Gideon sighed and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. “The count and I did have a few conversations about … well, the things men do talk about. His view is—and please remember, the man lived over two hundred years ago, so we might take that into account—his view was that women are ruled solely by their emotions, whereas men let reason guide them. So it would be better for me if my female partner in time travel were in love with me, and then I could control what she did if there was any difficulty. I thought—”
“You thought!” I interrupted him angrily. “You thought: right, so I’ll see about getting that to work as well!”
Gideon unwound his long legs, stood up, and began pacing up and down the room. For some reason or other, he suddenly looked upset. “Gwyneth, I didn’t make you do anything, did I? In fact, I’ve often been pretty lousy to you.”
I stared at him, speechless for a moment. “And I’m supposed to be grateful to you for that, am I?”
“Of course not,” he said. “Or rather, yes.”
“What does that mean?”
His eyes flashed at me. “Why do girls fancy guys who treat them badly? Obviously nice types aren’t half so interesting. That sometimes makes it difficult to preserve your respect for girls.” He was still prowling up and down the room, with long, almost angry strides. “Especially as boys with jug ears and spots don’t take liberties nearly so often.”
“You’re just so cynical and superficial.” I was totally baffled by the turn this conversation had suddenly taken.
Gideon shrugged his shoulders. “Who’s being superficial here, I wonder? Or would you have let Marley kiss you?”
For a moment, I was genuinely put off my stroke. Maybe there was a tiny, very tiny grain of truth in what he said.… But then I shook my head. “You’ve forgotten something in your impressive chain of reasoning. In spite of your spot-free appearance—oh, and congratulations on your healthy sense of self-confidence—I wouldn’t have let you kiss me if you hadn’t lied to me and pretended to have real feelings for me.” All of a sudden, tears shot into my eyes. But I went on, even though my voice was unsteady. “I wouldn’t … wouldn’t have fallen in love with you.” Or even if I had, I wouldn’t have let it show.
Gideon turned away from me. For a moment, he stood there motionless, then he suddenly kicked the wall with all his might. “Damn it, Gwyneth, have you been so scrupulous about the truth with me? You lied to me whenever you could, isn’t that more like it?”
As I was looking for an answer—he really was an expert at turning the tables—the familiar old dizzy sensation came over me, and this time it made me sick to my stomach. Horrified, I clutched Anna Karenina to my breast. It was probably too late to pack up the basket.
I just had time to hear Gideon say, “Okay, so you let me kiss you, but you never trusted me.” I didn’t catch the rest, because next moment I landed in the present, and I had to concentrate on not throwing up in front of Mr. Marley’s feet.
When I finally had my stomach under control again, Gideon had traveled back too. He was leaning against the wall. All the anger had left his face, and it wore a melancholy smile. “I’d really like to join in one of your poker games someday,” he said. “I’m rather good at bluffing.” Then he left the room without once looking back.
25 June 1542. Still at the convent of S., investigating the case of young Elisabetta, who, according to her own father, is with child by a demon. In my report to the head of the Congregation, I did not conceal my suspicion that M. is inclined to entertain religious ideas of transfiguration—to put it kindly—and feels that he is called by the Lord God to root out evil from the world. He would clearly rather accuse his daughter of witchcraft than accept the fact that she does not comply with his concept of morality. I have mentioned above his good relations with R.M., and his influence in this region is considerable, so we cannot yet consider the case closed. The interrogation of the witnesses was grotesque. Two of Elisabetta’s young fellow pupils confirmed what the conte said about the appearance of a demon in the convent garden. Little Sofia—who had no credible story to explain why, purely by chance, she happened to be hiding behind a bush in the garden at midnight—described a giant with horns, burning eyes, and cloven hooves, who, curiously enough, played Elisabetta a serenade on a violin before committing the sin of unchastity with her. The other girl witness, a close friend of Elisabetta, made an impression of being far more sensible. She spoke of a well-dressed and very tall young man, who beguiled Elisabetta with fair words. He would appear from nowhere and could then dissolve into thin air again, although she herself had not seen him do it. For her own part, Elisabetta told me that the young man who so cleverly made his way into the convent walls had neither horns nor cloven hooves, but was descended from a well-respected family and that she even knew his name. I was already feeling glad that I could bring the matter to a satisfactory conclusion when she added that, unfortunately, she could not tell me of any way to get in touch with him, since he had flown through the air to her from the future, to be precise, from the year of Our Lord 1723. You may imagine my desperation with regard to the state of mind of the persons surrounding me. I hope very much that the head of the Congregation will soon recall me to Florence, where genuine cases worthy of investigation await me.
FROM THE RECORDS OF THE INQUISITION, AS DRAWN UP BY FATHER GIAN PETRO BARIBI
OF THE DOMINICAN ORDER
ARCHIVES OF THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY, PADUA
(DECIPHERED, TRANSLATED, AND EDITED BY DR. M. GIORDANO)
EIGHT
SHIMMERING BIRDS of paradise, leaves, and flowers in shades of blue and silver twined their way over the brocade bodice, and the sleeves and skirt were made of heavy, midnight blue silk that rustled at every step, swishing with a sound like the sea on a stormy day. I realized that anyone would have looked like a princess in that dress, but all the same, I was amazed by the sight of my own reflection in the mirror.
“It’s … it’s incredibly lovely!” I whispered in awe.
Xemerius snorted. He was sitting beside the sewing machine on a leftover scrap of brocade, picking his nose. “Girls!” he said. “First they do all they can to get out of going to a ball, and as soon as they have some silly old outfit like this to wear, they practically wet themselves with excitement.”
I ignored him and turned to the creator of this masterpiece. “But the other dress was perfect too, Madame Rossini.”
“Yes, I know.” She was smiling broadly. “You can ’ave it on another time.”
“Madame Rossini, you’re an artist!” I assured her fervently.
“Oui, n’est-ce pas?” She winked at me. “And as an artist, you ’ave to look at zings a leetle bit differently. Ze other dress was too pale for ze white wig—you ’ave a complexion zat cries out for strong … comment on dit? Contrasts!”
“Oh, my goodness, yes, the wig.” I sighed. “It’s going to ruin the whole effect. Could you take a quick picture of me first, please?”
“Bien sur.” Madame Rossini moved me to a stool at the dressing table and took my mobile when I held it out to her.
Xemerius unfolded his wings, flew over to me, and made a rather clumsy landing right in front of the china head with the wig on it.
“I suppose you know what usually lives in a wig like this, do you?” He put his head back and looked up at the towering white-powdered heap of imitation hair. “Crab lice, certainly. Probably moths as well. Maybe even worse.” He raised his paws in a theatrical gesture. “All I’ll say is TARANTULA.”
I bit back a sharp reply—I’d been about to tell him that urban legends were old hat these days—and yawned ostentatiously.
Xemerius put his claws on his sides. “It’s true,” he said. “And there’s more than just spiders for you to beware of. There are certain counts to watch out for too. In case you’d forgotten that fact in your enthusiasm for this costume.”
Unfortunately he was right. But today, well again and declared fit to go to the ball even by the Guardians, all I wanted was to think positively. And where could that be done more easily than in Madame Rossini’s studio?
I looked sternly at Xemerius and then let my eyes wander over all the dresses hanging side by side on clothes rails. Each was more beautiful than the last.
“I don’t suppose you happen to have anything green?” I asked wistfully. I had remembered Cynthia’s party and Lesley’s idea for us to go as little green men from Mars. “We’ll only need green garbage bags, a few pipe cleaners, some empty cans, and a few polystyrene foam balls,” she had said. “With a stapler and a hot-melt glue gun, we can turn ourselves into really cool Martians in no time. Kind of live works of modern art, and it won’t cost us a penny.”
“Green? Mais oui, said Madame Rossini. “When everyone still thought zat red-’eaded clothes ’anger would travel to ze past, I used many shades of green. It ’armonized perfectly with red ’air, and of course with zat bad boy’s green eyes.”
“Uh-oh!” said Xemerius, threatening her with one paw. “Keep off, lady. This is dangerous ground!”
He was right there. Zat bad boy—the bastard!—was definitely not on the list of positive things that I wanted to think about. (But if Gideon really was going to turn up at the party with Charlotte, I would most certainly not be wearing a garbage bag, whatever Lesley said about cool modern art.)
Madame Rossini brushed my long hair and fixed it on top of my head with a scrunchie. “By ze way, ’e will be wearing green zis evening, a dark sea green. I ’ave spent hours choosing ze fabric so zat your colors will not clash. In ze end, I looked at it all by candlelight. Absolument onirique. Togezzer you will look like ze sea king and ze sea queen.”
“Abso-loo-mont!” crowed Xemerius. “And if you don’t both end up dead, you’ll have lots of little sea princes and princesses together!”
I sighed. He’d have done better to stay at home keeping an eye on Charlotte. But he’d insisted on coming to the Temple with me, and that was rather sweet of him too. Xemerius knew how scared I was of the ball.
As Madame Rossini divided my hair into three strands and plaited them in a braid, which she then gathered into a bun, fixing it in place with hairpins, she was frowning with concentration. “Green, you said? Let me zink. We ’ad a riding ’abit of ze late eighteenth century, green velvet, and zere was—ah, yes, just ze thing!—an evening ensemble of 1922, eau-de-nil silk with a ’at to match and a coat and a ’andbag, très chic. And I ’ave copied several dresses by Balenciaga zat Grace Kelly wore in ze sixties. But ze best of all is a ball dress ze color of rose leaves. It would really suit you.”
She carefully picked up the wig. Snow white and decorated with blue ribbons and brocade flowers, it reminded me slightly of a wedding cake with several tiers. It even gave off a fragrance of vanilla and orange. Madame Rossini skillfully put the wedding cake over the bird’s nest of hair on top of my head, and when I next looked in the mirror, I hardly knew myself.