"Patience," Malcolm laughed. "We've an entire week ahead of us."

"When will our cab be here?"

"Our hosts," Malcolm said, glancing a little coldly at the liveried Time Tours guides, "will serve refreshments while carriages are summoned. We'll be departing in small groups at least fifteen minutes apart, to help reduce the chance that anyone will notice the number of people coming and going from this house."

"How did Time Tours get hold of this place?"

Malcolm said quietly, "I'm told the spinster lady who owned it had a fit of the vapors the first time the Britannia Gate opened in her garden. When it happened several weeks in a row, she sold the place cheaply to a scout and retired permanently to Scotland. Time Tours bought it from the scout."

Margo hadn't considered what people down time must think when a gate opened right in front of them.

"Who was the scout?"

Malcolm shrugged. "Your grandfather."

"Oh!"

"I would suggest," Malcolm said as they moved across the threshold into a surprisingly chilly drawing room, "that we refrain from discussing up-time affairs for the week, as far as possible. You are here to learn, certainly, but discussing anything from up time is very dangerous within earshot of people who understand the language you're speaking. If you must ask a question, keep your voice down and try to ask it where others can't hear you. I'll pass along my advice under the same set of strictures."

Again, Margo was trying to get the rhythm of Malcolm's new speech patterns. "Very well, Mal-Mr. Moore."

He patted her hand. "Very good, Miss Smythe. And now, if you would be so kind as to permit me, I will introduce you to London."

He led her toward a warm coal fire and beckoned to a "servant" who brought steaming cups of tea.

"My dear, warm yourself while I see about our luggage and transportation."

He signaled to John, who carried their steamer trunk toward a long front hall where other porters waited. Margo sipped astringent tea, grateful for the warmth; the room's lingering chill surprised her. Other tourists were talking excitedly, admiring the furnishings, the rugs, the draperies, the view out the windows. Margo was a little envious of the women's dresses. One elegantly attired lady smiled and approached her.

"That's a charming costume," she said. "What is it?"

Feeling vastly superior, Margo said, "It's one of the most prestigious school uniforms in London, from the Royal Masonic Institution for Girls." She dredged up Connie Logan's lecture and added, "It was founded in Somers Town, London, by a chevalier in 1788."

"It's delightful. Could I see the whole costume?"

Margo dimpled and set down her teacup, then slipped off the cape and pirouetted.

"Oh, look!" exclaimed another tourist. "It's darling!"

"Where did you get it?"

"Connie Logan, Clothes and Stuff."

"I wish I'd thought to dress Louisa like that," one lady laughed. Her daughter, looking dowdy in a plain grey morning dress, was pouting under a stylish hat decorated rather hideously with dead birds.

"And look at that brooch. What an intriguing design. Is that the school's crest?"

"Yes. It's a badge. All the charity schools issued them to identify their pupils."

"Ladies," Malcolm smiled, bowing slightly, "if I might rescue my ward, our cabriolet is waiting. Here, let me help you on with that cape, my dear. The night is dreadfully chilly and John neglected to bring along our lap rug."

A flutter of excited laughter ran through the room.

"Who is that gentleman?"

"Oh, I wish our guide sounded like that!"

"Or looked like him ..."

"I don't care what Time Tours says, the next time I come here, I'm going to hire him. I don't care what it costs!"

Malcolm smiled, murmured, "A moment, my dear," and handed around business cards with a polite bow and smile to each lady. He then offered Margo his arm. "A moment's attention to business works wonders, don't you agree?"

Margo laughed, waved goodbye to her brief acquaintances, then strolled out into the London night on Malcolms capable arm.

By the time their cab had swayed through five dark streets, thick fog had left them blind. Swirling, foul yellow drifts blanketed the streets. Even the horse vanished from view. Only the soft clip-clop of its hooves assured Margo they weren't drifting along by magic.

"London stinks," Margo whispered. "Like a barnyard. And that fog smells awful."

"London is full of horses," Malcolm whispered back.

"Some hundred tons of manure fall on London streets every day."

"Every day?'

"Daily," Malcolm affirmed. "And the fogs have been known to kill hundreds in a single day. If you find it difficult to breathe, you must tell me at once and we'll take a train for the country until the worst of it clears."

"I can breathe," Margo whispered, "it just isn't pleasant. Are we going to a hotel?"

"Actually, no. We'll stay at a boarding house near Victoria Station for the night, then rent a flat on the morrow. That will give us privacy to come and go without undue notice. John, here, will be staying on at the flat once we've gone."

"Mr. Carson be terrible gen'rous, Mr. Moore," John said in the darkness.

Margo giggled. "You sound so funny."

"He sounds exactly as he should," Malcolm said sternly. "You do not. Charity schoolgirls are demure and silent, not giggling, brash things given to rude comments."

"Well, excuse me," Margo muttered.

"Certainly not. Study your part, young lady. That is an order."

Margo sighed. Another domineering male ...She almost looked forward to trading the schoolgirl getup for the rough clothes of a country farmer or the even rougher getup of a costermonger. Masquerading as a boy, she wouldn't need to worry so much about observing all these confining social conventions. She began to catch a glimmer of what Kit had meant when he'd insisted women would have a rough go of it trying to scout.

The sound of water lapping against stone and a hollow change in the sound of the horse's hooves told Margo they were very near the river. The occasional complaining grumble of a steam whistle drifted on the evil yellow fog like the distant cries of dying hounds.

"Where are we? I can't see a thing."

"Crossing Lambeth Bridge."

A few rents in the murk revealed a distant, dark wall. "And that?"

"Millbank Penitentiary. New Bridewell's not far from here, either."

"New Bridewell?"

"A rather notorious prison, my dear. You do ask the most shocking questions."

Fog closed in again the moment they left the open bridge with its fitful breeze. Margo heard the heavy, muted rumbling of not-too-distant trains. A shrill whistle shivered through the foul, wet air, so close Margo jumped.

"Don't be alarmed, Miss Smythe. It is merely a train arriving at Victoria Station."

"Will we hear that all night?"

Malcolm's chuckle reached her. "Indeed."

Fiend. He'd done this on purpose, to leave her groggy and off balance tomorrow. He knew she was already running on virtually no sleep. Well, when you start scouting, you may be short of sleep, too. Consider it part of the lesson. At length, their driver halted. Malcolm left her shivering inside the cold carriage. He made arrangements with the lady who ran the boarding house, then offered his hand and assisted her from the cab.

"Oh, you poor dear, you must be tired," the plump lady smiled, ushering them up a long, dark staircase. A gaslight at the landing threw feeble light down the stairwell. Margo had to watch the hem of her dress to keep from tripping in the shadows. "Your guardian said how you'd come all the way from Honduras and then by train, poor thing, orphaned by them terrible fevers, and now he's enrolled you in the School, but can't bear to part company wi' you yet. Such a nice gentleman, your guardian, watch your step, dear, that's good, and here's your room. Mr. Moore's is directly along the hall, there, second on your right. I'll have hot water sent up. And here's your bag, dearie," she said, taking the carpet bag from John and setting it on a heavy piece of furniture that evidently was meant as a dry sink, judging from the basin and pitcher her hostess took from its lower recesses.