Lovelace did not know whether to scream or ask for an autograph as she stared at the beautiful actress who had disturbed their conversation.
She had spent so many hours watching Lady Ann Wildegreen in the early black and white episodes of Cramberleigh — those that had been recovered, at least. She had also watched a variety of films and other pieces of media ephemera featuring Fleur Shropshire, mostly at Monterey’s behest.
(The two of them once spent an entire day eating tiny salmon sandwiches while watching half a season of Silver Sails. They’d only meant to watch the Fleur Shropshire episodes but somehow ended up consuming eight episodes in one sitting.)
Even now, it didn’t feel real to see her in person — a small woman, even daintier than Fenella (if that was possible). Miss Shropshire was costumed as Lady Ann: a long Edwardian tea gown and enormous Gibson Girl hat. The only modern touches were her sunglasses and handbag. She was young, so painfully young, like a ghost stepping out of a movie screen.
Lovelace rarely paid attention to the age of humans. But there was something about knowing this one would die fourteen years from now. Seeing her here, in her mid-twenties, was discombobulating.
“Fleur Shropshire,” Fenella said wildly. “I loved you in A Scandal to Remember.”1
Fleur Shropshire, tiny wide-eyed silver screen goddess, smiled sweetly and opened her enormous, bright green Hermes handbag. “You’re a darling,” she said, and pulled out a very small pearl-handled revolver. “But I’m afraid I haven’t made that one yet.”
“Ohh,” said Lovelace slowly. “Damn it.”
It was never a good thing when the locals knew about time travel. It usually meant you were getting close to an…
The wallpaper changed colour, sage green stripes to orange polka dots. For a moment, every portrait on every wall displayed an image of a jewelled pineapple, then Marilyn Monroe, then the Mona Lisa, then a large mug shaped like a sphinx.
“Event!” screeched Lovelace. “Fenella, we have to go.”
“Don’t rush on my account,” said Fleur Shropshire, still somehow appearing sweet and harmless despite the gun. “I want to hear all about which BAFTA Awards ceremonies of the next decade are worth bothering with.”
“I can’t leave Cress,” Fenella said, panicking. “She’s still unconscious.”
The wallpaper now had aeroplanes printed all over it, and the floor was covered in houndstooth black and white carpet instead of the parquet from two minutes ago.
All the fur on Lovelace’s back spiked straight up in the air, as if she needed the physical confirmation that they were in grave danger.
The door under the staircase burst open, and an entirely different Cressida appeared. This one was dressed in the full Victorian nightmare, all corsetry and ruffles, though the colours were unbelievably garish and the sleeves belonged to a later century. “You absolutely can leave her,” she yelled. “Trust me, Fen, she’s the wrong one. Let’s go!”
Lovelace didn’t wait to see what choice Fenella made. She scampered directly at the ankles of this other Cressida, the one that was talking sense.
As Lovelace took shelter underneath the largest and most virulently tie-dyed chartreuse bustle known to history, Fenella flung herself into the cupboard after them.
The door closed.
“This way,” said New Cressida, managing somehow to turn around and make room for the rest of them to follow, despite her enormous behind.
They followed. For some time. The storage space in this manor house was really quite exceptional.
“Cress,” said Fenella in a shaky voice. “Is it really you?”
“It’s me, Fen. Look at you. I can’t believe you graduated already.”
“I can’t believe my favourite twentieth century actress tried to kill us.”
“She wasn’t trying very hard,” Lovelace remarked. “Her handbag to gun ratio was distinctly unimpressive.”
“You weren’t her target,” said Cressida grimly. “She was after 1964 — and she got it.”
Another cupboard door opened, letting them out in a room that seemed like a parody of a Victorian parlour if the only Victorian history you knew was from Sherlock Holmes novels. All it required for the full effect was some chap in a deerstalker, puffing on a pipe. (It smelled like one had been here recently. It also smelled like 1899.)
It took Lovelace, Fenella and Cressida some time to squeeze out of the cupboard, largely because Cressida’s gravity-defying bustle took up the same space as several people.
“Is this still 1964?” asked Fenella.
Lovelace didn’t bother to tell her what year it was, or why they now appeared to be several floors higher in the same house despite having only walked a short distance through a cupboard. She didn’t care about any of that.
She did not care because her human was here.
Montgomery J Monterey, wearing his high necked jumper, lounged in a green leather chair like he was waiting for a butler to bring him his deerstalker hat and pipe.
Oxford was here too, but whatever.
Lovelace leaped. She landed claws out, as was only right and proper, directly on to Monterey’s lap, and biffed him aggressively in the face with her own face, several times.
He let out a low laugh, and scratched her behind the ears. “Hello, darling. Were you worried?”
“You’re not allowed to travel without me,” she informed him. “You get into the most terrible trouble.”
“I’ve been here the whole time, and haven’t caused the least amount of trouble,” he informed her. “How about you, sweetheart?”
This was awkward. “We may have caused an Event in 1964,” she admitted.
Monterey laughed, long and loud. Lovelace didn’t care. He was here, and she was never letting him out of her sight again. She pressed her head to his ribs, and purred.
“A good thing too,” remarked Tie-Dyed Victorian Cressida, who was a lot more useful to have around than her screaming, fainting 1960s Production Assistant Bunty persona. “Or I’d never have been able to get to you.”
