“Enchanting,” said Madame Rossini, pushing me over to the mirror.
“Oh!” I said, surprised. Who’d have thought a sofa cover could look so good? And me in it. My waist seemed so small, my eyes so blue. Wow! Although my low décolletage reminded me of an opera singer about to explode.
“We’ll put a leetle lace in there,” said Madame Rossini, who had followed the direction of my eyes. “After all, it is an afternoon gown. In the evening, yes. You have to show what you ’ave got. I hope to have the pleasure of making you a ball gown! And now for your ’air.”
“Am I going to wear a wig?”
“No,” said Madame Rossini. “You are a young girl, and it is afternoon. If you make your ’air pretty and wear a ’at, that will do. We need do nothing with your skin, it is pure alabaster. And that pretty crescent-shaped mark on your temple could be a beauty spot. Très chic!”
Madame Rossini used heated rollers on my hair, and then skillfully fixed the front of it to my parting with hairpins and let the rest fall in soft ringlets to my shoulders. I looked at my reflection in the mirror and admired myself.
I couldn’t help thinking of that costume party that Cynthia had thrown last year. I’d gone as a bus stop, for want of any better ideas, and at the end of the evening, I felt like getting hit by a bus wouldn’t be so bad, because people kept asking me annoying questions about the timetable and when the next bus would come along.
Ha! If I’d only known Madame Rossini then! I’d have been the star of the evening!
I turned back to the mirror once again, fascinated, but that was all over when Madame Rossini came up behind me and put “the ’at” on my head. It was a monstrous confection of straw with feathers and blue ribbons, and I thought it spoiled the whole outfit. I tried to persuade Madame Rossini that I didn’t need to wear it, but she wouldn’t give way.
“No, impossible! Zis is not a beauty competition, ma chérie. We must have authenticity.”
I looked for my mobile in the jacket of my school uniform. “Could you at least take a photo of me—without the hat?”
Madame Rossini laughed. “Bien sûr, my dear!”
I posed, and Madame Rossini took about thirty photos of me from all sides, some of them even with the hat on. At least Lesley would have a good laugh.
“There, now I will go up and tell them you are ready. Stay here, and don’t touch that ’at! It is perfect.”
“Yes, Madame Rossini,” I said dutifully. As soon as she had left the room I tapped in Lesley’s mobile number, fingers flying, and texted her one of those hat pictures. She called back fourteen seconds later. Thank goodness, the reception here in Madame Rossini’s sewing room was good.
“I’m on the bus,” Lesley shouted into my ear. “But I have my notebook and pen all ready. Only you’ll have to speak up!”
Talking at top speed, I told Lesley all about what had happened, trying to explain where I was and what my mum had said. Although I was talking in rather a confused way, Lesley seemed to be following me. She was thrilled when I told her I’d brought her back a key from the past. She kept saying, in turn, “Wow, crazy!” and “Do be careful!” When I described Gideon (she wanted to hear all the details), she said, “I don’t think long hair’s so bad. It can look quite sexy. Think of A Knight’s Tale. But don’t forget to check out the ears he’s hiding under there.”
“They don’t make any difference. He’s a conceited jerk, and anyway he’s in love with Charlotte. Did you get that bit about the philosopher’s stone down?”
“Yes, I’ve made notes of it all. As soon as I’m home I’ll go online. This Count Saint-Germain—why does the name seem so familiar to me? Could it be from a film? No, I’m thinking of the Count of Monte Cristo.”
“Suppose he really can read thoughts?”
“Just think of something harmless. Or count backward from a thousand. In steps of eight at a time. Then you won’t be able to think of anything else.”
“I’ll try. Oh, see if you can find out anything about a little boy called Robert White who drowned in a swimming pool eighteen years ago.”
“Okay, I got that,” said Lesley. “Wow, this is weird! We should have gotten you a knife or pepper spray or something.… I know! You can take your mobile with you.”
I tripped my way over to the door in my long, full dress and peered cautiously out into the passage. “What, into the past? Do you think I’ll be able to call you from there?”
“Don’t be silly! But you can take photos—they’d be a help to us. Oh, and I’d just love to see one of your Gideon! With his ears showing, if possible. Ears tell you a lot about a person. Especially the earlobes.”
I could hear footsteps. I quietly closed the door. “Here we go. I’ll be in touch later, Lesley!”
“Just be careful,” said Lesley yet again, but then I closed my phone and slipped it into my décolletage. The little space under my breasts was just the right size for a mobile. I wondered what ladies in the old days used to keep in there. Little bottles of poison? Miniature revolvers? Love letters?
The first thing that went through my head when Gideon came into the room was, why doesn’t he have to wear a hat? The second thing was, how can anyone look good in a red moiré waistcoat, dark green trousers that cut off at the knee, and striped silk stockings? If I thought anything else, it was probably, I hope to goodness no one can guess what I’m thinking right now.
The green eyes passed swiftly over me. “Nice hat.”
Damn him.
“Lovely,” said Mr. George, coming into the room behind him. “Madame Rossini, you’ve worked wonders.”
“Yes, I know,” said Madame Rossini. She had stayed out in the corridor. The sewing room wasn’t big enough for all of us. My skirt took up half the space on its own.
Gideon had tied his hair at the back of his neck, and I saw my chance to get my own back. “Nice velvet bow,” I said with all the sarcasm I could summon up. “Mrs. Counter, our geography teacher, always wears exactly the same thing.”
Instead of looking angrily at me, Gideon grinned. “Oh, the bow is nothing special. You should see me in a wig.”
Strictly speaking, I already had.
“Monsieur Gideon, I ’ad put out zose lemon-yellow breeches for you, not ze dark ones.” When Madame Rossini was annoyed her accent was stronger, and she forgot how to say an h or th now and then.
Gideon turned to Madame Rossini. “Yellow breeches with a red waistcoat and a brown coat with gold buttons? I thought it was just too many bright colors.”
“Men of ze Rococo period liked colors.” Madame Rossini looked at him severely. “And I am ze expert here, not you!”
“Yes, Madame Rossini,” said Gideon politely. “I’ll listen to you next time.”
I looked at his ears. They didn’t stick out at all, and there was nothing else odd about them. Of course I didn’t really care.
“Where are ze yellow chamois leather gloves?”
“Oh, I thought if I wasn’t going to wear the breeches, I’d better steer clear of the gloves as well.”
“Of course!” Madame Rossini huffed. “With respect to your sense of fashion, young man, we’re not talking good taste here, we’re talking authenticity. And I took care to pick colors that would suit your complexion, you ungrateful boy.”
Grumbling, she let us go past her.
“Thank you very, very much, Madame Rossini,” I said.
“Ah, my little swan-necked beauty! It was a pleasure! At least you appreciate my work.” I had to grin. I liked the idea of being swan-necked.
Mr. George’s eyes twinkled at me. “If you’ll follow me, please, Miss Gwyneth.”
“We have to blindfold her first,” said Gideon, about to take my hat off my head.
“Dear me, yes. I’m afraid Dr. White insists on it,” said Mr. George, with an apologetic smile.
“But it will ruin her ’airstyle!” Madame Rossini snatched Gideon’s fingers away. “Tiens! Do you want to pull ’er ’air off ’er ’ead? Never ’eard of a ’atpin? There!” She firmly planted the hat and hatpin in Mr. George’s hands. “And carry that ’at carefully!”
Gideon tied a black scarf around my eyes. I automatically held my breath as his hand touched my cheek, and unfortunately I couldn’t keep myself from blushing. But luckily he couldn’t see that because he was standing behind me.
“Ow!” I said. He’d caught a few of my hairs in the knot.
“Sorry. Can you still see anything?”
“No.” There was nothing but darkness before my eyes. “Why can’t I see where we’re going?”
“You’re not allowed to know exactly where the chronograph is kept,” said Gideon. He put one hand on my back and propelled me forward. It was an odd feeling, walking along unable to see my way, and Gideon’s hand on my back made it worse. “An unnecessary precaution, if you ask me,” he said. “This house is a labyrinth. You’d never find your way back to the room. And Mr. George thinks you’re beyond any suspicion of treachery anyway.”
That was nice of Mr. George, even if I didn’t know exactly what it meant.
My shoulder collided with some hard object. “Ow!”
“Hold her hand, Gideon, you stupid oaf,” said Mr. George, sounding rather annoyed. “She’s not a supermarket trolley.”
I felt a warm, dry hand closing round mine and jumped nervously.
“It’s okay,” said Gideon. “Only me. We go down a couple of steps now. Watch out.”
For a while we went on in silence, side by side, sometimes straight ahead, then down some stairs or around a corner, and I concentrated as hard as I could on not letting my hand shake. Or sweat. I didn’t want Gideon thinking he made me feel awkward. Did he notice how fast my pulse was pounding?
Then my right foot suddenly met nothing, and I stumbled and would have fallen over completely if Gideon hadn’t caught me with both his hands and put me back on solid ground. Now his hands were around my waist.
“Careful, there’s a step here,” he said.
“Yes, thanks. I noticed when my ankle turned over,” I said indignantly.
“For heaven’s sake, Gideon, do be careful,” said Mr. George. “Here, you carry the hat, and I’ll help Gwyneth.”
It was easier to walk along holding Mr. George’s hand. Maybe because I could concentrate more on the steps I was taking than on not letting my hand shake. Our walk lasted half an eternity. Yet again I had a feeling we were going down into the depths of the earth. When we finally stopped, I suspected they’d taken me on a couple of long detours just to confuse me.
A door was opened and closed again, and at last Mr. George took my blindfold off.
“Here we are.”
“Exquisite as a young May morning,” said Dr. White. But he was talking to Gideon.
