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“You can see me and hear me!” cried the little gargoyle, delighted. He dropped from the gallery to one of the pews and hopped up and down on it. He had a husky voice, like a child with a cold. “I spotted that right away!”
Come to think of it, I had seen him before. In that church back in 1912. If I put a foot wrong now, I’d never be rid of him. I deliberately let my eyes wander over the pews with total indifference as I walked to the church door. Gideon held it open for me.
“Thanks, very kind of you!” said the gargoyle, slipping through onto the church porch with us.
Out on the pavement, I looked up at the sky. It was cloudy, so the sun wasn’t in sight, but at a guess, I thought it must be early evening.
“Wait for me, wait for me!” cried the gargoyle, plucking at the skirt of my dress. “We have to talk! It’s urgent! Hey, you’re treading on my toes.… Don’t pretend you can’t see me. I know you can.” A little water shot out of his mouth and formed a tiny puddle around my buttoned boots. “Oops, ’scuse me. Only happens when I get overexcited.”
o;Yes, I’m sure he will,” replied his visitor, sounding almost bored. “That’s why I’m going to cut this short.”
Lucy had moved her hand down to the region of her stomach. “Paul!”
“I know, I can feel it myself. Bloody hell.… We must run if we don’t want to fall into the middle of the river.” He seized her arm and pulled her on, taking care not to turn his face toward the coach window.
“You’re really supposed to have died in your native land from the effects of a severe attack of influenza,” they heard the other man saying as they slunk past the coach. “But since my earlier visits to you ultimately led to your presence here in London today, and it so happens that you are enjoying the best of health, the equilibrium of a rather sensitive state of affairs is now unbalanced. Correct as I am, I therefore feel it my duty to lend Death a helping hand.”
Paul was concentrating on the queasy feeling inside him and working out how far it still was to the bank, but all the same, the significance of those words seeped into his mind, and he stopped again.
Lucy nudged him in the ribs. “Quick!” she whispered, breaking into a run herself. “We have only a few seconds left!”
Feeling weak at the knees, Paul started off again, and as he ran and the nearby bank began to blur before his eyes, he heard a terrible if muffled scream from inside the coach, followed by a gasp of “you devil!” And then all was deathly quiet.
Today, at 1500 hours, Lucy and Paul were sent to elapse to the year 1948. When they returned at 1900 hours, they landed in the rose bed outside the window of the Dragon Hall, wearing early seventeenth-century costume and drenched to the skin.
They seemed to be very upset; they were talking wildly, and therefore, much against their will, I informed Lord Montrose and Falk de Villiers. However, there turned out to be a simple explanation for the whole affair. Lord Montrose said he still had a vivid recollection of the fancy-dress party held in the garden here in 1948, during which several guests, evidently including Lucy and Paul, had unfortunately landed in the goldfish pool after the excessive consumption of alcohol.
Lord Montrose had taken responsibility for this incident and promised to replace the two rosebushes they had ruined, “Ferdinand Pichard” and “Mrs. John Laing.” Lucy and Paul were strictly instructed to abstain from alcoholic beverages in future, no matter what the period.
FROM THE ANNALS OF THE GUARDIANS
18 DECEMBER 1992
REPORT: J. MOUNTJOY, ADEPT 2ND DEGREE
ONE
“YOUNG PEOPLE, this is a church! No kissing allowed here!”
Startled, I opened my eyes and hastily sat up straight, expecting to see some old-fashioned priest hurrying indignantly toward me with his cassock billowing, all set to deliver a stern lecture. But it wasn’t the priest of this parish church who had disturbed our kiss. It wasn’t a human being at all. The speaker was a small gargoyle crouching in the pew right next to the confessional, as surprised to see me as I was to see him.
Although that was hardly possible. Because basically my state of mind couldn’t be called mere surprise. To be honest, my powers of thought had switched off entirely.
It had all begun with that kiss.
Gideon de Villiers had kissed me—me, Gwyneth Shepherd.
Of course I should have wondered why the idea came into his head so suddenly—in a confessional in a church somewhere in Belgravia in the year 1912—just after we’d been running full tilt in headlong flight, and my close-fitting, ankle-length dress with its silly sailor collar kept getting in the way.
I could have made analytical comparisons with kisses I’d had from other boys, trying to work out just why Gideon did it so much better. I might also have stopped to remember that there was a wall between us, and a confessional window through which Gideon had squeezed his head and arms, and these were not the ideal conditions for kissing. Quite apart from the fact that I could do without any more chaos in my life, after discovering only two days ago that I’d inherited my family’s time-traveling gene.
The fact was, however, that I hadn’t been thinking anything at all, except maybe oh and hmm and more!
That’s why I hadn’t noticed the flip-flop sensation inside me, and only now, when the little gargoyle folded his arms and flashed his eyes at me from his pew, only when I saw the confessional curtain—brown, although it had been green velvet a moment ago—did I work it out that meanwhile we’d traveled back to the present.
“Hell!” Gideon moved back to his side of the confessional and rubbed the back of his head.
Hell? I came down from cloud nine with a bump and forgot the gargoyle.
