“I wouldn’t let her anywhere near the chronograph!” said Dr. White.
“Good heavens, Jake, that’s enough,” said Mr. de Villiers. “She’s only a young girl! Do you think she has a bomb hidden under her school uniform?”
“Her predecessor was only a young girl,” said Dr. White in tones of contempt.
Mr. de Villiers nodded to Mr. George. “We’ll do as you suggest. Will you see to the arrangements?”
“Come along, Gwyneth,” said Mr. George.
I didn’t move. “Mum?”
“It’s all right, darling. I’ll wait here for you.” Mum managed a smile.
I glanced at Charlotte, who was still looking at the floor. Aunt Glenda had closed her eyes and was leaning back, resigned. She looked as if she, too, suddenly had a bad headache. My grandmother, on the other hand, was staring at me as if she was seeing me for the first time. And possibly she was.
The little boy, wide-eyed, peeped out again from behind Dr. White’s jacket. Poor little thing. That nasty man hadn’t once spoken to him. He acted as if he were transparent.
“See you later, darling,” said Mum.
Mr. George took my arm and smiled at me encouragingly. I smiled hesitantly back. Somehow I liked him. At any rate, he was easily the friendliest of all these people, and the only one who seemed to believe us.
All the same, I didn’t feel good about leaving my mum alone. When the door closed behind us and we were in the corridor, I almost started howling I want to stay with my mummy! But I pulled myself together.
Mr. George let go of my arm and walked ahead, first going back the way we had come, then through a door into another corridor, up some stairs, through another door into yet another corridor—it was a labyrinth. Torches made of pitch would have been more in keeping, but the corridors had modern lighting, which was nearly as bright as daylight.
“It seems confusing at first, but after a while you get to know your way around here,” said Mr. George.
He went down more stairs, this time a broad stone spiral staircase that seemed to wind its way forever down into the ground. “The Knights Templars erected this building in the twelfth century. The Romans had tried building here before them, and before the Romans, the Celts. It was a sacred place to them all, and nothing has ever been changed to this day. One can feel how special it is, don’t you agree? As if some great power came from this plot of ground.”
I couldn’t feel anything of the kind. All I felt was tired and weak. I needed more sleep to make up for last night.
When we reached the end of the staircase, we took a sharp right turn and suddenly found ourselves facing a young man. I nearly smacked my head right into his chest.
“Oops!” said Mr. George.
“Mr. George.” The young guy had dark, curly hair that fell almost to his shoulders, and such bright green eyes that I thought he must be wearing colored lenses. Although I had never seen him before, I recognized him immediately. I’d have known his voice anywhere. This was the guy I’d seen on my last journey back in time.
Or more precisely, the one who’d kissed my doppelganger while I was hiding behind the curtain in disbelief.
Again, I couldn’t stop staring at him. From the front, and without the wig, he looked even better—a thousand times better. I completely forgot that Lesley and I normally didn’t like boys with long hair. Lesley thought they let it grow just to hide their jug ears.
He looked back with a touch of irritation, examined me briefly from head to foot, and then looked inquiringly at Mr. George.
“Gideon, this is Gwyneth Shepherd,” said Mr. George, with a little sigh. “Gwyneth, this is Gideon de Villiers.”
Gideon de Villiers. The polo player. The other time traveler.
“Hello,” he said politely.
“Hello.” Why was my voice hoarse all of a sudden?
“I think you two will be getting to know each other better.” Mr. George laughed nervously. “It’s possible that Gwyneth is our new Charlotte.”
“What?” His green eyes scrutinized me again, this time only my face. All I could do was stare back at him stupidly.
“It’s a very complicated story,” said Mr. George. “You’d better go up to the Dragon Hall and let your uncle explain.”
Gideon nodded. “I was on my way up in any case. See you, Mr. George. Good-bye for now, Winnie.”
Who was Winnie?
“Gwyneth,” Mr. George corrected him, but Gideon had already turned the corner. The sound of his footsteps died away on the stairs.
* * *
“I’M SURE YOU MUST have a great many questions,” said Mr. George. “I’ll answer them as well as I can.”
I was glad to be able to sit down at last. I stretched my legs out in front of me. The documents room had turned out to be really comfortable, even if it had no windows and was deep down in a vaulted cellar. A fire was burning on a hearth, and there were bookshelves and bookcases all around, as well as wing chairs that looked inviting and the broad sofa on which I was now sitting. When we had come in, someone had risen from a chair at the desk, nodded to Mr. George, and left the room without a word.
“Was that man mute?” I asked. It was the first thing to come into my head.
“No,” said Mr. George. “But he’s taken a vow of silence. He isn’t going to speak for the next four weeks.”
“What good will that do him?”
“It’s a ritual. The adepts have to pass a whole series of tests before being accepted into our Outer Circle. It’s particularly important for them to prove that they are discreet.” Mr. George smiled. “You must think us really odd. Here, take this flashlight and hang it around your neck.”
“What’s going to happen to me now?”
“We’re waiting for your next journey back in time.”
“When will that be?”
“Oh, no one can tell exactly. It’s said that your distant ancestress Elaine Burghley, the second of the Circle of Twelve to be born, traveled only five times in her entire life. But then she died in childbirth at the age of eighteen. The count himself used to travel every few hours as a young man, two to seven times a day. You can imagine what a dangerous life he lived until he finally understood how to use the chronograph.” Mr. George pointed to the oil painting over the hearth. “That’s him, by the way. Count Saint-Germain.”
“Seven times a day!” That would be terrible. I’d never get a proper night’s sleep or be able to go to school.
“Don’t worry. When it happens, you’ll land in this room—at what period we don’t know—and you’ll be safe here anyway. Then just wait until you travel back. You mustn’t move from the room. If by any chance you meet anyone, show this ring.” Mr. George took his signet ring off his finger and handed it to me. I turned it in my hand and looked at the engraving. It was a twelve-pointed star with intertwined letters in the middle. My clever friend Lesley had been right again.
“Our English and history teacher, Mr. Whitman, has one of these too.”
“Is that a question?” The fire on the hearth was reflected on Mr. George’s bald patch. It was kind of a cozy sight.
I shook my head. I didn’t need an answer. It was obvious: Mr. Whitman was one of these people.
“Isn’t there anything else you want to know?”
“Yes, I want to know who Paul is and what happened to Lucy. And what this theft they committed was. And what my mum did back then to make everyone so cross with her.” It all came bursting out of me.
“Oh.” Mr. George scratched his head, looking embarrassed. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”
“Figures,” I sighed.
“Gwyneth. If you really are our Number Twelve, then we’ll explain it all to you in detail, I promise. But we have to be sure first. However, I’ll be happy to answer other questions.”
I sat in silence.
Mr. George sighed. “Oh, very well. Paul is the younger brother of Falk de Villiers. He was Number Nine in the Circle of Twelve, the last of the de Villiers line to travel in time before Gideon. That will have to do for now. If you have anything to ask of a less inflammatory nature…”
“Is there a loo down here?”
“Oh. Yes, of course, just around the corner. I’ll show you the way.”
“I can find it for myself.”
“Of course,” Mr. George replied, but he followed me to the door like a small, stout shadow anyway. There, like a soldier on guard in front of Buckingham Palace, stood the man who had taken the vow of silence.
“The next door along.” Mr. George pointed to the left. “I’ll wait here.”
In the ladies’ room—a small place smelling of disinfectant with a loo and a washbasin—I took my mobile out of my pocket. No reception, of course. I’d have loved to tell Lesley about all this. At least the time display was working, and I was surprised to see that it was only noon. I felt as if I’d been here for days. I did actually need the loo.
When I came out again, Mr. George smiled at me in relief. He’d obviously been afraid I might have disappeared while I was in there.
In the documents room, I sat down on the sofa again, and Mr. George sat opposite me in an armchair.
“Well, let’s go on with our question and answer game,” he said. “But taking turns this time. I ask a question, you ask the next.”
“Okay,” I said. “You first.”
“Are you thirsty?”
“Yes, I’d like some water, if there is any. Or tea.”
Sure enough, there was water down here, and fruit juice and wine, as well as a kettle for tea. Mr. George made us a pot of Earl Grey.
“Your turn now,” he said, sitting down again.
“If this time-travel business depends on a gene, how come a person’s date of birth is so important? Why didn’t they take some blood from Charlotte ages ago and test it for the gene? And why can’t the chronograph send her back to some safe time in the past before she travels of her own accord and maybe gets into danger?”
“Well, first, we only think it depends on a gene—we don’t know for certain. All we’re sure of is that it’s something in the blood making the carriers different from normal people. But we haven’t found Factor X—as we call the time travel gene—although we’ve been working on research for many years, and you’ll find many of the best scientists in the world in our ranks. Believe me, it would make things much easier if we could prove the existence of the gene or whatever it is in the blood. As it is, we have to rely on calculations and observations made by generations of people before us.”
“If the chronograph had been tanked up with Charlotte’s blood, what would have happened?”
“In the worst case it wouldn’t have worked anymore,” said Mr. George. “But, Gwyneth, we’re talking about a tiny drop of blood—it’s not like filling up a car! My turn now. If you could choose a time, when would you most like to travel back to?”