Monterey slid to the ground. “No one ever appreciates my attempts to keep their spirits up.”
“I wonder why.”
Oxford slid down to the ground on the opposite side of the silverware pantry, about two feet away. He looked drained, poor fellow. Monterey should be nicer to him. After all, Oxford had gone through this entire hop without his cat. Monterey never had much time for Nero: snobbish, sarcastic ball of constantly-shedding white fur that he was. Still, Oxford was probably missing him.
It is a peculiar fact that Monterey deciding to be nice to a person is fairly indistinguishable from Monterey being as annoying as possible.
“Oh, by all means,” he drawled. “Snatch the duty of making conversation from my tragically tea-deprived hands. Why don’t you fill the hours lamenting to me about your failed five-year plan to seduce that Media Archives hobgoblin who is clearly already in love with you. I promise to be attentive and sympathetic.”
“I don’t — Ruthven’s not a hobgoblin,” muttered Oxford.
“Doesn’t get out much, though, does he?” teased Monterey.
“He’s… lovely. And you’re an arse. And I don’t have a five-year plan.”
“I know, darling,” Monterey said in what he intended to be a soothing voice. “No one thinks you’re planning to move that fast.”
There was silence for about a minute, which was long and awkward enough for Monterey to wish he could flay his own skin off.
“You don’t think we’re going to be in here for hours do you?” Oxford asked plaintively.
“Who can say? I hope Lovelace is having a better time than us.”
Lovelace was not having a good time. During her career as a traveller, she had been abducted, kidnapped, incarcerated and generally detained a grand total of 22 separate occasions, mostly in the company of Monterey. The two of them had invented their own rating system for prison cells. They had a series of entertaining word games to play when stuck in a room together with nothing to do but wait for the escape plan to kick in.
Being together made it easier. As long as Monterey was not deprived of tea for too long, which usually led to Lovelace wanting to scratch his ankles.
This part was familiar, at least. Having been arrested, Lovelace now found herself forced to wait about on an uncomfortable chair while her human companions changed their outfits.1
“What a ridiculous waste of time,” Cressida huffed, leaning against the door of the dressing room in which they had been deposited by Zephyr and Abydos. “I already look dinner-party-ready. A tie-dyed crinoline isn’t business casual.”
“As the person who accidentally time travelled in their pyjamas,” said Fenella from behind an embroidered screen. “I’m all for a chance to freshen up. These people know you, Cress. How on earth did you get acquainted?”
“I mean,” said Cressida, shrugging. “Recruitment lunches, mostly.” She glanced at Lovelace. “You get recruitment lunches too, right?”
Lovelace tossed her head. “On occasion. A cat has to eat.”
“So you just sit around and eat lunch with the enemy?” Fenella said amid some serious rustling. “While they pitch job offers at you?”
“They’re not the enemy,” said Cressida immediately. “I mean, they are, obviously. Very different time travel philosophies. But, ah. Anachronauts are just people from another college, when it comes down to it. It’s hard, only being allowed to socialise with people who have signed the Official Global Secrets Act. It’s not as if we have a lot in common with people who aren’t time travellers.”
“I wouldn’t know,” her sister said dryly. Fenella emerged from behind the screen wearing a Napoleonic officer’s coat over a long white Ancient Greek peplos, and her own sneakers. She looked a little like a child playing dress-ups. “Do you think they’re going to feed us while pitching job offers tonight?”
“Hard to say,” said Cressida.
“I hope so,” said Lovelace, whose tummy was beginning to protest the lack of fish suppers. If this was Ancient Egypt, she’d have been fed three times already.
They knew how to treat a cat in Ancient Egypt.
In the silverware pantry, Monterey thought to ask: “How much do you think we can trust Cressida? Seems like there’s a lot she’s still not telling us.”
“I don’t know,” Oxford said bleakly. “Trust is a funny thing, isn’t it. Secrets and all that. Push enough of them down, it’s hard to fish them back out.”
“Are you having a nervous breakdown, old thing?”
“I don’t think one nervous breakdown is going to cut it. Processing all this is going to take at least three.”
Lovelace perched on Fenella’s shoulder. She didn’t like it. She was unhappy relying on any human other than her Monterey, whom she had personally trained. But she and Fenella had hopped through time together since 1964, and it was good manners to dance with the one who brought you.
Zephyr kept darting strange looks in Lovelace’s direction — no, it was Fenella who had unsettled their captor. Surely it couldn’t be the outfit.
A draped banner in the dining room declared this to be The Anachronauts Annual Festive Function 1899. As was common for Victorian times, the dining room was dark and high-ceilinged, with wallpaper so busy you could get lost in the narrative.
Lovelace had to imagine that before 1899 became an Event, the wallpaper had not been covered in pictures of art deco cartoon dinosaurs fighting art nouveau little green aliens, but you could never quite tell with the Victorians.
A large table took up most of the room, laden with displays of flowers, along with several pineapples intended for decoration rather than snacking. At least two dozen well-dressed humans and cats were seated around the table, already tucking in.
The food was spectacular: fancy cakes, towering jellies and glistening vegetables, all those things that humans seemed to enjoy. To tick the anachronism box, there were also goldfish crackers, sushi towers, and ruby chocolate cronuts.
Then there was the good stuff, clearly prepared with cats in mind: roast meats, baked trout, and creamy savoury pastes set into amusing shapes. That was worth a visit to 1899.
Lovelace licked her lips.