“You’re not even going,” said Ruthven. How dare Tunbridge speak aloud the very thoughts that had been rattling around in his head for the last few hours.
“That’s not the point,” said Tunbridge. “I’m aiding and abetting. Malice aforethought. I’m an accomplice.”
“My dear Lakshmi, you do worry so,” said Ptolemy. It was adorable that such a bundle-of-nerves human had been matched with a cat who was all chill, all the time. “I have it on good authority that this adventure is not technically against any rules. Chronos College does not have any rules. Nor does time travel.”
“You always say that, Ptol, and we always get into trouble.”
“Not real trouble.”
“Being glared at by Melusine of Admin counts as real trouble. Her eyebrows are stabby!”
“You worry too much about what people think of you,” Ptolemy sighed.
“You don’t worry enough,” retorted Tunbridge.
“I always thought it was strange, the whole ‘no rules’ thing,” said Ruthven, still caught on the ‘no rules’ bomb that Ptolemy had dropped on them. “Considering how many human resources workshops on the subject of responsibility that we’ve all been forced to attend.”
Now he came to think of it, the human resources workshops were often rather soft in their language. Words were thrown around like ‘preferred behaviour’ and ‘optimum outcomes.’ Ruthven usually tuned out in the first ten minutes, so as to spend the time updating cast and crew bios on the Cramberpedia he’d been working on.
“That’s what I’ve been saying for years,” muttered Tunbridge.
“As the only person in this conversation who has read the entire Chronos College charter back to front, and a witness to many, many admin meetings on this exact topic,” said Ptolemy in a self-satisfied purr. “I can assure you, it is trrrue.”2
Tunbridge looked annoyed. Clearly this had been a bone of contention between them for some time. “Melusine made me fill in three different written reports last time I came back from the Middle Ages, because I couldn’t account for one of my socks. Are you saying I didn’t have to do that?”
“I mean,” said Ptolemy lightly. “It’s polite to do something when another person asks. Unless you don’t want to. In which case, don’t do it.”
“That’s so cat of you,” she sighed. “Humans like rules.”
“Do they really?” said Ptolemy, licking his paws. “That statement does not bear much examination, my dear.”
“I like rules,” Tunbridge muttered.
“We don’t have rules in Control,” volunteered Quant. “But we’re close to finalising some official guidelines.”
“We learned a lot about what not to do with time hoops during the Summer of Experimentation,” agreed Khan gravely. “Learning experiences all around. Especially for that one bloke whose leg ended up permanently lodged in last Tuesday.”
“Which last Tuesday?” asked Tunbridge.
“Good question. No matter where you are, there’s always a last Tuesday, and that bloke’s leg seems to be in all of them. Not at the same time, of course. That would be weird.”
“It’s weird regardless,” said Ruthven.
“We thought so, too. But after we’d all visited it and poked at it and written elaborate journal articles about it, we accepted it as normal.”
“Anyway,” said Quant, interrupting their partner. “I double-checked our contracts. There is literally nothing to say we shouldn’t help you lot stage an unsanctioned multi-team time drop without filling in the required paperwork first.”
“Told you so,” sang Ptolemy.
“I’m not mad, I’m disappointed,” said Tunbridge.
Quant grinned at her. “I’m not saying we won’t get into trouble. Just that, technically, we’re doing nothing wrong.”
“So many good decisions have started out with a sentence much like that one,” said a deep, sarcastic voice as Professor Boswell padded gently out of the darkness. “Laddie,” he greeted Ruthven politely, as they headed through the archway into the Staff Only rose garden, where the team had agreed to meet at midnight.
“I am twenty-six years old,” Ruthven muttered.
Boswell ignored his complaint. “Ready for the trip, young man? Nice threads,” he added.
Ruthven glanced down at himself. He was still considering how he felt about Fenella deciding that he was a grey turtleneck jumper under a blazer sort of chap.3
The rose garden was not the largest of spaces on campus, but it was in the open air, and a reasonable distance from any security camera coverage, which made it the ideal spot.
Quant and Khan worked away, setting up the hoops. Tunbridge and Ptolemy continued to bicker comfortably with each other. Ruthven stood at an awkward distance from Professor Boswell, trying not to think about Aesop, his own cat. His real cat.
He could imagine her up there on that wall, swishing her tail at Boswell and yawning. “What a stick in the mud. Let’s ditch these nerds, Ruthven. I’ve got a taste for the sardine markets in Pompeii.”
Time travel used to be so much fun. Tonight, he felt a sick sort of dread lodged low in his stomach.
The rest of the crew for the secret mission drifted along while Control worked on the set up: Monterey, still in his shirt sleeves, talking a mile a minute. Lovelace, perfectly groomed as always. Nero, already shedding bucketloads over Oxford’s brand new outfit.
Fenella rolled in last, still working on the swinging coat for Monterey that was apparently essential to his look. She sat on a decorative boulder to finish up the last buttonhole while the hoops were checked and double checked by Control.
Oxford strolled over to Ruthven. He wore a turtleneck too, but in a light olive green colour, and without the blazer, which was probably for the best. Put too many tailored garments on Oxford, and people started swooning. Inconvenient.
“All ready, are we?” he asked Ruthven, looking unusually jittery. “No stage fright? It’s just like riding a bicycle, I imagine.”4
“I’m fine,” said Ruthven, studying Oxford. He’d never seen him nervous before a hop before. “Are you all right?”
