That surprised Ruthven. “She always seemed such a young cat. I thought she was doing everything for the first time, like me.” Had it been an act? He wasn’t sure why that idea made him so uncomfortable.
“She changed,” Boswell admitted. “Once they paired her with you. Flightier. Lighter. But when Lovelace and I were first brought in, Aesop had years of time travel under her collar already. She knew it all. She taught us how to partner with humans.”
Ruthven didn’t know how to deal with this revelation. He locked onto something else, something that had been bugging him. “If there was a whole generation of time travel we don’t have in our records, where are those records? Not in the Media Archive, that’s for sure.”
Boswell snorted. “It’s always about lost media for you, isn’t it?”
Ruthven pressed on. “Surely they recorded all those early hops. We have footage of Banksia and Burbage in the Media Archive, but nothing to suggest other time travellers before you and Cressida, Monterey and Lovelace.”
“They wiped your mind,” Boswell grumbled. “And you’re worried no one will ever get to watch Aesop and Kincaid meeting Blackbeard for the first time?”
Ruthven stared wildly at him. Boswell looked as if regretted the swipe.
“Was Soames Kincaid her partner? Before me.” Ruthven felt weirdly jealous. Was this how Cressida had felt when she saw him working with Boswell? Was that why she kept pretending to forget his name?
“My memory isn’t exactly reliable, lad,” Boswell muttered, looking away. “I’m not sure what’s true.”
“Gah!” Ruthven leaned against the greenhouse. “It’s so frustrating. We’re supposed to be documenting history, learning more about it. Preserving information about the past, not covering it up. How can we be trusted with the history of the world if we’re not honest about our own history at Chronos College? What’s the point of time travel?”
Boswell sat on Ruthven’s foot. “I recommend we get out of here. Save our existential breakdowns for Basic Time.”
“You’re right. I know you’re right.” Ruthven took a deep breath. “Any sign of a hoop?”
Boswell sniffed the air. “Try the postcard again.”
Ruthven checked. “Still blank. No, wait.”
There was something there. So faint he could barely make it out, but it looked like writing.
“What does it say?” Boswell demanded.
Ruthven held the soft postcards to the sunlight. “I think… stand by. Or maybe… sandwich.”
Boswell’s ears twitched and he spun around in a circle, chasing his own tail “See that?”
A time hoop appeared in the air before them, gold and sparkling. It was faint, like a rainbow you had to keep your eye on so it wouldn’t fade into the mist. Like Cressida had been, before she vanished.
“Should we chance it?” Ruthven asked. He didn’t fancy the idea of a time hoop that was only halfway there. That seemed like a good way to end up with your leg in last Tuesday.
“Unless you want to spend the rest of your life in a year where no Cramberleigh episodes have yet been recovered,” said Professor Boswell.
“Right, yes. Of course. Good point.” Ruthven stared into the glittering, twisting, mirage of a time hoop. “On the count of three?”
Forty
1969 “Don’t tell me you don’t have the jade pineapple either?”
Boswell clung to Ruthven’s jumper as they leapt into nothing, and landed… exactly where they had left.
The greenhouse shimmered before them. (Was it the same greenhouse? It looked both cleaner and dirtier at the same time.) Boswell leaped free of Ruthven’s arms instantly (he wasn’t Nero to be carried around all the time).
The pale shadow of a time hoop sputtered into non-existence.
Boswell blinked slowly at the greenhouse. Old or new? 2030s or 1960s? They were still here, regardless. Bloody Fenthorp Manor.
“It didn’t work,” said Ruthven. “Unless… what year is it?”
“I’m not Lovelace,” Boswell grumped. “I don’t pretend to be able to pick the difference between 1922 and 1923 by the scent of time-specific perfumes and petrochemicals.”
He could smell ham somewhere nearby, which was promising. “It’s lunch time.”
“Got your priorities sorted, I see.”
Ruthven headed off into the gardens, in a creeping manner bound to call more attention to himself than if he had walked normally. He was basically miming “I am a suspicious person who should be thrown off the property.” Luckily for Boswell, no one was ever suspicious of a marmalade tabby.
Ruthven stopped sneaking around long enough to peer around a hedge in an exaggerated manner.
“You may as well wear a t-shirt proclaiming you’re a member of the Catburglar’s Union,” Boswell complained.
“Shh. You were right about lunch.” Ruthven crooked his finger.
Normally Boswell would not dignify that kind of outrageous gesture, but the ham smell was stronger now, and he wasn’t used to missing meals. He trotted over, and wound around Ruthven’s ankles before strutting out to see what lay beyond the hedge.
Film crew. Honking great big cameras on dollies, not all that light hand-held gear that had been scattered around in 2034.
The crew had set up a tent and a couple of ratty caravans to operate as trailers, because this was British telly and not Hollywood. A few actors wandered around in costume, drinking cups of tea and smoking behind the caravans. There were, Boswell noted with interest, abandoned ham sandwiches on a nearby table, along with cheese and onion crisps and a half-demolished sponge cake with jam and cream.
Those poor sandwiches. Someone had to put them out of their misery.
