Ruby Red: Edelstein Trilogie 01 (19 page)

“Performed a trick!”
cried the count. “Oh, my dear sir, what a doubting Thomas you are. I would long ago have lost patience with you had I not been aware of my obligations to your father, God rest his soul. Or had my interest in your money and your influence not been so great.”

Lord Brompton laughed a little uncomfortably. “Well, you are honest, to be sure.”

“Alchemy can’t manage without its patrons.” The count swung around to Rakoczy. “We must show his lordship a few of our
tricks.
He’s one of those who believe only the evidence of their own eyes. But first I must have a private word with my great-grandson here and write a letter to the future Grand Master of our Lodge.”

“You’re welcome to make use of the study next door,” said his lordship, pointing to a door behind him. “And I look forward with great excitement to a performance.”

“Come along, my boy.” The count took Gideon’s arm. “There are some questions that I must ask you. And some things that you should know.”

“We have only half an hour left,” said Gideon, looking at the pocket watch fastened to his waistcoat with a gold chain. “By then, at the latest, we must set off back to the Temple.”

“Half an hour will be quite sufficient,” said the count. “I write fast, and I can talk at the same time.”

Gideon laughed briefly. He actually seemed to think the count witty, and he had obviously forgotten that I was still there too.

I cleared my throat. Halfway to the door, he turned to look at me and raised an eyebrow inquiringly.

I answered his question just as silently, because I could hardly say it out loud.
For goodness’ sake don’t leave me alone with these weirdos.

Gideon hesitated.

“She would only be in the way,” said the count.

“Wait for me here,” said Gideon, in an unexpectedly gentle tone of voice.

“His lordship and Miro will keep her company,” said the count. “Gentlemen, you could ask her a few questions about the future. This is a unique opportunity. She comes from the twenty-first century—ask her about the automatic trains that race along underground in London. Or the silver flying machines that rise miles up in the air with a sound like the roar of a thousand lions and can cross the sea.”

Lord Brompton laughed so much that I felt seriously worried about his chair. All his rolls of fat were quivering. “Anything else?”

No way did I want to be left alone with him and Rakoczy. But Gideon just smiled, although I gave him a pleading glance.

“I’ll be right back,” he said.

Today Black Tourmaline, Paul de Villiers, came from the year 1992, as agreed, to elapse in the documents room here. But this time he was accompanied by a red-haired girl who gave her name as Lucy Montrose, saying that she was the granddaughter of our adept Lucas Montrose. She bore, in every respect, an unfortunate similarity to Arista Bishop (Jade line, observation number 4).

We took them both to Lucas’s office. It is now clear to us all that Lucas is presumably going to propose marriage to Arista and not, as we had hoped would be the case, to Claudine Seymour. (Although it has to be admitted that Arista has better legs, and a really good backhand at tennis.)

How very strange for a man to be visited by his grandchild before he has any children of his own.

F
ROM
T
HE
A
NNALS OF THE
G
UARDIANS

12 J
UNE
1948

R
EPORT
: K
ENNETH DE
V
ILLIERS
, I
NNER
C
IRCLE

TWELVE

AS THE DOOR CLOSED
behind Gideon and the count, I stepped back.

“Do, pray, be seated,” said Lord Brompton, indicating one of the delicate chairs. Rakoczy’s lips twisted. Was that meant to be a smile? If so, he needed to give it more practice in front of the mirror.

“No, thank you. I’d rather stand.” Another step back, until I almost collided with a naked stone Cupid standing on a plinth to the right of the doorway. The more distance I could put between myself and those black eyes, the safer I felt.

“And you really claim to come from the twenty-first century?”

There was no
claiming
about it. But I nodded.

Lord Brompton rubbed his hands. “Well, then—what king rules England in the twenty-first century?”

“We have a prime minister who does the actual ruling,” I said, faltering slightly. “The Queen just looks after the big state occasions.”

“Queen?”

“Queen Elizabeth II. She’s lovely. She came to our multiethnic schools party last year. We sang the national anthem in seven different languages and Gordon Gelderman got her autograph in his English textbook and sold it for eighty pounds on eBay. But, er, of course that won’t mean anything much to you. So anyway, we have a prime minister and a cabinet, and everyone eighteen and over in the country votes for members of Parliament.”

Lord Brompton laughed appreciatively. “What a quaint idea, don’t you think, Rakoczy? Our friend the count invents the most amusing stories. And how do matters stand with France in the twenty-first century?”

“I think they have a prime minister in France too. No king, not even for state occasions. Well, they got rid of the aristocracy in the French Revolution, you see, and the king along with him. Poor Marie-Antoinette had her head chopped off by the guillotine. Isn’t that terrible?”

“Oh, yes, surely!” laughed his lordship. “Terrible folk, the French. We Englishmen can never get along with them. So now, do tell me: what country are we at war with in the twenty-first century?”

“Well, no country,” I said, rather unsure of my ground here. “Not really, anyway. We just send troops here and there to help out. In the Middle East and so on. But to be honest, I don’t know a lot about politics. Why not ask me something about … about refrigerators? Not how they work—I don’t know how they work, really. I just know they
do
work, and every home in London has a fridge, and you can keep cheese and milk in it for days, and they don’t go bad.”

Lord Brompton did not look as if he was particularly interested in fridges either. Rakoczy stretched in his chair like a cat. I hoped he wouldn’t think it was a good idea to stand up.

“Or you can ask me about telephones,” I added quickly. “Not that I can explain how they work either.” If I’d sized up Lord Brompton accurately, telephones were something else he wouldn’t understand. To be honest, he didn’t look as if he could take in even the principle of the incandescent lightbulb. I tried to think of something else that might interest him.

“And then, er … well, then there’s this tunnel running underneath the English Channel between Dover and Calais.”

This seemed to be the funniest thing Lord Brompton had ever heard. He slapped his huge thigh as he shook with laughter. “Wonderful! Wonderful!”

I was just beginning to relax a little when Rakoczy spoke—in English with a harsh accent. “And Transylvania?”

“Transylvania?” The home of Count Dracula? Did he mean it seriously? I avoided looking into those black eyes. Maybe he
was
Count Dracula. His pale complexion would suit the part, anyway.

“My native land in the beautiful Carpathians. The principality of Transylvania. What is happening in Transylvania in the twenty-first century?” His voice sounded a little hoarse, and there was definitely a note of nostalgia in it. “And what has become of the Kuruc people?”

The what people? Kuruc? I’d never heard of them.

“Er, well, things are pretty quiet in Transylvania in our time,” I said cautiously. To be honest, I didn’t even know where the place was. But I’m sure these Kuruc people really did live there.

“Who rules Transylvania in the twenty-first century?” Rakoczy went on. He looked very much on the alert, as if he might leap up from his chair at any moment if my answer was unsatisfactory.

Hm, yes. Who did rule Transylvania? That was a really good question. Did it belong to Bulgaria? Or Romania? Or Hungary?

“I don’t know,” I said truthfully. “It’s so far away. I’ll have to ask Mrs. Counter—she’s our geography teacher.”

Rakoczy looked disappointed. Maybe I’d have done better to tell a few lies.
Transylvania has been ruled by Prince Dracula for the last two hundred years. It’s a nature reserve for bat species that would otherwise have died out. The Kurucs are the happiest people in Europe.
He’d probably have liked that better.

“And how are our colonies doing in the twenty-first century?” asked Lord Brompton.

To my relief, I saw that Rakoczy was leaning back again. And he didn’t crumble to dust when the sun broke through the clouds and bathed the room in bright, clear light.

For a while we talked in an almost relaxed way about America and Jamaica and some islands that I have to admit I’d never heard of. Lord Brompton seemed very upset to think that all these places now ruled themselves. (Well, I assumed they did. I wasn’t absolutely certain.) Of course he didn’t believe a word I said. Rakoczy took no more part in the conversation. He just looked alternately at his long, clawlike fingernails and the wallpaper, throwing an occasional glance my way.

“How sad to think that you are only an actress,” sighed Lord Brompton. “Such a pity. I would like so much to believe you.”

“Well, in your place I don’t suppose I’d believe me either,” I said understandingly. “I’m afraid I don’t have any proof … oh, wait a minute!” I reached down into my décolletage and brought out my mobile.

“What do you have there? A cigar case?”

“No!” I opened the mobile, and it beeped because it couldn’t find a network. Of course not. “This is … oh, never mind. I can take pictures with it.”

“You mean paint them?”

I shook my head and held the mobile up so that Lord Brompton and Rakoczy appeared on the display. “Smile, please. There, that’s it.” There hadn’t been any flash because the sunlight was so bright, which was a pity. A flash would surely have impressed the pair of them.

“What was that?” Lord Brompton had hauled his massive body out of his chair surprisingly fast, and he came over to me. I showed him the picture on the display. I’d caught him and Rakoczy very well.

“But—what is it? How is that possible?”

“It’s what we call photography,” I said.

Lord Brompton’s fat fingers caressed the mobile. “Wonderful!” he said enthusiastically. “Rakoczy, you must see this!”

“No, thank you,” said Rakoczy wearily.

“How you do it I don’t know, but that’s the best trick I’ve ever seen. Oh, what’s happened now?”

Lesley was on the display. His lordship had pressed one of the keys.

“That’s my friend Lesley,” I said, wishing I could see her in real life. “I took the picture last week. Look, there behind her is Marylebone High Street—her sandwich came from Prêt à Manger—and there’s the Aveda shop, see? It’s where my mum always buys her hair spray.” I suddenly felt terribly homesick. “And there’s part of a taxi. A kind of coach that drives along without any horses—”

“How much would you want for this box of tricks? I’ll pay you any price you ask, any!”

“Er, no, really, it’s not for sale. I still need it.” Shrugging regretfully, I closed my box of tricks—I mean, my mobile—and slipped it back into its hiding place inside my bodice.

Not a moment too soon, because the door opened and the count and Gideon came back, the count smiling with satisfaction, Gideon looking rather grave. Now Rakoczy too rose from his chair.

Gideon glanced at me intently. I looked defiantly back at him. Had he expected me to make off while he was out of the room? It would have served him right. After all, he was the one who’d drummed it into me that I must stick close to him at all times, only to abandon me himself at the first opportunity.

“So, how would you like to live in the twenty-first century, Lord Brompton?” asked the count.

“I should like it very much! What fantastic ideas you do have,” said his lordship, clapping his hands. “It was really most amusing.”

“I knew you’d enjoy it. But you might have offered the poor child a chair.”

“Oh, I most certainly did. But she preferred to stand.” His lordship leaned forward and spoke in confidential tones. “I would
really
like to buy that little silver shrine, my dear count.”

“Silver shrine?”

“We have to leave now, I’m afraid,” said Gideon, crossing the room with a few strides and placing himself beside me.

“I understand, I understand! The twenty-first century awaits you, of course,” said Lord Brompton. “I thank you most warmly for visiting me. It was wonderfully entertaining.”

“I can only agree with you,” said the count.

“I hope we shall have the pleasure of meeting again,” said Lord Brompton.

Rakoczy said nothing. He just looked at me. And suddenly I felt as if an icy hand had been laid on my throat. I gasped for air, alarmed, and looked down at myself. Nothing to be seen. Yet I felt the fingers closing around my windpipe.

“I can press harder whenever I like.”

It wasn’t Rakoczy saying that—it was the count. But his lips hadn’t moved.

Bewildered, I looked from his mouth to his hand. It was more than four yards away from me. How could it be around my neck at the same time? And why did I hear his voice in my head when he wasn’t speaking?

“I don’t know exactly what part you are playing, girl, or whether you are of any importance. But I will not have my rules broken. I am warning you. Do you understand?” The pressure of his fingers tightened.

I was paralyzed by fear. I could only stare at him, gasping for breath. Didn’t anyone notice what was happening to me?

“I asked if you understood.”

“Yes,” I whispered.

The grip of the count’s fingers slackened at once, the hand was removed. Air could stream freely into my lungs.

The count’s lips curled, and he shook his wrist.

“We shall meet again,” he said.

Gideon bowed. The three men bowed back. I was the only one who stood perfectly still, unable to move at all, until Gideon took my hand and led me out of the room.

*   *   *

EVEN WHEN
we were sitting in the coach again I still felt terribly nervous—weak, exhausted, and dirty in a strange kind of way.

How had the count managed to speak to me without the others hearing? And how had he touched me when he was four yards away? My mother had been right. He
could
get into your mind and control your feelings. I’d let his conceited, erratic way of talking and his frail old appearance mislead me. I had hopelessly underestimated him.

How stupid of me.

In fact I’d underestimated this whole strange story that I’d fallen into.

The coach had started moving and was rocking just as much as it had on the outward journey. Gideon had told the Guardian in the yellow coat to hurry. As if he needed to! The Guardian had been driving like a man who was tired of life even on the way to Lord Brompton’s house.

“Are you all right? You look as if you’d seen a ghost.” Gideon took off his coat and put it on the seat beside him. “Quite hot for September here.”

“Not a ghost,” I said, unable to look him in the eye. My voice shook slightly. “Only Count Saint-Germain and one of his
tricks
.”

“He wasn’t particularly civil to you,” Gideon admitted. “But that was only to be expected. He obviously had other ideas of what you should be like.”

When I said nothing, he went on. “In the prophesies, the twelfth time traveler is always described as rather special.
Ruby red, with G major, the magic of the raven.
Whatever that may be. Anyway, the count didn’t want to believe me when I said you were just an ordinary schoolgirl.”

Curiously enough, this comment immediately disposed of the weak, wretched feeling that the count’s phantom touch had set off. Instead of weariness and fear, I felt a strong sense of injured pride. And fury. I bit my lip.

“Gwyneth?”

“What?”

“I didn’t mean to insult you. I wasn’t putting you down—I just meant you were an
average
girl, understand?”

Oh, wonderful. It got better and better.

“Perfectly,” I said, glaring at him. “I couldn’t care less what you think of me.”

He looked at me calmly. “You can’t help it.”

“You don’t know anything at all about me!” I said indignantly.

“Maybe not,” said Gideon. “But I know lots of girls like you. They’re all the same.”