In the past, thought Chevie, and she was suddenly afraid for the old lady.
Chevie felt Garrick’s grip loosen slightly as his fingers seemed to grow a little shorter. She glanced up and saw that Garrick was hunched now. He spasmed as though racked by a silent fit of coughing. With every retch, his physical self altered until he resembled Felix Smart once more.
That was my chance, Chevie realized, and I stood here gawking.
Garrick’s fingers tightened on her shoulder once more. “You should have had a go there, Agent,” he said, sweat pasted across his brow. “Those transmogrifications take it out of a fellow, yes, they do.”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he called to the elderly lady. “Perhaps you can assist me?”
The lady did not look up from her labor. “I can assist you at nine. Shop opens at nine. Most of the stuff I have is really old, so another thirty minutes won’t matter.”
Garrick tapped her window. “I see you specialize in Victorian.”
The lady released the hose trigger and swiveled her head upward to take in Garrick.
“Yes, and I will still specialize in Victorian at nine.” There was probably more British sarcasm in the tank, but the lady changed her tune once Garrick’s adopted face registered.
“Wait a moment. Don’t I . . .” And her eyes drifted as though trying to locate an elusive memory. “Your face. It seems so familiar.”
Garrick’s smile seemed utterly genuine. “People tell me I look like my father.”
The lady dropped the hose. “Oh . . . Oh, my. Felix? You are Felix, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am Felix,” said Garrick, making it sound like he was the new messiah.
“Oh, goodness. Oh, dear me. Felix.” The woman’s face was transformed utterly. Gone was the cynical tradeswoman of moments before, and in her place stood a wide-eyed, flustered lady. “Your father said you might find me someday.”
Garrick placed a hand on her shoulder. “And here I am.”
“Yes, you are here. Plain as day.” She drew a worried breath. “Oh, are you hungry? You must be thirsty? And your young friends? They’re probably hungry and thirsty.”
Garrick shrugged as if to say, We are terribly hungry and thirsty, but I am too polite to mention it.
“You must come in. Please come inside.” The lady fished a door key on a chain from under her blouse, then jabbed it into antiques shop’s front door.
“But, madam,” said Garrick, smiling, “it is not yet nine o’clock.”
The lady knew very well she was being ribbed. “Oh, it’s always a question of time with you Smart boys.” She offered a gloved hand. “I’m Victoria. Your father’s . . . friend.”
For a moment Garrick’s eyes glittered in Felix Smart’s face.
“I believe we have come to the right place,” he said, bending to kiss Victoria’s cheek.
Not only was the lady named Victoria, but the antiques shop was called Victoriana. When she led them through the doorway and into the shop itself, Riley could not stifle a gasp, for it was like stepping back into his own time, without the usual stink of animals, sewage, and nearby death, which in truth he did not hanker for, in spite of his current circumstances.
I have always lived in the shadow of death, he thought, feeling his heart pump like a steam piston as he spied a set of brass andirons that were almost identical to the ones flanking his and Garrick’s own hearth in Holborn.
And somewhere in this place is the gateway back.
Unlike his master, Riley was in no hurry to return to the nineteenth century’s Great Oven. He had experienced wonders during the night and also freedom, however fleetingly, and now had a taste for it.
I could exist here in this future of marvels, if only Garrick would release me.
But Riley knew that there was only one way his master would ever release him.
The lady led them through a showroom that glowed softly with the amber warmth of sunlight on wood. Her small shop was presented as a Victorian drawing room, but in this drawing room everything was for sale. There were discreet tags on each item but no prices. If you asked for the price, you were halfway to buying.
What Chevie knew about antiques could be written on the back of a postcard. The oldest thing she’d ever owned was a seventies surfboard that had once belonged to world champion “PT” Townend, but even she could tell that the stuff in this room was expensive. The pieces hummed with history, and it was impossible to look at