“That makes no sense!” Oxford said, sounding baffled. Lovelace peered over her shoulder at him, allowing Monterey the appropriate amount of scritching access to her ears. “Events don’t make time travel easier,” Oxford went on. “That’s what makes them Events.”
“You’re going to have to forget everything you know about time travel,” Cressida informed him. She popped back into the cupboard, closing the door behind her bustle.
“Wait!” yelped Fenella, flinging the door open immediately. “Huh,” she added, tapping on the back of the clearly empty cupboard. “Where did she go? Is this a secret passage?”
“We should pretend it’s a secret passage for the sake of our sanity,” Monterey said, shifting his scritching of Lovelace’s ears to that tricky spot on the arch of her spine.
Oxford looked more rattled than usual. He was probably missing his cat. “If it was possible to get inside Events,” he muttered to himself. “Why would no one tell me?”
“Perhaps no one knows,” Lovelace said coldly.
She’d never been a fan of Oxford. She knew Monterey considered him as some sort of honorary sibling, but she could never fully trust a person who had been chosen by Nero, the most slippery and self-involved of cats.
Fenella perched on the arm of Oxford’s chair, patting his arm as if he was a cat needing to be soothed. “Are we the only ones who made it through the hop?” she asked.
“Hard to be sure,” said Monterey. “There was a bit of a mess, obviously. Remember the flames and the screaming? Nero was supposed to be here with Oxford. Lovelace and I were supposed to be together. And you, Fen-my-love, were not supposed to be here at all.”
“Thanks,” Fenella said sourly. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”
“Hmm,” said Monterey. “The fact that you said that out loud makes me wonder if you are in fact the devious mastermind behind it all. It’s the quiet ones you have to watch.”
“Ruthven and Boswell,” Oxford said in a low voice. “They were already through the hoop when everything went wrong. We haven’t seen them.”
“We didn’t spot them in 1964 either,” said Lovelace. “I suppose we have to wait for Cressida to tell us what’s going on. Assuming she is Cressida.”
“That is most definitely Cressida,” said Monterey. “I’ve never met someone so Cressida as that woman in that cupboard.”
They all stared at the closed cupboard door.
“Was she always this annoying?” Oxford wondered.
“I’d forgotten that side of her, what with being so upset about her being tragically lost for seven years,” remarked Fenella. “But she hasn’t changed much. Except for the bustle. That is an extraordinarily anachronistic bustle. I find it personally insulting to the Costume Department.”
The cupboard door opened again.
“Right,” said Cressida, squeezing through in her obnoxious bustle. “It’s going to save time if you trust that I know more than you about what’s going on around here.”
“Where’s here?” asked Monterey. “Apart from the smoking room that murdered Sherlock Holmes.”
“Fenthorp Manor, 1899,” Cressida informed him.
“But 1899 is an Event…” Monterey paused. “No, I’ve got the hang of it now. We’re inside an Event. Everything we know is wrong.” He scratched Lovelace behind her ears again, showing the proper priority. “Carry on.”
“Good,” said Cressida. “Please save your questions to the end. I need to collect something very important that I left in 912.”
“Let’s just stroll there, shall we,” Oxford muttered under his breath.
Monterey patted his arm. “I’ll explain it to you later.”
“Can you do it without being insufferably smug?”
“You’d find that even more confusing.” Monterey continued to scratch Lovelace’s ears, proving himself to be the best of all possible humans.
“What about the version of you that we left in 1964?” Lovelace asked, pushing down the purr that threatened to take over her whole being.
Cressida didn’t seem bothered. “Useless. Scattered.”2
“Why are there two of you?” complained Fenella.
“Questions at the end, Fen.”
“Later meaning after we’ve visited 912,” said Monterey, carefully formatting it as a statement, not a question.
“Yes.” Cressida looked relieved. “912 should be safe for a while.”
“And we can just stroll there, can we?” He gave Oxford a look that was almost apologetic.
“Absolutely,” said Cressida. “Hope you’re all wearing comfortable shoes.”
“You’re going have to explain things in more depth soon,” Oxford said sternly. “And by more depth, I mean, at all.”
“I will, I promise,” said Cressida. “But I need to get you all out of this house before dinner time. I just checked the date on the downstairs calendar and it turns out this particular day in Fenthorp Manor, 1899, is about to become rather busy. I was aiming for April, but got a bit turned around in the time aisle.”
“Why?” said Oxford. “What happens at dinner time?”
“What’s a time aisle?” Fenella interrupted.
Lovelace dug her claws into Monterey’s leg. He pressed his hand firmly against her spine. Don’t freak out. At least we’re together.
