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“And five years ago at the latest, when he published an essay using previously unknown sources of material concerning a secret society which is based in London and has connections with the Freemasons and the legendary figure of Count Saint-Germain, the Guardians decided they must get to know him better as a matter of urgency,” said Gideon from somewhere ahead of us. His voice echoed back from the stone walls.
Mr. George cleared his throat. “Er, yes, there’s that, too. Careful, we’re coming to a step.”
“I get the idea,” I said. “Giordano was made one of the Guardians so that he couldn’t give the rest of them away. What kind of unknown sources were they?”
“Every member brings the Society something that makes it stronger,” said Mr. George, without actually answering my question. “And Mr. Giordano’s abilities are particularly varied.”
“You bet,” I agreed. “Who else do you know who can glue a rock to his own fingernail?”
I heard Mr. George cough as if choking back a laugh. For a while we went on side by side in silence. I couldn’t hear Gideon at all, not even his footsteps, so I assumed he’d gone on ahead (my blindfold meant that we were crawling along at a snail’s pace). Finally I plucked up the courage to ask, keeping my voice down, “Exactly why do I have to go to this soirée and then a ball, Mr. George?”
“Oh, hasn’t anyone told you? Yesterday evening—or rather, it was last night—Gideon went to see the count to tell him about that last … adventure the two of you had. And he came back with a letter in which the count expressly says he wants you and Gideon to accompany him to a soirée given by Lady Brompton and a big ball a few days later. In addition you’ll be paying him an afternoon call in the Temple. The whole idea is for the count to get to know you better.”
I thought of my first meeting with the count and shuddered. “I can understand that he wants to know more about me. But why does he want me to mix with a lot of strangers? Is it some kind of test?”
“Well, it shows, yet again, that there is really no point in trying to keep you out of everything. To be honest, I was glad to hear of his letter. It shows that the count has far more confidence in you than many of our Guardian friends, those who think you just have a walk-on part in the game.”
“And they also think I’m a traitor,” I said, with Dr. White in mind.
“Or they think you’re a traitor,” said Mr. George casually. “Opinions differ. Well, here we are, my dear. You can take the blindfold off.”
Gideon was already waiting for us. I tried, one last time, to get rid of him by saying I had a Shakespeare sonnet to learn by heart, and I could only do that by reciting it out aloud, but he just shrugged his shoulders and said he had his iPod with him, so he wouldn’t be listening to me. Mr. George liberated the chronograph from the safe and warned us not to leave anything lying around in the past. “Not the smallest snippet of paper, do you hear, Gwyneth? You will bring the entire contents of your school bag back to this room. And the bag itself, of course. Understand?”
I nodded, took my bag back from Gideon, and clutched it firmly. Then I held my finger out to Mr. George. My little finger this time—my forefinger had been punctured enough already. “Suppose someone comes into the room while we’re in it?”
“That won’t happen,” Gideon assured me. “It’s the middle of the night there.”
“So? Someone could get the idea of holding an inspiratorial meeting in the cellar.”
“Conspiratorial,” said Gideon. “Even so.”
“Even so, what?”
“Don’t worry,” said Mr. George, putting my finger into the chronograph through the open flap. I bit my lip as the now familiar roller-coaster feeling took me over, and the needle went into my flesh. The room was bathed in ruby-red light, and then I landed in pitch-darkness.
“Hello?” I asked quietly. No answer, but a second later, Gideon landed beside me, and immediately switched on a flashlight.
“There, you see, it’s not so uncomfortable here,” he said as he went over to the door and pressed the switch. It was still only a naked electric lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, but the rest of the room had improved a lot since my last visit. My first glance was at the wall where Lucas had been going to make our secret hiding place. There were chairs stacked in front of it, but much more neatly than last time. There was no more old junk lying around. Compared with five years ago, the room was positively clean and tidy, and much emptier. Apart from the chairs against the wall, the only pieces of furniture were a table and a sofa covered with shabby green velvet.
“Yes, definitely more comfortable than on my last visit,” I said. “I was scared a rat might come out and nibble me all the time then.”
Gideon tried the handle of the door and rattled it once. It was obviously locked.
“Just once this door was left open,” he said with a grin. “That was a really good evening. From here there’s a secret passage down to underneath the Royal Courts of Justice. It goes on even deeper, into catacombs with bones and skulls … and not far from here, there’s a wine cellar. At least, there is in 1953.”
“We need a key.” I looked surreptitiously at the wall again. Somewhere behind a loose brick, there was a key. I sighed. What a shame that it was no use to me now. But it was also kind of a good feeling to know something when, for once, Gideon had no idea of it. “Did you drink any of the wine?”
“What do you think?” Gideon took one of the chairs from the stack by the wall and put it down at the table. “Here you are, all yours. Have fun with the homework.”
“Oh. Thanks.” I sat down, took my things out of my bag, and pretended to be immersed in a book. Meanwhile Gideon stretched out on the sofa, took an iPod out of his jeans pocket, and put the earphones in his ears. After a couple of minutes, I risked glancing at him and saw that his eyes were closed. Had he gone to sleep? No wonder, really, when you stopped to think that he’d been time traveling again last night.
I lost myself for a while in looking at his long, straight nose, pale skin, soft lips, and those thick, curving eyelashes. Relaxed like that, he seemed much younger than usual, and suddenly I could imagine what he must have looked like as a little boy. Very cute, anyway. His chest was rising and falling regularly, and I wondered if I might venture to—no, too dangerous. And I mustn’t look at that wall anymore, not if I wanted to keep the secret I shared with Lucas.
Since there was nothing else to do, and I could hardly spend four whole hours watching Gideon asleep (although the idea did have its good points), I finally devoted myself to my homework, first the mineral resources of the Caucasus, then irregular French verbs. The essay on Shakespeare’s life and work only needed some kind of conclusion. I made a determined effort and summed it up in a single sentence: Shakespeare spent the last five years of his life in Stratford-upon-Avon, where he died in 1616. There, done it. Now all I had to do was learn a sonnet by heart. As they were all the same length, I picked one at random. “Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war, how to divide the conquest of thy sight,” I murmured.
“Do you mean me?” asked Gideon, sitting up and taking the earphones out.
Unfortunately I couldn’t stop myself going red. “It’s Shakespeare,” I said.
