by Kerstin Gier
Lesley shrugged her shoulders and grinned at me. “Couldn’t think of anything better in a hurry.” She sat down in her usual place.
I looked around for Xemerius. Last time I’d seen him, he was perched on the school roof, waving cheerfully down at me. He did have instructions to keep away from me during classes, but I didn’t think he was likely to follow them.
“The Green Rider looks like a dead end,” said Lesley under her breath. Unlike me, she hadn’t had much sleep last night. She’d spent hours on the Internet again. “A famous jade figurine from the Ming Dynasty goes by that name, but it’s in a museum in Beijing, and there’s a statue of a Green Rider in the marketplace of a German town called Cloppenburg, and it’s the title of two books—one a novel published in 1926, and the other a children’s book that wasn’t written until after your grandfather’s death. That’s all so far.”
“I thought it might be a painting,” I said. Secrets always get hidden behind or in paintings in films.
“No such luck,” said Lesley. “If it had been a Blue Rider, well, that would be different, but it isn’t. Then I hunted THE GREEN RIDER through an anagram-making site. But … well, unless DITHER GREENER means anything, no luck there either. I printed out a few. Anything ring a bell with you?” She handed me a sheet of paper.
“DEER THREE GRIN,” I read out. “ERRED HERE TING. Let me think for a moment.…”
Lesley giggled. “My favorite is REGRET HEN RIDE. Hang on, here comes Mr. Squirrel.”
She meant Mr. Whitman, of course. At the time we nicknamed him that, we had no idea who he really was.
“I keep expecting us to be called to see the principal and told off because of yesterday,” I said, but Lesley shook her head.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “Do you think he wants Mr. Gilles knowing his English and history teacher is an important member of a terribly secret secret society? Because that’s what I’d say if he told on us. Oh, shit, here he comes. And looking so … so supercilious again!”
In fact, Mr. Whitman did come over to us. He put the fat folder that he’d confiscated in the girls’ toilets yesterday down in front of Lesley. “I thought you might like to have this … very interesting collection of papers back,” he said, with a touch of sarcasm.
“Oh, thank you!” replied Lesley, going a little red in the face. The collection of papers was her big file of research into time-travel phenomena. It contained absolutely everything that the two of us (but mainly Lesley, of course) had found out so far about the Guardians and Count Saint-Germain. On page thirty-four, just after all the entries on the subject of telekinesis, there was a note about Mr. Whitman himself. Squirrel also member of the Lodge? Ring, meaning of? We could only hope that Mr. Whitman hadn’t jumped to the connection with him.
“Lesley, I don’t like to say this, but I think your energy could be better invested in some of your school subjects.” Mr. Whitman was smiling, but there was something other than just sarcasm in his voice. He lowered it. “Not everything that seems interesting is necessarily good for you.”
Was that by any chance a threat? Lesley picked up the folder in silence and put it away in her school bag.
The others were looking at us curiously. Obviously they were wondering what Mr. Whitman was talking about. Charlotte was sitting close enough to hear him, and she definitely had a gloating expression on her face. When Mr. Whitman said, “And, Gwyneth, by now you should be beginning to understand that discretion is not only desirable but essential,” she nodded in agreement. “It is a pity that you are turning out to be so unworthy.”
How unfair! I decided to follow Lesley’s example, and Mr. Whitman and I stared at each other for a few seconds in silence. Then his smile grew wider, and he suddenly patted my cheek. “Chin up! I’m sure there’s still a lot you’ll be able to learn,” he said as he moved on. “Now, then, Gordon, is your essay copied from the Internet again lock, stock, and barrel?”
“You’re always telling us to use all the sources we can find,” Gordon defended himself. His voice covered two octaves from bass to squeaky treble in the process.
“What was Whitman saying to you two?” Cynthia Dale leaned back and looked at us. “What was that folder? And why did he stroke you, Gwyneth?”
“No need to be jealous, Cyn,” said Lesley. “He doesn’t like us a bit better than he likes you.”
“I’m not jealous,” said Cynthia. “I mean, hello … why does everyone think I’m in love with the man?”
“Maybe because you’re president of the William Whitman Fan Club?” I suggested.
“Or because you’ve been seen writing Cynthia Whitman twenty times on a piece of paper, saying you wanted to find out what it felt like?” said Lesley.
“Or because—”
“Okay, stop that,” hissed Cynthia. “Anyway, it was only once, and it was ages ago.”
“It was the day before yesterday,” said Lesley.
“I’m more mature and adult now.” Cynthia sighed and looked around the class. “It’s all because of the boys—stupid, overgrown babies! If only we had reasonably sensible boys in this class, no one would need to fancy one of the teachers. By the way—tell us about the cool guy who picked you up in the limousine yesterday, will you, Gwenny? Is there something going on between you?”
Charlotte let out a snort of amusement, which instantly attracted Cynthia’s attention. “Oh, don’t keep us on tenterhooks, Charlotte. Do you have something going with him, or does Gwenny?”
By now Mr. Whitman was behind his desk, telling us to put our minds to Shakespeare and his sonnets.
For once I was truly grateful to him. Better Shakespeare than Gideon! The chatter died down around us, giving way to sighs and the rustling of paper. But I did hear Charlotte saying, “Well, certainly not Gwenny.”
Lesley looked at me sympathetically. “She has no idea,” she whispered to me. “Really, you can only feel sorry for her.”
“Yes, right,” I whispered back. But in fact I was sorry for no one but myself. I could see that an afternoon in Charlotte’s company was going to be a whole load of fun.
* * *
THIS TIME the limousine wasn’t waiting at the school gates, but parked discreetly a little way down the street. Red-haired Mr. Marley was pacing nervously up and down beside it. He got even more nervous when he saw us coming.
“Oh, it’s you,” said Charlotte, very obviously displeased, and Mr. Marley blushed. Charlotte took a look through the open door at the interior of the limousine. It was empty except for the driver—and Xemerius. Charlotte looked disappointed. That gave me a real boost.
“Did you miss me?” Xemerius sprawled contentedly in his seat as the car purred away. Mr. Marley was sitting in the front, and Charlotte, beside me, was staring out of the window in silence.
“Glad to hear it,” said Xemerius, without waiting for an answer. “But I’m sure you realize I have other duties too. I can’t be looking after you the whole time.”
I rolled my eyes, and Xemerius giggled.
In fact I really had missed him. Classes had dragged on slowly, and by the time Mrs. Counter was going on forever about the mineral resources of the Baltic states, if not sooner, I’d been longing for Xemerius and his comments. Also I’d have liked to introduce him to Lesley, so far as that was possible. Lesley loved listening to my descriptions, even though my attempts to draw the gargoyle demon for her hadn’t turned out very flattering. “What are those clothes-pegs for?” she had asked, pointing to the horns on his head.
“At last!” she said enthusiastically. “An invisible friend who might come in useful! Think about it: unlike James, who just stands about in his niche doing nothing but complaining of your bad manners, this gargoyle can go around spying for you, and he can tell you what goes on behind closed doors.”
That hadn’t occurred to me before. But it was true—over that business this morning with the reti … reti-thingy … the old word for a handbag, Xemerius had definitely made himself useful.
I’m afraid she was right there. James was—yes, what exactly was he? If he had rattled chains or made chandeliers swing, he could have been officially described as our school ghost. But the Honorable James Augustus Peregrine Pympoole-Bothame was a handsome young man aged about twenty who wore a powdered white wig and a flowered coat, and he had been dead for 229 years. The school had once been his parents’ house, and like most ghosts, he couldn’t understand that he had died. As he saw it, the centuries of his life as a ghost were just a strange dream, and he was still expecting to wake up. Lesley suspected he had simply slept through the part of dying where you see a bright light at the end of a tunnel and go toward it.
“James isn’t totally useless,” I had objected. After all, only yesterday I’d decided that as a child of the eighteenth century, he could be genuinely useful to me, for instance as a fencing teacher. For a few hours, I’d reveled in the fantasy of being as good with a sword as Gideon, thanks to James. Unfortunately I’d made a big mistake there.
Our first (and probably last) fencing lesson just now, in the empty classroom at lunchtime, had left Lesley rolling about the floor in fits of laughter. Of course she couldn’t see James’s movements, which looked to me very professional, or hear his instructions—“Parry, Miss Gwyneth, just parry! Tierce! Prime! Quint!” She’d only seen me waving Mrs. Counter’s pointer desperately about in the air, fending off an invisible sword that could be sliced through like thin air. Useless. And ridiculous.
When Lesley had quite finished laughing, she said she thought James had better teach me something else, and for once James himself agreed with her. Fencing and all other kinds of fighting were a man’s business, he said. In his opinion, embroidery needles were the most dangerous weapons a girl ought to pick up.
“I guess the world would be a better place if men stuck to the same rule,” Lesley had said. “But as long as they don’t, women ought to be prepared.” And James had almost fainted away when she produced a knife with a seven-inch blade from her school bag. “So you can defend yourself better if another of those unpleasant lowlife characters in the past is out to get you.”
“That looks like a—”
“Japanese kitchen knife, yes. Slices through vegetables and raw fish like butter.”
I’d felt a shiver running down my spine.
“Only for emergencies,” Lesley had added. “To help you feel a little safer. It was the best weapon I could get in a hurry without a license.”
The knife was now in my school bag, in Lesley’s mum’s old spectacle case converted into a sheath, along with a roll of tape that, if Lesley was to be believed, would also come in useful.
The driver swung around a bend, and Xemerius, who hadn’t been holding on tight, went slithering over the smooth leather upholstery to collide with Charlotte. He hastily scrambled up again.
“Rigid as a church column,” he remarked, shaking his wings. He inspected her sideways. “Are we going to be lumbered with her all day now?”
“Yes, unfortunately.”
“Yes unfortunately what?” asked Charlotte.
“Unfortunately I skipped lunch again,” I said.
“Your own fault,” replied Charlotte. “Although to be honest, it won’t hurt you to lose a few pounds. After all, you’ll have to fit into the clothes that Madame Rossini made for me.” She tightened her lips for a moment, and I felt something like pity. She’d probably been genuinely pleased by the prospect of wearing Madame Rossini’s costumes, and then I came along to spoil everything. Not on purpose, of course, but all the same.…
“The dress I had to put on for visiting Count Saint-Germain is in my wardrobe at home,” I said. “I’ll give it to you if you like. You could wear it to Cynthia’s next fancy-dress party—I bet you’d bowl everyone over!”
“That dress isn’t yours to give away,” said Charlotte brusquely. “It’s the property of the Guardians. And it has no business being in your wardrobe at home.” She went back to looking out of the window.
“Grouse, grouse, grouse,” said Xemerius.
Charlotte really didn’t make it easy for you to like her. She never had. All the same, I hated this frosty atmosphere. I tried again. “Charlotte—”
“We’re nearly there,” she interrupted me. “I can’t wait to see if we’ll meet any of the Inner Circle.” Her grumpy face suddenly brightened. “I mean apart from those we know already. It’s so exciting! Over the next few days the Temple will be teeming with living legends. Famous politicians, Nobel Prize winners, highly decorated scientists will be in its hallowed halls, and the rest of the world will never know. Koppe Jötland will be here, oh, and Jonathan Reeves-Haviland … how I’d love to shake hands with him.” For her, Charlotte sounded really enthusiastic.
I had no idea who she was talking about. I looked hopefully at Xemerius, but he simply shrugged his shoulders. “Never heard of any of those stuffed shirts, sorry,” he said.
“No one can know everything,” I said with an understanding smile.
Charlotte sighed. “No, but it doesn’t hurt to read a serious newspaper now and then, or look at a news magazine to inform yourself about international political events. Of course, you have to switch your brain into gear for that … always supposing you have one.”
Like I said, she really didn’t make it easy.
The limousine had stopped, and Mr. Marley opened the car door. On Charlotte’s side, I noticed.
“Mr. Giordano is expecting you in the Old Refectory,” said Mr. Marley, and I had a feeling he’d almost added “ma’am.” He continued, “I’m to take you there.”
“There’s something about you that makes everyone want to order you around,” observed Xemerius. “Like me to come with you?”
“Yes, please,” I said, as we made our way along the narrow alleyways of the Temple district. “I’d feel better with you there.”
“Will you buy me a dog?”
“No!”
“But you do like me, don’t you? I think I’ll have to make myself scarce more often.”
“Or make yourself useful,” I said, remembering what Lesley had said. You could have an ace up your sleeve with Xemerius. She was right. Who else had a friend who could walk through walls?
“Don’t dawdle like that,” said Charlotte. She and Mr. Marley were a few feet in front of us, walking side by side, and only now did it strike me how like each other they were.
“Yes, Miss Manners,” I said.
Let’s withdraw; And meet the time as it seeks us.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, THE TRAGEDY OF CYMBELINE
FIVE
TO CUT A LONG story short, coaching by Charlotte and Mr. Giordano was even worse than I’d expected. That was mainly because they were trying to teach me everything at the same time. While I was struggling to learn the steps of the minuet (rigged out in a hooped skirt with cherry-red stripes, not very chic worn with my school uniform blouse, which was the color of mashed potato), I was also supposed to be learning how greatly the political opinions of the Whigs and the Tories differed, how to hold a fan, and the difference between “Your Highness,” “Your Royal Highness,” “Your Serene Highness,” and even “Your Illustrious Highness.” After only an hour plus seventeen different ways of opening a fan, I had a splitting headache, and I couldn’t tell left from right. My attempt to lighten the atmosphere with a little joke—“Couldn’t we stop for a rest? I’m totally, serenely, illustriously exhausted”—went down like a lead balloon.
“This is not funny,” said Giordano in nasal tones. “Stupid girl.”
The Old Refectory was a large room on the ground floor, with tall windows looking out on an inner courtyard. There was no furniture except for a grand piano and a few chairs pushed back against the wall. Xemerius was dangling head down from a chandelier, as so often, with his wings tidily folded on his back.
&
nbsp; Mr. Giordano had introduced himself with the words, “Just Giordano, if you please. Qualified historian, famous fashion designer, Reiki master, creative jewelry designer, well-known choreographer, Adept Third Degree, expert on the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.”
“Oh, wow,” said Xemerius. “Someone must have dropped him on his head when he was a baby.”
I could only agree with him, if in silence. Mr. Giordano—sorry, just Giordano—bore a most unfortunate resemblance to one of those demented presenters on the TV shopping channels, always talking as if they had clothes-pegs on their noses and there was a miniature pinscher dog under the table snapping at their calves. I was just waiting for him to twist his plump lips (had they been Botoxed?) into a smile and say, “And now, viewers, take a look at our indoor water feature, the Bridget model, top quality, a little oasis of happiness, only twenty-seven pounds, a real snip at the price, you can’t do without one of these, I have two at home myself.…”
Instead he said—without any smile at all—“My dear Charlotte, hello-hello-hellooo!” and kissed the air to the left and right of her ears. “I heard what’s happened, it is simply in-cred-ible! All those years of training, so much talent gone to waste. Terrible, a crying shame, and so unfair.… Well, so this is the girl, is it? Your understudy.” As he inspected me from head to foot, he pursed his fat lips. I couldn’t help it—I stared back, fascinated. He had a peculiar windblown hairstyle which must have been cemented in place with huge amounts of gel and hairspray. Narrow black strips of beard crisscrossed the lower half of his face like rivers on a map. His eyebrows had been plucked to shape and then drawn in with some kind of black eyebrow pencil, and if I wasn’t much mistaken, he had powdered his nose.
“And that is supposed to fit seamlessly into a soirée of the year 1782 in the very near future?” he asked. By that he obviously meant me. By soirée something else. The only question was what?
