably normal. “Mr. Whitman, before you blindfold me … could we stop in Madame Rossini’s sewing room and fetch my things? I’ve left two sets of my school uniform here now, and I’ll need something to wear tomorrow. My school bag is there too.”
“Of course.” Mr. Whitman waved the scarf cheerfully in the air as he walked along. “In fact, you can change your clothes there. You won’t be meeting anyone in the past. What year shall we send you to?”
“Makes no difference if I’m shut up in a cellar, does it?” I said.
“Let’s see, it has to be a year when you can land in … er, in the aforesaid cellar without any problems. That’s all right after 1945—for a few years before that, the cellars were used as air raid shelters. How about 1974? The year when I was born, a good year.” He laughed. “Or shall we try 30 July 1966? That’s when England beat Germany in the World Cup final. But I don’t suppose you’re very interested in football, are you?”
“Particularly not when I’m holed up in a cellar without any windows, a long way below ground level,” I said wearily.
“It’s all done for your own safety.” Mr. Whitman sighed.
“Hold on a moment,” said Xemerius, who was flying along beside me. “I can’t quite keep up with all this. Does it mean you’re going to get into a time machine now and disappear into the past?”
“Yes, exactly,” I told him.
“Then let’s go for the year 1948,” said Mr. Whitman happily. “The year of the London Olympic Games.”
He was walking ahead, so he couldn’t see me roll my eyes.
“Time travel! Wow! Interesting girlfriend I’ve found myself!” said Xemerius, and for the first time I thought I detected a note of respect in his voice.
* * *
THE ROOM where the chronograph was kept was deep underground, and although I’d always been brought down here and led up again blindfolded, by now I had some idea where it was. If only because in both 1912 and 1782 I’d been allowed to leave the room without a blindfold. When Mr. Whitman led me, blindfolded now, away from Madame Rossini’s sewing room and along the corridors and staircases, the way began to seem quite familiar, and it was only at the end of it that I felt Mr. Whitman was taking an extra detour to confuse me.
“He really piles on the suspense, doesn’t he?” said Xemerius. “Why did they hide this time machine down in a deep, dark cellar?”
I heard Mr. Whitman talking to someone, then a heavy door opened and latched again behind us, and Mr. Whitman took off my blindfold.
I blinked at the light. A red-haired young man in a black suit was standing beside Mr. Whitman. He looked slightly nervous and was sweating with excitement. I glanced around for Xemerius. He was putting his head back through the closed door, just for fun, while the rest of him was here in the room with us.
“Thickest walls I ever saw,” he said when he reappeared. “So thick they could have walled up a bull elephant here sideways, if you see what I mean.”
“Gwyneth, this is Mr. Marley, Adept First Degree,” said Mr. Whitman. “He’ll wait here for you to come back and then take you up again. Mr. Marley, this is Gwyneth Shepherd, the Ruby.”
“It’s an honor to meet you, Miss Shepherd.” The redhead made me a little bow.
I smiled at him, feeling a bit embarrassed. “Er … pleased to meet you, too.”
Mr. Whitman was doing something to an ultramodern safe with a display of flashing lights. I hadn’t noticed it on my last two visits to this room. It was hidden behind a tapestry on the wall embroidered with what looked like scenes out of medieval fairy tales—knights on horseback with plumed helmets, ladies with pointy hats and veils obviously admiring a half-naked young man who had killed a dragon. As Mr. Whitman tapped a sequence of numbers into the keypad of the safe, Mr. Marley discreetly looked down at the floor, but you couldn’t make anything out anyway, because Mr. Whitman’s broad back hid the display from our eyes. The safe door swung open gently, and Mr. Whitman took out the chronograph in its red velvet wrapping and put it on the table.
Mr. Marley held his breath in surprise.
“This is Mr. Marley’s first sight of the chronograph in action,” said Mr. Whitman, eyes twinkling at me. With his chin, he indicated a flashlight lying on the table. “Take that just in case there’s any problem with the electric light. So you needn’t be afraid of the dark.”
“Thanks.” I wondered whether to ask for an insecticide spray as well. An old cellar was bound to be full of creepy-crawlies—and what about rats? It wasn’t fair, sending me off all on my own. “Please could I have a stout stick too?”
“A stick? Gwyneth, you’re not going to meet anyone there.”
