Ruby Red: Edelstein Trilogie 01 (23 page)

“Their own fault,” I said. “They ought to have paid more attention in chemistry classes.”

“But the alchemists weren’t really interested in gold at all. That was just camouflage for their real experiments. The philosopher’s stone is more like a synonym for immortality. The alchemists thought if they could only get the right ingredients—toad’s eyes, the blood of a virgin, hairs from a black cat’s tail, no, ha, ha, only joking—well, if they could get the right ingredients and mix them in the right chemical process, they’d end up with a substance that made you immortal if you drank it. The followers of Count Saint-Germain claim he had the recipe, so he was immortal. There are sources saying he died in Germany in 1784—but there are other records of people meeting him alive and well many years after that.”

“Hm,” I said. “I don’t think he’s immortal. But maybe he’d like to be? Maybe that’s the secret behind the secret. It’s what will happen when the Circle closes.…”

“Well, could be. But that’s only one side of the coin, put forward by enthusiastic supporters of cryptic conspiracy theories manipulating the sources for their own purposes. Critics of such theories assume that the legends accumulating around the count are most of them pure fantasy on the part of his fans, all because of his own clever presentation of himself.” As Lesley came out with all this stuff from the Internet, she reeled it off so fluently and with such enthusiasm of her own that I couldn’t help laughing.

“Why not ask Mr. Whitman if you can write an essay on the subject for homework?” I suggested. “You’ve done so much research, I should think you could write a whole book about it.”

“I don’t think the squirrel would really appreciate my efforts,” said Lesley. “After all, he’s one of Saint-Germain’s fans himself—I mean, if he’s a Guardian, he has to be. As I see it he’s the villain of the piece—Count Saint-Germain, I mean, not Mr. Squirrel. He threatened you and nearly strangled you, didn’t he? And your mother said you were to beware of him. So she knows more than she’s admitting. And I tell you what, she can only know it from this Lucy.”

“I think they
all
know more than they’re admitting,” I sighed. “Or anyway, they all know more than me. Even you do!”

Lesley laughed. “Just consider me an external part of your own brain. The count always made a great secret of his origins. That name and title were invented, anyhow. He may have been the illegitimate son of Maria Anna von Habsburg, widow of King Charles II of Spain. Several people could have been his father. Or according to another theory, he was the son of a Transylvanian prince and was brought up in Italy at the court of the last Medici duke. One way or another, none of it can really be proved, so everyone’s just groping around in the dark. But now the two of us have a new theory.”

“Do we?”

Lesley rolled her eyes. “Of course we do! We now know that one of his parents must have come from the de Villiers family, anyway.”

“How do we know that?”

“Oh, Gwen! You said yourself that the first time traveler was a de Villiers, so the count
must
have been a member of that family, whether or not he was born in wedlock. You understand that, don’t you? Otherwise his descendants wouldn’t have the same surname.”

“Mm, yes,” I said uncertainly. I couldn’t quite sort out this theory of his descent. “But I think there’s something in the Transylvanian theory too. It can’t be coincidence that that man Rakoczy comes from Transylvania.”

“I’ll do some more research into him,” Lesley promised. “Oh, watch out!” The door outside the cubicles swung, and someone came into the girls’ toilets. She—at least, we assumed it was a she—went into the cubicle next to ours to use the loo. We kept perfectly still until she had gone again.

“Without washing her hands,” said Lesley. “Yuck. I’m glad I don’t know who that was.”

“No paper towels left,” I said. My legs were getting pins and needles. “Do you think we’ll be in trouble? Mrs. Counter is sure to notice we’re missing. And if she doesn’t, then someone will tell on us.”

“All the students look the same to Mrs. Counter—she doesn’t notice anything. She’s called me Lilly since Year Seven, and she gets you mixed up with Cynthia, of all people. No, listen, this is more important than geography. You must be as well prepared as possible. The more you know about your enemies, the better.”

“I only wish I knew who my enemies are.”

“You can’t trust anyone,” said Lesley, just like my mother. “If we were in a film, the villain would turn out to be the least-expected person. But as we aren’t in a film, I’d go for the character who tried to strangle you.”

“But who set those men in black on us in Hyde Park? It can’t have been the count! He needs Gideon to visit the other time travelers and get a drop of their blood so as to close the Circle.”

“Yes, so he does.” Lesley chewed her lower lip thoughtfully. “But maybe there are several villains in this film. I mean, Lucy and Paul could also be the baddies. Well, they stole the chronograph. And what about the man in black who stands outside number eighteen?”

I shrugged. “He was there this morning, same as usual. Why? Do you think he’ll suddenly whip out a sword?”

“No, I think he’s more likely to be one of the Guardians, standing there in that silly way just on principle.” Lesley turned back to her folder. “I couldn’t find out anything about the Guardians themselves, by the way. They seem to be a very secret lodge indeed. But some of the names you mentioned—Churchill, Wellington, Newton—were Freemasons too. So we can assume that both secret societies had at least some connection. Oh, and I didn’t find out anything on the Internet about a boy called Robert White who drowned, but you can look up all the editions of the
Times
and the
Observer
for the last forty years in the library. I’m sure I’ll find something there. What else? Oh yes, mountain ash tree, sapphire, raven.… Well, of course you can interpret that in all sorts of different ways, but with this mysterious stuff, everything can always mean anything, which means nothing is certain. We must try to go by the facts and not all these fantastic ideas. You’ll have to find out more, particularly about Lucy and Paul and why they stole the chronograph. They obviously know something that the others don’t know. Or don’t want to. Or that they have very different ideas about.”

The door opened again. This time the footsteps were firm and energetic. And they were coming straight toward the door of our cubicle.

“Lesley Hay and Gwyneth Shepherd, come out of there at once and go back to your class!”

At first Lesley and I were stunned. Then Lesley said, “You do know these are the
girls’
toilets, don’t you, Mr. Whitman?”

“I’ll count to three,” said Mr. Whitman. “One…”

We’d opened the door before he reached “three.”

“I’ll have to note this on your records,” said Mr. Whitman, looking at us like a very stern squirrel. “I am very disappointed in you. You in particular, Gwyneth. The fact that you’ve taken your cousin’s place doesn’t mean you can do or not do exactly as you like. Charlotte never neglected her schoolwork.”

“Yes, Mr. Whitman,” I said. This authoritarian attitude wasn’t at all like him. He was usually so charming and only ever a tiny bit sarcastic.

“Now, off you go to your class.”

“How did you know where we were?” asked Lesley.

Mr. Whitman did not reply. He reached out his hand for Lesley’s folder. “And for now, I’m confiscating this.”

“Oh, no, you can’t!” Lesley clutched the folder close to her breast.

“Give it to me, Lesley!”

“But I need it … for the class.”

“I’ll count to three.…”

On “two,” Lesley handed him the folder, gritting her teeth. It was so embarrassing when Mr. Whitman pushed us into the classroom. Mrs. Counter obviously took it personally that we’d bunked off her class, because she ignored us until it was over.

“Were you smoking something?” Gordon asked.

“No, idiot,” Lesley snapped at him. “We just wanted to talk to each other in peace.”

“You cut class because you wanted to
talk
?” Gordon tapped his forehead.
“Girls!”

“And now Mr. Whitman can look through your whole file,” I said to Lesley. “Then he’ll know—I mean, the
Guardians
will know—that I’ve told you all about it. I’m sure I’m not allowed to.”

“Yes, so am I,” said Lesley. “Maybe they’ll send one of those men in black to get rid of me because I know things that no one is supposed to know.” She seemed to think this was an exciting prospect.

“Well, suppose that isn’t such a far-out idea?”

“Then … well, I’m going to buy you a pepper spray this afternoon, and I’ll buy myself one at the same time.” Lesley patted me on the back. “Come on. We’re not going to let them get the better of us?”

“No. No, we’re not.” I envied Lesley her unshakeable optimism. She always looked on the bright side of things. If they had a bright side.

3:00
P.M.
to 6:00
P.M.
, Lucy and Paul came to elapse in my office. We talked about cleaning up the city and restoring the buildings on the bombed-out sites, and the extraordinary fact that, in their time, Notting Hill will be one of the most fashionable and sought-after parts of town. (They described it as “trendy.”) They also gave me a list of all the Wimbledon champions from 1950 onward. I promised to put my winnings into a fund for the college education of my children and grandchildren. I am also thinking of buying one or two of the dilapidated apartment blocks in Notting Hill. You never know.

F
ROM
T
HE
A
NNALS OF THE
G
UARDIANS

14 A
UGUST
1949

R
EPORT
: L
UCAS
M
ONTROSE
, A
DEPT
3
RD
D
EGREE

FOURTEEN

CLASSES DRAGGED ON
painfully slowly, lunch was disgusting, same as usual, and when we could finally go home after double chemistry in the afternoon, I felt ready for bed.

Charlotte had ignored me all day. Once, at break, I tried to speak with her, and she said, “If you were thinking of apologizing, forget it!”

“What would I want to apologize for?” I asked, feeling annoyed.

“Well, if you can’t work that out for yourself—”

“Charlotte! I can’t help inheriting this stupid gene instead of you.”

Charlotte’s eyes had sparkled with fury as she looked at me. “It’s not a
stupid gene
, it’s a gift. Something very special. And it’s simply wasted on someone like you. But you’re too childish to even understand that.”

Then she had turned and marched away, leaving me standing there.

“She’ll recover,” said Lesley as we took our things out of our lockers. “She just has to get used to not being someone special anymore.”

“But it’s so unfair,” I said. “After all, I haven’t taken anything away from her.”

“Well, basically you have.” Lesley handed me her hairbrush. “Here!”

“What do you want me to do with this?”

“Brush your hair, what else?”

I obediently ran the brush through my hair. Then I asked her, “Why am I doing this?”

“I only wanted you to look pretty when you see Gideon again. Luckily you don’t need any mascara. Your lashes are amazingly long and black naturally.”

I’d gone bright red at the mention of Gideon’s name. “Maybe I won’t meet him today at all. I’m just being sent back to 1956 to do my homework in a cellar.”

“Yes, but maybe you’ll run into him before or after that.”

“Lesley, I’m not his type.”

“He didn’t mean it that way,” said Lesley.

“Yes, he did!”

“So what? A person can change his mind. Anyway, he’s
your
type.”

I opened my mouth and then closed it again. There was no point in denying it. He
was
my type, as much as I’d have liked to pretend he wasn’t.

“Any girl would think he was amazing,” I said. “As far as looks go, anyway. But he needles me all the time, and he orders me about, and he’s just so … he’s just so incredibly…”

“Great?” Lesley smiled lovingly at me. “So are you, honest! You’re the greatest girl I know. Apart from me, maybe. And you can order people about yourself. Come on, I want to see this limousine that’s going to fetch you.”

James gave me a cool nod as we were passing his niche.

“Wait a sec,” I told Lesley. “I need to ask James something.”

When I stopped, the bored expression vanished from James’s face, and he smiled cheerfully at me. “I’ve been thinking about our last conversation,” he said.

“What, about kissing?”

“No, about the smallpox. It’s possible I did catch it after all. Your hair is beautifully glossy today.”

“Thank you. James, could you do me a favor?”

“Nothing to do with kissing, I hope.”

I had to smile. “Not a bad idea,” I said, “but, no, it’s about manners.”

“Manners?”

“Well, you’re always complaining that I don’t have any, and you’re right. So I wanted to ask you to show me how to behave properly. In your time. How to talk, how to curtsey, how to—oh, I don’t know what.”

“Hold a fan? Dance? How to behave when the Prince Regent is in the room?”

“Exactly!”

“Oh, yes, I can teach you that,” said James.

“Great,” I said, and was turning to go. “Oh, and James? Can you fence as well? With a sword?”

“Of course,” said James. “I don’t wish to boast, but I am considered one of the best fencers in town by my friends at the club. Galliano himself says I have a considerable talent.”

“Super!” I said. “You’re a real friend.”

“You want that ghost to teach you fencing?” Lesley had been following our conversation with interest. Of course she’d only been able to hear my side of it. “Can a ghost hold a sword?”

“We’ll see,” I said. “Anyway, he knows his way around the eighteenth century. After all, it’s where he comes from.”

Gordon Gelderman caught up with us on the steps. “You were talking to that niche in the wall again, Gwyneth. I saw you.”

“Yes, it’s my favorite bit of wall, Gordon. I’d hurt its feelings if I didn’t stop and talk to it.”

“You do know you’re weird, right?”

“Yes, Gordon dear, I know. But at least my voice isn’t breaking.”

“That’s a passing phase,” said Gordon. “It will go away.”

“It would be nice if
you
went away,” said Lesley.

“I suppose you two want to talk again,” said Gordon. He was always hard to shake off. “I can understand that. After all, you’ve only had your heads together for five hours today. See you at the cinema later?”

“No,” said Lesley.

“I can’t anyway, come to think of it,” said Gordon, as he followed us through the front hall like a shadow. “I have to write that stupid essay about signet rings. Did I ever tell you I can’t stand Mr. Whitman?”

“Yes, but only a hundred times so far,” said Lesley.

I saw the limousine waiting outside the school gate even before we came out of the building. My heart began beating a little faster. I still felt terribly embarrassed about yesterday evening.

“Wow! Look at that car, will you?” Gordon whistled softly through his teeth. “Maybe the rumors are true and Madonna’s daughter really is at this school—incognito, of course.”

“Of course,” said Lesley, blinking at the bright sunlight. “That’s why they send a limousine to fetch her. So no one will notice that she’s incognito.”

Several of the students were gaping at the limousine. Cynthia and her friend Sarah were standing on the steps as well, eyes popping out of their heads. But not at the sight of the limousine—at something farther to the right of it.

“And I thought that twit wouldn’t have anything to do with boys,” said Sarah. “Not even hot guys like that.”

“Could be he’s her cousin,” said Cynthia. “Or her brother.”

My hand was clutching Lesley’s arm tightly. Sure enough, there stood Gideon in our school yard, very casual in jeans and a T-shirt. And he was talking to Charlotte.

Lesley identified him at once. “And I thought he had long hair,” she said accusingly.

“He does,” I said.

“Shoulder-length,”
said Lesley. “That’s different. Very cool.”

“He’s gay. Bet you anything he’s gay,” said Gordon, leaning one arm on my shoulder so that he could see past Cynthia and me better.

“Oh, my God, he’s touching her!” said Cynthia. “He’s taking her hand!”

Charlotte’s smile was visible all the way to where we were standing. She didn’t often smile (apart from her infuriating know-it-all expression), but when she did, the look on her face was enchanting. She was even showing a dimple. Gideon was bound to notice it, and I was sure he was thinking that
she
was anything but an ordinary girl.

“He’s stroking her cheek!”

Oh, my God. He was, really. The pang I felt was something I couldn’t ignore. “And now he’s kissing her!”

We all held our breath. It really did look as if Gideon was going to kiss Charlotte.

“But only on the cheek,” said Cynthia, relieved. “So he’s her cousin, after all. Gwenny, please say he’s her cousin.”

“No,” I said. “They’re not related.”

“And he isn’t gay either,” said Lesley.

“Want to bet? I mean, look at that signet ring he’s wearing.”

Charlotte smiled radiantly at Gideon again and walked away with a spring in her step. Obviously her bad mood had gone away.

Gideon turned to us. I realized what a sight we were—four girls and Gordon, gaping and giggling on the steps outside school.

I know lots of girls like you.

Just as I might have expected. Oh, great!

“Gwyneth!” called Gideon. “Finally!”

Cynthia, Sarah, and Gordon collectively held their breath. To be honest, so did I. Only Lesley kept her cool. She gave me a little push. “Hurry up, will you? Your limousine is waiting.”

As I went down the steps, I could feel the others’ eyes on my back. Their mouths were probably open, too. Gordon’s was for sure.

“Hi,” I said when I had reached Gideon. It was all I could manage to say. In the sunlight his eyes were a brighter green than ever.

“Hi.” He was looking at me rather too closely. “Have you grown overnight?”

“No.” I tugged the jacket together over my breasts. “It’s my school uniform that’s shrunk.”

Gideon grinned. Then he looked over my shoulder. “Friends of yours up there? I think one of them’s about to faint.”

Oh, my God. “That’s Cynthia Dale,” I said, without turning around. “She suffers from high estrogen levels. I can introduce you if you’d like.”

Gideon’s smile grew wider. “Maybe I’ll take you up on that some other time. Now, come on. We have a lot still to do today.” He took my arm (a loud squeal could be heard from the steps) and guided me toward the limousine.

“I’m only going to do homework. In the year 1956.”

“There’s been a change of plan.” Gideon opened the car door for me. (A synchronized screech from the steps.) “We’re going to visit your great-great-grandmother. She specially asked for you to come along.” He put his hand on my back to get me into the car. (Another screech from the steps.)

I let myself fall into the back seat. There was a familiar, round face already in the car, waiting for me.

“Hello, Mr. George.”

“Gwyneth, my brave girl, how are you feeling today?” Mr. George was beaming as if in competition with his shiny bald patch.

Gideon sat down beside him.

“I’m … er, fine, thank you.” I went red, because I was thinking what a picture of misery I must have been yesterday evening. At least Gideon hadn’t made any cutting reference to that. He was acting as if nothing at all had happened.

“What was that about my great-great-grandmother?” I hurried to ask. “I didn’t really understand.”

“No, we didn’t entirely understand it ourselves,” said Gideon, sighing.

The limousine moved away. I resisted the temptation to look at my friends through the back window.

“Margaret Tilney, née Grand, was the grandmother of your grandmother Arista, and the last time traveler in the female line before Lucy and you. The Guardians were able to read her into the first, original chronograph without any problems after her second journey back in time. That was in 1894. For the rest of her life—she died in 1944—she elapsed regularly with the aid of the chronograph. The
Annals
describe her as very friendly and cooperative.” Mr. George nervously passed his hand over his bald patch. “During the bombing of London in the Second World War, a group of Guardians went out into the country with her and the chronograph. She died there of pneumonia at the age of sixty-seven.”

“How … how sad.” I didn’t understand exactly what I was supposed to make of this information.

“As you know, Gideon has already visited seven of the Circle of Twelve in the past and taken a little of their blood for the new chronograph. Six if we count the twins as one. So with your blood and his, only four of the Circle are still missing. Opal, Jade, Sapphire, and Black Tourmaline.”

“Elaine Burghley, Margaret Tilney, Lucy Montrose, and Paul de Villiers,” added Gideon.

“Those four have to be visited in the past and a little blood taken from each of them.” I’d grasped that idea by now; I wasn’t entirely clueless.

“Exactly. We didn’t think there could be any complications with Margaret.” Mr. George leaned back in his seat. “With the others, yes, but there was no reason to assume that there’d be any difficulty with Margaret Tilney. The course of her life was closely recorded by the Guardians. We know where she was on every single day of it. That’s why it was also easy to arrange a meeting between her and Gideon. He traveled back last night to the year 1937, to meet Margaret Tilney at our house in the Temple.”

“Last night? Really? For goodness’ sake, when did you get any sleep?”

“It was supposed to be a very quick visit,” said Gideon. He crossed his arms over his chest. “We’d planned only an hour for the whole operation.”

Mr. George said, “But contrary to our expectations, when Gideon had explained the reasons, Margaret refused to let him have any of her blood.” He looked expectantly at me. Was I supposed to say something?

“Maybe … er … maybe she just didn’t understand you,” I said. After all, it was a very intricate story.

“She understood me perfectly.” Gideon shook his head. “Because she already knew that the first chronograph had been stolen and that I’d be wanting some of her blood for the second one.”

“But how could she have guessed what wouldn’t happen until many years later? Could she see into the future?” No sooner had I asked than I knew the answer. Slowly, I was really getting the hang of this time travel business.