“It’s raining, it’s muddy, and there are Vikings everywhere.”
Cressida had decided on reflection that Vikings up close were less fun than she had imagined.
Except that one turnip seller. She’d liked him, if only because he appreciated the value of a good humorous vegetable. His kids had been rather sweet, too, before they tried to make off with her satchel and learned a very quick lesson in why you don’t piss off a marmalade tabby.
Now Cressida and Boswell were back at the site of their hop. There was no sign of a glowing time hoop anywhere.
“Where are they,” Cressida muttered, jogging on the spot to keep warm, something she was only capable of keeping up for about three minutes. “I’m cold and damp.”
“Serves you right for not being a cat,” remarked her charming partner.
Finally the hoop appeared: a glorious circle of shining light cutting through the grey and muck of Kettlewick, 912.
Cressida let out a “Woo hoo!” as she scooped up Boswell in the hand that was not carrying her souvenir turnip.
“Please refrain from treating me like a handbag,” he said with maximum dignity.
“Wouldn’t want to lose you, Boz.”
They hopped through, as they had a hundred times before.
Cressida knew what to expect: the warm cobblestones of the quad, the artificial sun on her face and the happy babble of returning travellers. The satisfaction of another mission complete, even if this one gave her no opportunity to nick pens from historical celebrities.
Instead, she stumbled into a dusty museum, with empty arms.
Not the Museum of Lost Things at Chronos College. Not anywhere familiar. There were real antiquities in the cases: valuable items, properly labelled. A private collection?
“What the fuck?” Cressida spun around, frantic. “Boswell! Where are you?” She’d lost her cat.
“You’re wasting your breath,” said a low, purring voice.
At first, she could not see anything but glass cabinets of curiosities. Then she followed the gleam of orange light to a burning fireplace, where a black cat warmed himself on the hearth rug.
“What have you done to me?” Cressida demanded. “Where is my cat?”
The black cat glanced at her, conveying maximum disdain. He had a tick of white above one of his eyes.
“You should worry about yourself,” the black cat purred. “Everyone knows that humans are the ones who shouldn’t travel through time on their own. So many rules to time travel. How could anyone possibly keep them all straight?”
“There are no rules,” said Cressida. “I’ve read the charter. There’s just things that work and things that don’t. Trial and error. Basic facts we’d be idiots to ignore. Everything else is experimentation.” She scowled. “I know you, don’t I? Abydos. We trained together for a while.”
“A short while,” said the black cat, Abydos. “I found something more interesting. You will, too.”
Cressida’s eyes narrowed. “Is this a kidnapping, or a job offer?”
The black cat preened, swiping a paw against her ear. “Can’t it be both?”
Cressida frowned. “How much of a choice do I get?”
There was something odd about Abydos’ eyes. One of them was rather more purple than the other, and shiny as if… well, if Cressida didn’t know better, she’d think the cat was wearing a monocle.
“Let’s find out,” said Abydos.
Part Three
Everywhere But 912
Thirty
The Anachronauts Annual Festive Function 1899 always prepare for uninvited guests
Shortly after being discovered by the Anachronauts, Monterey and Oxford were shoved and locked into a pantry.
It was full of polished silverware, because this house was fancy enough to have a whole pantry set aside for shiny things only. Still no prospect of a nice cup of tea on the horizon.
Monterey did not like to think about why he and Oxford might have been separated from their colleagues. Being apart from Lovelace again made him want to punch dents into every punchbowl on the third shelf.
As usual, when under pressure, he reacted by being as annoying as possible to people in his near vicinity. This was bad news for Oxford.
Monterey flopped dramatically against a wall. “I wonder how the Anachronauts dispose of their inconvenient prisoners. Guillotine, do you think? Or, since this is the nineteenth bloody century, will they pull out some delicious green wallpaper for us to lick?”
“Can you just,” said Oxford tiredly. “Shut up. For like, two minutes.”
This felt like a win. Oxford had spent most of his life being far too friendly and genial to tell anyone to shut up. Monterey could only consider this to be a new and improved version.
“Such a waste of a hop to the Victorian era,” Monterey drawled exactly two minutes later. “Cressida’s running around reinventing the bustle, and I never even got a chance to snog a butler. That’s on my bucket list. The Brontes didn’t have one, and Lord Byron… well, his butlers had suffered enough.”
“You are the worst person to be stuck with in a silverware pantry,” moaned Oxford.
