Emerald Green

“Oh … thanks,” I murmured, hastily smoothing down my dress and trying to calm my racing pulse. Then I took a closer look at Gideon—and grinned. I just couldn’t help it. Although Madame Rossini was right about the beautiful sea-green fabric, and the magnificent coat fitted Gideon’s broad shoulders perfectly, and he was a truly dazzling sight down to his buckled shoes, the white wig destroyed the whole effect.

“And I thought I was the only one who had to look like an idiot in a wig,” I said.

His eyes sparkled with amusement. “At least I convinced Giordano that he could leave out the face powder and beauty spots.”

Well, he was pale enough anyway. For a second or so, I reveled in the sight of the finely traced lines of his chin and lips, then I pulled myself together and looked at him as darkly as I could.

“The others are waiting downstairs. We’d better hurry before there are too many people around,” said Mr. Whitman, glancing at the pavement, where two ladies walking their dogs had stopped and were looking curiously our way. If they didn’t want to attract attention, I thought, the Guardians oughtn’t to drive such flashy cars. Or drive people in peculiar historical costumes about London. Gideon put out his hand, but at that moment I heard a dull thud behind me and looked around. Xemerius had landed on the car roof and lay there on the metal for a moment, flat as a flounder.

“Ouf!” he gasped. “Couldn’t you have waited for me?” He’d missed the moment when we left the Temple because of a cat, if I understood him correctly. “I had to fly the whole way! But I did want to say good-bye to you.” He scrambled up and hopped onto my shoulder, and I felt something like a cold, wet hug.

“Right, Grand Mistress of the Order of the Crochet Pigs,” he said. “When you’re dancing with Him Whose Name We Don’t Mention,” he added, giving Gideon a nasty look, “don’t forget to give him a good kick. And watch out for that count.” There was genuine concern in his voice. I swallowed, but next moment he added, “If you mess things up, you’ll have to see how you get by without me in future. I’ll be looking for a new human.” He gave me a cheeky grin and flew toward the dogs, who tore free of their leashes a moment later and ran in panic, with their tails between their legs.

“Asleep and dreaming, Gwyneth?” Gideon gave me his arm. “Sorry, of course I mean Miss Gray! Would you be kind enough to follow me to the year 1782?”

“Oh, forget it—you can leave out the playacting until we arrive,” I said in an undertone, so that Mr. George and Mr. Whitman, going ahead of us, couldn’t hear it. “And for now, I’d like to keep physical contact with you to an absolute minimum, if you don’t mind. What’s more, I know my way around here. After all, this building is my school.”

It was as good as deserted that early Friday evening. In the foyer we met Mr. Gilles the principal, pulling a golf bag along behind him. He’d already changed his suit for a pair of check trousers and a polo shirt. However, he politely welcomed “our esteemed Mr. Whitman’s amateur dramatics society.” Then he shook hands with us all. “I’m very keen on art. It’s a pleasure to make the school available for rehearsals while you can’t use your usual rehearsal room. What delightful costumes!” When he got to shaking hands with me, he stopped in surprise. “Well, well, I know that face. You’re one of those naughty frog girls, aren’t you?”

I forced a smile. “Yes, Mr. Gilles,” I said.

“I’m glad you’ve found such a nice hobby. I’m sure it will keep you from thinking up any more stupid ideas like that frog.” He beamed jovially at everyone. “Good luck to you all, then—or what is it you say in the theater, ‘break a leg’?” He waved cheerfully to us again, and then disappeared through the doorway with his golf clubs, off to enjoy the weekend. I watched him go, feeling a little envious. For once I’d happily have changed places with him, even if it meant turning into a middle-aged baldie in check trousers.

“Naughty frog girl?” inquired Gideon on the way down to the art room in the cellars, and looking curiously at me sideways.

I was concentrating on holding my rustling skirts far enough up not to trip over them. “A couple of years ago, my friend Lesley and I had to put a squashed frog into another girl’s soup—Mr. Gilles still holds it against us.”

“You had to put a frog in another girl’s soup?”

“Yes,” I said, giving him a haughty look. “For educational reasons, one sometimes has to do things that may seem odd to outsiders.”

Down in the cellar, right under the quote from Edgar Degas painted on the wall—A picture should be painted with the same care that a criminal puts into carrying out his crime—the usual suspects were already gathered around the chronograph: Falk de Villiers, Mr. Marley, and Dr. White, who was setting out surgical instruments and bandages on one of the tables. I was glad that at least we’d left Giordano behind at the Temple. He was probably still standing at the top of the steps up to the entrance, wringing his hands.

Mr. George winked at me. “I’ve just had a bright idea,” he whispered. “If you find yourself at a loss, you can simply faint—ladies were always fainting in those days. No one knows for sure whether it was because their corsets were laced so tightly, or because of the bad air, or because fainting came in useful.”

“I’ll keep that at the back of my mind,” I said. In fact, I was tempted to try out Mr. George’s idea right away. Unfortunately Gideon seemed to have seen through me, because he took my arm with a slight smile.

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.