“Maybe.”
“You do? Are you planning to climb a clock tower sometime soon—sit on the clock and dangle your legs?”
“Of course not. But maybe it was a symbol.”
“Maybe,” said Mum. “Or maybe not. Go to sleep now, darling. You’ve had a long day.” She looked at the little clock on her bedside table. “Let’s hope it’s safely behind Charlotte by now. Oh, I do hope she’s finally done it.”
“But maybe Charlotte just has too much imagination as well,” I said. I stood up and gave Mum a kiss.
I’d try again tomorrow.
Maybe.
“Good night.”
“Good night, sweetie. I love you.”
“Love you too, Mum.”
When I’d closed my bedroom door behind me and climbed into bed, I felt guilty. I should have told my mother all about it. But what she said had made me think. Yeah, sure, I did have a big imagination, but daydreaming is one thing. Imagining you’re traveling through time is quite another.
People who imagined that kind of thing got psychiatric treatment. And they should, if you asked me. Maybe I was like those weirdos who claim to have been abducted by aliens. Completely out of my mind.
I switched off my bedside lamp and snuggled down under the duvet. Which was worse? Being crazy or actually traveling back in time?
Probably the second, I thought. Maybe you could take tablets for the first.
In the dark my fears came back. Once again I was wondering how far I would fall from here to the ground floor. So I switched the bedside light on again and turned my face to the wall. Hoping to get to sleep, I tried thinking of something harmless and soothing, but I just couldn’t do it. In the end I counted backward from a thousand.
I must have fallen asleep at some point, because I’d been dreaming of a big bird when I woke and sat up in bed, heart pounding.
There it was again, that horrible dizzy sensation in my stomach. I jumped out of bed in a panic and ran to Mum’s room as fast as my trembling legs would carry me. I didn’t care if she thought I was crazy—I just wanted it to stop. And I did not want to fall three floors down and land in a swamp!
I got no farther than the passage before I was swept off my feet. Convinced that my last hour had come, I squeezed my eyes shut. But I only fell on my knees with a bump, and the floor felt just like the familiar wooden floorboards. Cautiously, I opened my eyes. It was lighter now, as if the sun had risen in the last second. For a moment I hoped that nothing had happened. Then I saw that I had indeed landed in our corridor, but it looked different. The walls were painted dark olive green, and there were no ceiling lights.
I heard voices coming from Nick’s room. Female voices.
I stood up quickly. If anyone saw me now … how was I going to explain where I’d suddenly come from? In my Hello Kitty pajamas.
“I’m so tired of getting up at the crack of dawn,” one voice was saying. “Walter can sleep until nine in the morning. Not us! I should’ve stayed on the farm milking cows.”
“Walter’s on duty half the night, Clarrie. Your cap’s crooked,” said the second voice. “Tuck your hair neatly under it, or Mrs. Mason will be cross.”
“She’s always cross anyway,” grumbled the first voice.
“There are much stricter housekeepers, Clarrie dear. Come on, or we’ll be late. Mary went downstairs fifteen minutes ago.”
“Yes, and she made her bed first. Always busy, always neat, just the way Mrs. Mason likes her housemaids. Mary does it on purpose. Have you felt her blanket? It’s ever so soft. That’s not fair!”
I had to get out of here, fast. But where could I go? Good thing I knew my way around the house.
“I’ve been given a horrid scratchy blanket,” Clarrie’s voice complained.
“You’ll be glad of it in winter. Come along.”
The door handle was pressed down. I raced over to the built-in cupboard, flung the door open, and shut it again after me, just as the door of Nick’s room opened.
“I don’t see why I have to have a scratchy blanket and Mary gets a nice soft one,” Clarrie’s voice went on. “It’s so unfair. Betty can go out into the country with Lady Montrose, and we have to spend all summer in the stuffy city air.”
“You really should try not to complain so much, Clarrie.”
I agreed with the other woman. This girl Clarrie was a real Moaning Minnie.
I heard the two of them go downstairs and breathed a sigh of relief. That was a close one! But now what? Should I just wait in the cupboard until I traveled back again? That was probably the safest thing to do. Sighing, I crossed my arms.
Behind me in the darkness, someone grunted.
I froze with horror. What, for heaven’s sake, was that?
“Is that you, Clarrie?” asked a voice from the shelf where the clean sheets were stacked. It was a male voice. “Did I oversleep?”
Heavens above! Someone actually slept in this cupboard! What a way to treat a person!
“Clarrie? Mary? Who’s that?” asked the voice. Its owner sounded more awake now. There were noises in the cupboard. A hand reached out and touched my back. I wasn’t hanging about, waiting for it to grab hold of me—I opened the cupboard door and ran for it.
“Stop! Stay where you are!”
I looked back over my shoulder. A young man in a long white shirt emerged from the cupboard to catch me.
I ran downstairs. Where on earth was I going to hide now? The footsteps of the man from the cupboard came closer, and he was shouting, “Stop, thief!”
Thief? I couldn’t believe my ears. What was I supposed to have stolen? His nightcap or something?
Luckily I could have run down these stairs even in my sleep. I was already familiar with every single step. I raced down two flights of stairs at the speed of light, and then past Great-great-great-great-great-uncle Hugh’s portrait—leaving it behind on my left with some regret, because the secret door behind it would have been a great way to get out of this stupid situation. But the doorknob always jammed slightly, and in the time I’d have needed to get the door open, the man in the nightshirt would have caught up with me. No, I needed a better place to hide.
On the first floor I almost collided with a housemaid carrying a big jug. She squealed as I raced past, then dropped the jug, just like in a scene from a film. Water splashed to the floor, along with broken china.
I hoped my pursuer would slip and fall on it—like in a farce. He wouldn’t get past the water and broken china too quickly, anyway. I made use of my start on him to run down the steps to the musicians’ gallery, open the door to the little storage space under it, and crouch inside. It was dusty and untidy in here, the same as in my own time, and full of cobwebs. A little light fell in through the gaps between the steps, enough for me to see that at least there wasn’t anyone sleeping in this cupboard. It was crammed with old junk, just like in the twenty-first century.
Above me, I heard loud voices. The man in the nightshirt was talking to the poor housemaid who had dropped the jug.
“The girl must be a thief! I never saw her here in the house before.”
Other voices joined in.
“She ran on down. Maybe there’s a whole pack of them here.”
“Please, Mrs. Mason, I couldn’t help it. The thief just ran into me. I expect they’re after her ladyship’s jewels.”
“I didn’t meet anyone on the stairs, so she must still be here somewhere. Make sure the front door is locked and search the house,” ordered an energetic female voice. “As for you, Walter, go upstairs at once and put something on to cover your hairy legs. Not a nice sight first thing in the morning.”
I could hear my heart pounding in my ears. I’d hidden in here about a million times when I was little, but I’d never been so scared of being found. Cautiously, so as not to make any noise that might give me away, I squeezed farther in among the junk. A spider ran over my arm, such a big one that I almost screeched with fright.
“Lester, Mr. Jenkins, and Tott, you search the ground floor and the cellars. Mary and I will search the first floor. Clarrie, guard the back door, and, Helen, you watch the front door.”
“Suppose she tries getting out through the kitchen?”
“She’d have to get past Mrs. Craine and her iron pans first. Look in the cupboards under the stairs and behind all the curtains.”
I was finished.
Oh, dammit. This was all just so—so surreal!
Here I was sitting in my pajamas in a cupboard, surrounded by fat spiders, dusty furniture, and—oh, my God, was that by any chance a stuffed crocodile?—and waiting to be arrested for theft. And all because Sir Isaac Newton had gotten his stupid sums wrong.
I felt so angry and helpless that I started crying. Maybe these people would feel sorry for me when they found me. The crocodile’s glass eyes sparkled mockingly in the dim light. There were footsteps to be heard all over the house now. Dust from the steps was falling into my eyes.
But then I felt that tugging sensation in my stomach again. I’d never been so glad of it. The crocodile blurred before my eyes, everything spun wildly, and all was quiet again. And pitch-dark.
I heaved a huge sigh. Don’t panic, I thought. Presumably I’d traveled home again. And I was probably now stuck among the junk under these steps in our own time. When the place also had fat spiders in it.
Something soft touched my face. In a panic, I flailed my arms and hauled my legs out from under a chest of drawers. There was a rumbling sound, boards creaked, an old lamp fell over. That’s to say, I thought it was a lamp, but I couldn’t see a thing. I could wriggle out, however. Relieved, I made my way to the cupboard door and crawled out of hiding. It was still dark outside the cupboard as well, but I could just about see the outline of the banisters, the tall windows, the sparkling chandeliers.
And a figure coming toward me. The beam of a flashlight dazzled me.
I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound would come out.
“Were you looking for anything in particular in that cubbyhole, Miss Gwyneth?” asked the figure. It was Mr. Bernard. “I’ll be happy to help you find it.”
“I, er … I…” I still felt breathless. It was the fright I’d had affecting my lungs. “What are you doing down here, Mr. Bernard?”
“I heard a noise,” said Mr. Bernard, with great dignity. “You seem to be a little—well, dusty.”
“Yes.” Dusty, scratched, and tearstained. I stealthily wiped my cheeks.
Mr. Bernard’s owl eyes were examining me in the beam of the flashlight. I looked defiantly back at him. It wasn’t forbidden to get into a cupboard in the middle of the night, was it? And why I should was no business of Mr. Bernard’s.
Did he actually sleep in his glasses?
“It’s another two hours before the alarm clocks go off,” he said at last. “I suggest you spend the time in your bed. I’m going to get a little more rest myself. Good night.”
“Good night, Mr. Bernard,” I said.
Despite a thorough search of the house, it proved impossible to lay hands on the girl thief seen early this morning in the town house of Lord Horatio Montrose (Inner Circle) in Bourdon Place. She probably escaped by climbing out of a window into the garden. The housekeeper, Mrs. Mason, drew up a list of items found to be missing: silver cutlery and valuable jewelry, the property of Lady Montrose, including a necklace given to Lord Montrose’s mother by the Duke of Wellington. Lady Montrose is at present in the country.
