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And then Falk unwrapped the chronograph, and when he beckoned me over, I resigned myself to my fate, not without putting up a fervent prayer to heaven that Lady Brompton had passed on the recipe for her special punch to her good friend Lady Pympoole-Bothame.
* * *
MY IDEAS of a ball were vague. My ideas of a ball in past history were zero. So it was probably not surprising that, after Aunt Maddy’s vision and my dreams that morning, I expected something between Gone with the Wind and the glittering parties in Marie Antoinette. The good part of my dream had been that I’d looked amazingly like Kirsten Dunst.
But before I could check my ideas against the real thing, we had to come up from the cellar. (Again! I only hoped that my calves wouldn’t suffer long-term damage from all that climbing up and down stairs.)
Though I might moan about it, however, I had to admit that this time the Guardians had fixed things very neatly. Falk had set the chronograph so that we arrived when the ball in the house up above us had been in progress for hours.
I was enormously relieved not to have to file past our hosts. Secretly I’d been terrified that there’d be a master of the ceremonies banging his stick on the floor and announcing our false names in a loud voice. Or even worse, announcing the truth: “Ladies and gentlemen!” Knock, knock. “Gideon de Villiers and Gwyneth Shepherd, confidence tricksters from the twenty-first century. Kindly notice that the young woman’s corset, as well as the hoops of her skirt, are made not of whalebone but of high-tech carbon fiber! Furthermore, the pair entered the house surreptitiously by way of the cellar!”
And this was a particularly dark cellar, so that unfortunately there was no alternative to taking Gideon’s hand, or my dress and I would never have made it to the top of the stairs intact. Only at the front of the cellar were there torches in holders, casting a flickering light on the walls where you turned off into the media rooms in the time when this building was my school. It looked as if now there were larders and pantries for provisions down here, probably a good idea, because the place was freezing cold. Out of sheer curiosity, I glanced into one of the rooms, and was rooted to the spot with amazement. I’d never seen so much food all at once! There was obviously going to be some kind of banquet after the ball, because countless platters, dishes, and large basins lavishly piled high with things to eat were sitting around on tables and the floor. Much of it was artistically arranged and surrounded by wobbly transparent aspic. I saw large quantities of meat—it smelled much too strong for my liking—and there was a breathtaking amount of confectionery in all shapes and sizes, plus an amazingly lifelike gilded figure of a swan.
“Hey, look, they even have to chill their table decorations,” I whispered.
Gideon made me go on. “It’s not a table decoration; it’s a real swan. What they call a centerpiece,” he whispered back, but at almost the same moment, he jumped, and I’m afraid I have to admit that I let out a screech.
Because a figure was emerging from the shadows, right behind a cake with about nineteen layers and two dead nightingales on top of it, and was coming toward us in silence with a drawn sword.
It was Rakoczy, the count’s right-hand man, and he could have walked straight into a job in a haunted house with his dramatic appearances. He welcomed us in a husky voice and then whispered, “Follow me.”
As I tried to get over my fright, Gideon asked him impatiently, “Shouldn’t you have been here to meet us?”
Rakoczy didn’t seem to want to answer that. I wasn’t surprised. He was exactly the sort who can never admit to a mistake. Without a word, he took a torch from its holder, beckoned us to follow, and stole along a corridor that branched off and led to another flight of stairs.
I could hear stringed instruments playing music above us now, and a babble of voices getting louder and louder. Just before we reached the top of the stairs, Rakoczy left us, with the words, “I’ll be keeping watch over you from the shadows, along with my men.” Then he disappeared, as silent as a leopard.
“I guess he didn’t get an invitation,” I said, trying to make a joke of it. “He’s gate-crashing.” In fact the idea that one of Rakoczy’s men was lurking in every dark corner, watching us in secret, gave me the creeps.
“Of course he was invited, but I expect he doesn’t want to part with his sword, and swords aren’t allowed in a ballroom.” Gideon looked me up and down. “Any cobwebs left on your dress?”
I gave him an indignant glance. “No, they’ve all migrated to your brain,” I said, pushing past him. I cautiously opened the door.
I’d been worrying over how we’d get into the foyer unnoticed, but when we plunged into the noise of the milling throng of guests at the ball, I wondered why we’d gone to all that trouble with the cellar. Presumably just out of habit. We could easily have traveled straight to the ballroom, and no one would have noticed our sudden appearance.
Lord and Lady Pympoole-Bothame’s house was magnificent—my friend James hadn’t exaggerated. What with damask wallpaper, stucco decoration, paintings, frescos on the ceilings, and crystal chandeliers, I hardly recognized my own school. The floors were covered with mosaic tiles and thick rugs, and on the way to the first floor, it seemed to me that there were more passages and staircases than in my own day.
And the place was full. Full and very noisy. In the twenty-first century, this party would have been closed down by the police because of the risk of overcrowding, or maybe the neighbors would have complained of the Pympoole-Bothames for disturbing their night’s rest. And that was only in the foyer and the corridors.
The ballroom was in a different league. It took up half the first floor and was teeming with people. They stood around in little groups or formed long lines in order to dance. The room was buzzing like a beehive with their voices and laughter, although the beehive comparison wasn’t quite right, because the decibel count must have been as high as the sound of a jumbo jet taking off from Heathrow. After all, there were up to four hundred people here, all shouting at each other, and the twenty-man orchestra in the gallery was trying to rise above their voices. The whole scene was lit by such vast numbers of candles that I automatically looked around for a fire extinguisher.
In fact, after that soirée we’d been to at the Bromptons’ house, this ball was like a nightclub by comparison with one of Aunt Maddy’s tea parties, and I could see why people would call it a glittering occasion.
Our appearance didn’t attract any special attention, particularly as there was coming and going in the ballroom the whole time. All the same, several of the white-wigged guests were staring curiously at us, and Gideon took my arm more firmly. I sensed that I was being inspected from head to foot and felt an urgent wish to look at myself in a mirror, just in case I’d made a mistake and there was a cobweb on my dress after all.
“It’s all fine,” said Gideon. “You look perfect.”
I cleared my throat, embarrassed.
Gideon grinned down at me. “Ready?” he whispered.
“Ready when you are,” I replied automatically. It just slipped out, and for a moment I thought of the fun we’d had before he let me down so treacherously. Although, come to think of it, even then, it hadn’t been as much fun as all that.
A couple of girls began whispering as we passed them. I wasn’t sure if it was because of my dress or because they thought Gideon looked so cool. I stood up as straight as possible. The wig was surprisingly well balanced and followed every movement I made, although its weight must have been like those jugs of water that African women carry on their heads. As we crossed the ballroom, I kept my eyes open for James. After all, his parents were giving the ball. Surely he’d be somewhere here. Gideon, who towered over most of the people in the ballroom, had quickly spotted Count Saint-Germain. He was standing, elegant as ever, on a small balcony, talking to a small man in brightly colored clothes who struck me as vaguely familiar.
Without thinking much of it, I lost myself in daydreams and regretted it a moment later when I remembered how, last time we met, Count Saint-Germain had broken my heart into ten thousand tiny pieces with his gentle voice.
“My dear children, you are wonderfully punctual,” said the count, beckoning us over. He nodded graciously to me (I supposed that was an honor, considering that, as a woman, I had an intelligence quotient reaching about as far as from the balcony door to the nearest candle). Gideon, on the other hand, got a warm embrace. “Well, what do you say, Alcott? Do you see any of my inheritance in this fine young man’s features?”
