down to the chronograph and supervise her journey,” said Mr. Whitman, pushing his chair back.
“Right.” Falk nodded. “Two hours will be plenty. One of the adepts can wait for her to travel back. We need you up here with us.”
I looked inquiringly at Mr. George. He only shrugged his shoulders, resigned.
“Come along, Gwyneth.” Mr. Whitman was on his feet. “The sooner you get it behind you, the sooner you’ll be in bed, and then at least you’ll be fit for classes at school tomorrow. I’m looking forward to reading your essay on Shakespeare.”
Good heavens. What a nerve the man had! Starting on about Shakespeare now … it really was the end!
For a moment I wondered whether to protest, but then I decided not to. I didn’t really want to listen to any more idiotic babble. I wanted to go home and forget this whole time-travel business, Gideon included. Let them go on mulling over mysteries in their stupid Dragon Hall until they dropped with sheer exhaustion. I wished that on Gideon most of all, plus a nightmare after he’d showered and gone to bed!
Xemerius was right, they were freaks, the whole lot of them.
The silly thing was that, all the same, I couldn’t help glancing at Gideon, and thinking something crazy along the lines of if he’d only smile just once now , I’d forgive him everything.
Of course he didn’t. Instead he just looked at me expressionlessly. It was impossible to tell what was going on inside his head. For a moment, the idea that we’d kissed was miles away, and for some reason, I suddenly thought of the silly rhyme that Cynthia Dale, our authority at school on everything to do with love, always liked to chant. “Green eyes, cold as ice, no idea that love is nice.”
“Good night,” I said with dignity.
“Good night,” all the others murmured. All of them except Gideon, that is. He said, “Don’t forget to blindfold her, Mr. Whitman.”
Mr. George snorted crossly through his nose. As Mr. Whitman opened the door and propelled me out into the corridor, I heard Mr. George saying, “Have you stopped to think that this policy of excluding her could be the very reason why the things that are going to happen do happen?” Whether anyone had an answer to that I didn’t hear. The heavy door latched shut, cutting off the sound of their voices.
Xemerius was scratching his head with the tip of his tail. “That’s the weirdest secret society I ever came across!”
“Don’t take it to heart, Gwyneth,” said Mr. Whitman. He took a black scarf out of his jacket pocket and held it under my nose. “It’s just that you’re the new factor in the game. The great unknown in the equation.”
What was I supposed to say to that? Three days ago, I didn’t even have an inkling about the existence of the Guardians. Three days ago, my life had still been perfectly normal. Well, reasonably normal. “Mr. Whitman, before you blindfold me … could we stop in Madame Rossini’s sewing room and fetch my things? I’ve left two sets of my school uniform here now, and I’ll need something to wear tomorrow. My school bag is there too.”
“Of course.” Mr. Whitman waved the scarf cheerfully in the air as he walked along. “In fact, you can change your clothes there. You won’t be meeting anyone in the past. What year shall we send you to?”
“Makes no difference if I’m shut up in a cellar, does it?” I said.
“Let’s see, it has to be a year when you can land in … er, in the aforesaid cellar without any problems. That’s all right after 1945—for a few years before that, the cellars were used as air raid shelters. How about 1974? The year when I was born, a good year.” He laughed. “Or shall we try 30 July 1966? That’s when England beat Germany in the World Cup final. But I don’t suppose you’re very interested in football, are you?”
“Particularly not when I’m holed up in a cellar without any windows, a long way below ground level,” I said
“Right.” Falk nodded. “Two hours will be plenty. One of the adepts can wait for her to travel back. We need you up here with us.”
I looked inquiringly at Mr. George. He only shrugged his shoulders, resigned.
“Come along, Gwyneth.” Mr. Whitman was on his feet. “The sooner you get it behind you, the sooner you’ll be in bed, and then at least you’ll be fit for classes at school tomorrow. I’m looking forward to reading your essay on Shakespeare.”
Good heavens. What a nerve the man had! Starting on about Shakespeare now … it really was the end!
For a moment I wondered whether to protest, but then I decided not to. I didn’t really want to listen to any more idiotic babble. I wanted to go home and forget this whole time-travel business, Gideon included. Let them go on mulling over mysteries in their stupid Dragon Hall until they dropped with sheer exhaustion. I wished that on Gideon most of all, plus a nightmare after he’d showered and gone to bed!
Xemerius was right, they were freaks, the whole lot of them.
The silly thing was that, all the same, I couldn’t help glancing at Gideon, and thinking something crazy along the lines of if he’d only smile just once now , I’d forgive him everything.
Of course he didn’t. Instead he just looked at me expressionlessly. It was impossible to tell what was going on inside his head. For a moment, the idea that we’d kissed was miles away, and for some reason, I suddenly thought of the silly rhyme that Cynthia Dale, our authority at school on everything to do with love, always liked to chant. “Green eyes, cold as ice, no idea that love is nice.”
“Good night,” I said with dignity.
“Good night,” all the others murmured. All of them except Gideon, that is. He said, “Don’t forget to blindfold her, Mr. Whitman.”
Mr. George snorted crossly through his nose. As Mr. Whitman opened the door and propelled me out into the corridor, I heard Mr. George saying, “Have you stopped to think that this policy of excluding her could be the very reason why the things that are going to happen do happen?” Whether anyone had an answer to that I didn’t hear. The heavy door latched shut, cutting off the sound of their voices.
Xemerius was scratching his head with the tip of his tail. “That’s the weirdest secret society I ever came across!”
“Don’t take it to heart, Gwyneth,” said Mr. Whitman. He took a black scarf out of his jacket pocket and held it under my nose. “It’s just that you’re the new factor in the game. The great unknown in the equation.”
What was I supposed to say to that? Three days ago, I didn’t even have an inkling about the existence of the Guardians. Three days ago, my life had still been perfectly normal. Well, reasonably normal. “Mr. Whitman, before you blindfold me … could we stop in Madame Rossini’s sewing room and fetch my things? I’ve left two sets of my school uniform here now, and I’ll need something to wear tomorrow. My school bag is there too.”
“Of course.” Mr. Whitman waved the scarf cheerfully in the air as he walked along. “In fact, you can change your clothes there. You won’t be meeting anyone in the past. What year shall we send you to?”
“Makes no difference if I’m shut up in a cellar, does it?” I said.
“Let’s see, it has to be a year when you can land in … er, in the aforesaid cellar without any problems. That’s all right after 1945—for a few years before that, the cellars were used as air raid shelters. How about 1974? The year when I was born, a good year.” He laughed. “Or shall we try 30 July 1966? That’s when England beat Germany in the World Cup final. But I don’t suppose you’re very interested in football, are you?”
“Particularly not when I’m holed up in a cellar without any windows, a long way below ground level,” I said
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