"Is there any hope?"

The tiny firearms instructor hesitated. "Well ...maybe. Her hand is, very steady and she has a good eye. When she's actually shooting, she scores well. But she won't apply herself to the learning. Has she been doing her homework?"

Kit frowned. "Homework? Not unless she's doing it in the library. She drags in like a half-dead cat, gulps supper, then collapses for the night. I didn't think it was possible to wear out an eighteen-year-old."

Ann didn't smile. "She needs to study. She keeps forgetting basics, like working the pump on the pump shotgun. Then she gets angry with herself when it won't function like a semiautomatic. The double-action revolver isn't a problem, but the self-loading pistols ..." Ann just shuddered. "I haven't even tried historical firearms yet. I don't dare."

"Great. I'll start working her on basic firearms mechanical actions while she eats."

"Good She needs it."

The story was much the same from Sven. The stocky martial arts instructor saw him coming from across the weapons range, clearly considered ducking out the nearest exit, then visibly braced himself.

"That bad?" Kit asked without preamble.

"Kit," Sven growled, "you got a big problem in that kid."

"You don't need to tell me that. All I get these days is trouble. Let me guess. She won't apply herself to the learning."

"Oh, no," Sven shook his shaggy head "She's nuts to absorb the stuff, fast as I can teach her. And she's good, for a novice. Problem is, her attitude stinks."

"What about her attitude?" Kit asked tiredly. "In a thousand words or less."

Sven's evil grin came and went. "Rough, is it? Teenagers. If they weren't so cute, we'd drown 'em."

"The cuter they are, the bigger the occasional desire to hold their heads underwater. So what is Margo's problem?"

"No patience, no feel for Aikido. She just wants to make the moves like an automaton and hurry on to something else. Kit, that kid is in one damned big hurry to do something and I'm not sure it'll be healthy once she does it."

Great. Sven was waxing philosophical about his only grandkid, who was in a tearing hurry to die. He wondered if her impatience were part of her general personality, part of that mysterious unfinished business she'd mentioned, or just eagerness to get past the lessons and into something she could consider an adventure?

"Maybe she just wants to get down time," Kit sighed. "In her place, I would. Here she is on TT-86 watching the tourists go places she can't and all I let her do is read books and take lumps from you and Ann."

Sven pursed his lips, looking faintly like a thoughtful bulldog. "Could be, I guess. She's young, wants an adventure. Maybe you should give it to her. Settle her down."

"Give her an adventure?" Kit echoed. "You mean send her down time? Before she's ready?"

Sven shrugged. "Sure. Why not? I'm not talking about a scouting trip. Send her on a tour. Britannia Gate's due to open soon. Outfit her for a tourist jaunt and send the kid to London for a few days. Might take the itch out of her trousers, give her a taste of what it is she's letting herself in for."

"I can't go with her," Kit pointed out unhappily.

Sven's sympathetic glance didn't help much. Stinks," he agreed. "So send Malcolm. He owes her a guided tour, anyway."

Kit sharpened his gaze. "He what?"

Sven widened his eyes innocently, then chuckled. "Well, now, so Grandpa doesn't know all. I'm disappointed-and surprised you hadn't heard. They made a bet. Malcolm thought she'd end up liking the shooting, she said she wouldn't. They bet on it."

"What in God's name did they bet? Margo's broke. I know. I won't give her an allowance until she's earned one."

Kit trusted Malcolm as far as any man would with a granddaughter who looked and behaved the way Margo did; but he couldn't imagine what she might have wagered--and given the effect she had on men, he knew the male libido well enough to imagine the worst, even from Malcolm.

Sven patted his shoulder. "Not to worry. Scuttlebutt has it she bet her life story against a guided tour."

"Her life story? Huh." The rest of Margo's life story was something Kit would have paid a ransom to hear. "Too bad Malcolm lost."

Sven grinned. "You said it. There'll be other bets. I'll start her on bladed weapons next, but I'd like her to settle down before then. Think about the Britannia Gate. Might do her some good."

"Yeah," Kit said glumly, thinking about that billionaire and the fish pond. "But will it do the rest of us any good?"

Sven just laughed at him. "Your grey's showing, Grandpa. How about a sparring session?"

Kit considered it, then shook his head. "No, I think I'll take your advice. Which means I'd better hunt up Malcolm before he accepts a job to Mongolia or someplace equally improbable. Thanks, Sven."

"Don't mention it."

Kit found the freelance guide working the newcomers who planned to do the London trip. He waited until a curvaceous young thing had turned him down, then approached while Malcolm was looking bluer than a well-aged round of Roquefort cheese.

"Any luck?"

Malcolm grimaced. "Nope. Time Tours is getting nasty about sharing business with freelancers."

Kit made a mental note to "lean" a little on Granville Baxter. There was enough money to be made for everyone. Malcolm's freelance business didn't hurt Time Tours' profits in the slightest. "Tell you what. I'd like to hire you."

Malcolm just stared. "You? For Pete's sake, why?"

Kit laughed. "Let's wet our throats someplace and talk business.-

"Well, sure," Malcolm agreed readily. "Anytime you want to pick up the tab, Kit, you just holler."

The Prince Albert Pub was the handiest place to sit down and cool their thirst. The interior was a good bit cleaner than most genuine Victorian-era pubs, the prices were moderate for La-La Land, and the place was virtually empty in the post-lunch-hour vacuum. They found a table near the front windows and sat down.

"Have you eaten yet?" Kit asked, glancing at the menu. "I worked through lunch." Then he grinned sheepishly. "You're a good excuse. I'm playing hooky from paperwork day."

"Oh, ho," Malcolm chuckled; picking up his own menu. "Better not let Big Brother find out."

Kit grimaced. "Paperwork sucks," he said eloquently; half quoting Margo. "Hmm ...I haven't had kippers in years.

"Never could abide them."

"A Victorian time guide and a born Brit and you can't abide kippers? What's the world coming to?"

"A better sense of what's edible, hopefully."

Kit laughed. "Then for God's sake, don't order lunch in medieval Edo."

Malcolm shuddered. "Once was enough to convince me, thank you. I'll stick to steak and kidneys, any day of the week."

"Beats some of what I've eaten," Kit agreed. He set his menu down and flagged a waitress. They ordered lunch and started emptying glasses of dark ale.

"So, what's on your mind?" Malcolm asked.

"Margo. What else?"

The younger man just grinned. "Anything in particular or everything in general? Or both?"

"Both, actually," Kit admitted, "but her lack of progress in her studies, particularly."

Malcolm's smile vanished. "She isn't stupid, Kit. What's the problem?"

"Sven thinks she's too hyped on going down time to concentrate."

The time guide sat back and fiddled with his ale glass, leaving a series of wet rings on the wooden tabletop. "He could be right," Malcolm said slowly. `That probably isn't all of it, but he could have something, there. Going down time is all she talks about."

"How much time are you spending with her?"

Malcolm flushed. "Not enough to warrant that tone, Kit. But I worry about her. I figure if she's with me, she's not falling prey to someone like Skeeter. And you know we get sharks through here every time Primary opens."