Gideon put out an arm and shoved me behind him. “Shut up for a moment, would you?”

“What?”

There was another staircase at the end of this corridor. Daylight fell in from above, but before we reached the stairs, two men with drawn swords stepped out of the shadows, as if they’d been waiting for us.

“Good day,” said Gideon. Unlike me, he hadn’t batted an eyelash. But his hand had gone to his own sword.

“Password!” demanded the first man.

“Surely you were here only yesterday,” said the second man, coming a little closer to take a look at Gideon. “Or your younger brother was. The likeness is remarkable.”

“Is this the boy who can appear out of nowhere?” asked the other man. Both of them stared openmouthed at Gideon. They wore clothes like his, and Madame Rossini had obviously been right: in the Rococo age men did like bright colors. These two had combined red and brown with turquoise, which was then embroidered with little mauve flowers, and one of them really was wearing a lemon-yellow coat. The sight should have been appalling, but there was just something about it. It was … well, colorful.

They were both wearing wigs with curls like sausages over their ears and a small extra pigtail at the back of the neck tied with a velvet ribbon.

“Let’s just say I know ways about this house that are unknown to you,” said Gideon with a scornful smile. “I and my companion have to speak to the Master. On urgent business.”

“That’s right, mention yourself first,” I murmured.

“The password?”

Quark edit bisquitis. Or something along those lines.

“Qua redit nescitis,” said Gideon.

Well, I’d had it almost right.

ELEVEN

THE MAN IN THE YELLOW coat put his sword away. “Follow me.”

Curious, I looked out the first window we passed. So this was the eighteenth century! My scalp began tingling with excitement. But all I could see was an inner courtyard with a fountain in the middle of it. I’d seen it looking just the same before.

We went up more stairs. Gideon let me go first.

“You were here only yesterday?” I asked, intrigued. I whispered it so that the man in the yellow coat wouldn’t hear what we were saying. He was only a couple of steps ahead of us.

“It was yesterday to them,” said Gideon. “To me it’s almost two years ago.”

“Why were you here?”

“To introduce myself to the count, and I had to tell him that the first chronograph had been stolen.”

“I don’t suppose he thought much of that.”

The man in yellow acted as if he wasn’t trying to listen to us, but you could practically see his ears popping out from under the white sausages of hair in the effort to hear.

“He took it better than I’d expected,” said Gideon. “And after the first shock, he was delighted to hear that our second chronograph really was in working order, giving us another chance to end the whole thing successfully.”

“Where’s the chronograph now?” I whispered. “I mean at this moment in this time.”

“Somewhere in this building, I assume. The count won’t be parted from it for long. He himself has to elapse to avoid random time traveling.”

“Why can’t we simply take the chronograph back with us into the future, then?”

“For a number of reasons,” said Gideon. His tone of voice had changed. It wasn’t quite so arrogant. More like patronizing. “The most important are obvious. One of the Guardians’ golden rules for the use of the chronograph is that the continuum must never be broken. If we took the chronograph back to the future with us, the count and the time travelers born after him would have to manage without it.”

“Yes, but then no one could steal it either.”

Gideon shook his head. “I can see you’ve never thought much about the nature of time. It would be very dangerous to interrupt certain sequences of events. In the worst case scenario, you might never be born.”

“I see,” I said untruthfully.

Meanwhile we had reached the first floor, passing two more men armed with swords. The yellow man had a brief exchange with them in whispers. What was that password again? All I could think of was Qua nesquick mosquitoes. I definitely had to get myself another brain.

The two men were looking at Gideon and me with unconcealed curiosity, and as soon as we’d passed them, they went on whispering. I’d have loved to hear what they were saying.

The man in yellow knocked on a door. Another man was sitting at a desk inside the room, also wearing a wig and colorful clothes. The turquoise coat and flowered waistcoat that showed above the desk were dazzling, and below the desktop, there was a cheerful view of bright red trousers and striped stockings. I’d stopped even being surprised by this kind of thing.

“Mr. Secretary,” said the man in yellow, “here’s yesterday’s visitor again. And he knows today’s password, too.”

The secretary man looked incredulously at Gideon’s face. “How can you know the password? We announced it only two hours ago, and no one’s left this house since then. And who is she? Women are not allowed here.”

I was going to tell him my name politely, but Gideon took my arm and interrupted me. “We have to speak to the count,” he said. “On urgent business. We’re in a hurry.”

“They came from down below,” said the man in yellow.

“But the count isn’t here,” said the secretary. He was on his feet now, wringing his hands. “We can send a messenger—”

“No, we have to speak to the count ourselves. We don’t have time to send messengers back and forth. Where is the count at the moment?”

“Visiting Lord Brompton in his new town house in Wigmore Street. A meeting to discuss something of the greatest importance. He arranged the meeting directly after your visit yesterday.”

Gideon swore under his breath. “We need a coach to take us to Wigmore Street, then. At once.”

“I can arrange that,” said the secretary, nodding to the man in yellow. “See to it yourself, please, Wilbour.”

“But—won’t we be rather short of time?” I asked, thinking of the long way back through the musty cellar. “I mean, time to get to Wigmore Street in a coach.” Our dentist was in Wigmore Street. The nearest Tube station was Bond Street on the Central Line, but going there from here you’d have to change several times. And like I said, that was on the Tube! I hated to think how long it would take in a horse-drawn coach. “Maybe it would be better if we came back another time?”

“No,” said Gideon, suddenly smiling at me. There was something in his face that I couldn’t quite interpret. A wish for adventure, maybe?

“We still have over two and a half hours,” he said cheerfully. “We’ll drive to Wigmore Street.”

* * *

THE COACH DRIVE through London was the most exciting thing to have happened to me so far. For some reason I’d imagined the city would be very peaceful without any motor traffic—people strolling along carrying sunshades and wearing hats, a carriage now and then trotting by at a comfortable pace, no exhaust fumes, no taxis racing recklessly along and trying to run you down even when you were going over a pedestrian crossing with a green light.

In fact, it was anything but peaceful. It was raining, and even without cars and buses, the traffic was chaotic. All kinds of coaches, carriages, and carts were going along, crowding close together, spraying mud and water from the puddles all over the place. True, there were no exhaust fumes, but the street didn’t smell good—there was a slight smell of decay, and then there were horse droppings and other refuse.

I’d never seen so many horses all at once before. Our coach was drawn by four of them, black and very beautiful. The man in the yellow coat was sitting on the coachman’s box, guiding the horses through the turmoil at breakneck speed. The coach rocked wildly, and every time the horses went around a bend, I thought we were going to tip over. What with that and trying hard not to let the jolting make me fall against Gideon, I couldn’t see much of the London that was passing by outside the coach windows. When I did look out, nothing that I saw, nothing at all, looked familiar. It was as if I’d landed in a totally different city.

“This is Kingsway,” said Gideon. “You wouldn’t recognize it, would you?”

Our coachman launched into a daring overtaking maneuver to get past an oxcart and a coach like our own. This time I couldn’t help it—the force of gravity flung me against Gideon.

“This guy must think he’s Ben Hur,” I said as I slid back into my own corner.

“Driving a coach is tremendous fun,” said Gideon, and he sounded quite envious of the man on the box. “It’s even better in an open carriage, of course. I’d like to drive a phaeton.”

Once again the coach swayed, and I started feeling slightly nauseated. You needed a strong stomach to ride in one of these. “And I’d like to be in a Jag,” I murmured.

Still, I had to admit that we arrived in Wigmore Street sooner than I’d have thought possible. I looked around as we got out in front of a very grand house, but I didn’t recognize anything about this part of town from our own time, even though unfortunately, like I said, I’d had to go to the dentist more often than I wanted to. But there was a vague sense of familiarity about it all. And the rain had stopped.

The footman who opened the door claimed at first that Lord Brompton was not at home, but Gideon convincingly assured him that he knew that wasn’t true and said that if the footman didn’t take us both to his lordship and his lordship’s visitors at once, he would lose his job that very day. He put his signet ring into the intimidated footman’s hand and told him to hurry up.

“Do you have your own signet ring?” I asked as we waited in the entrance hall.

“Yes, of course,” said Gideon. “Are you scared?”

“No, why? Should I be?” The coach ride had jolted me about so much that I couldn’t think of anything scarier for the moment. But just as he was saying that, my heart began thudding wildly. I couldn’t help thinking of what my mother had said about Count Saint-Germain. If the man really could read thoughts …

I felt my pinned-up hair. It was probably all untidy after that coach ride.

“It looks perfect,” said Gideon with a slight smile.

What was all this about? Did he want to make me feel nervous?

“Our cook at home is called Brompton, too,” I said, to cover up for my embarrassment. “Mrs. Brompton.”

“It’s a small world,” said Gideon.

The footman came running downstairs, coattails flying. “The gentlemen are expecting you, sir.”

We followed the man up to the first floor.

“Can he really read thoughts?” I whispered.

“Who, the footman?” Gideon whispered back. “I hope not. I was just thinking he looks like a weasel.”

Was that by any chance a bit of humor? Mr. High-and-Mighty Time Traveler actually cracking a joke? I gave him a quick smile. (Well, it was worth encouraging the possibility.)