Malcolm's mobile features lit up. "Very good, Miss Smythe! Generally, we're snubbed, of course. Anyone with pretensions to society keeps a carriage and horses of his own. I am absolved through the eccentricity of my comings and goings from Honduras. Providing I ever acquire the capital, I intend to take out a long-term lease on a small house where I might entertain guests: All my down-time acquaintances urge me to do so, in order to keep a permanent staff rather than relying on the vagaries of agency people."

Margo wondered how much that would cost, but didn't quite dare ask. That seemed like an awfully personal question and she was still feeling very uncertain in the aftermath of that harmless kiss last night.

"Speaking of money, do you remember my lecture on currency?"

Oh, no...

"I, uh..." Margo tried frantically to recall what Malcolm had taught her during their visit to Goldie Morran, one of TT-86's money changers. "The basic unit's the pound. It's abbreviated with that little `L'; thing."

"And a pound is made up of ..."

She cast back through the confusion of foreign terms. "Twenty shillings."

Twenty-one shillings being called?"

Oh, God, it was some sort of bird..."A hen?"

Malcolm sat back and covered his eyes, stricken with helpless laughter. "The association," he wheezed, "is flawlessly logical, I'll have to credit you that much. A guinea, Margo. A guinea."

"A guinea," she repeated grimly. "Twenty-one shillings is a guinea."

"Now, what else do we call twenty shillings, other than a pound?"

Margo screwed shut her eyes and tried to remember. Not a king, there was a queen on the throne. "A sovereign."

"Or quid, in slang terms. What's it made of?"

"Gold. So's a half-sovereign!" she finished triumphantly.

"And half of that?"

Something else to do with royalty. But what, she couldn't remember. She lifted her hands helplessly.

"A crown. Five shillings is a crown, or a `bull' in slang usage."

Margo took a deep breath. "A crown. A quarter sovereign is a crown. Then there's the half-crown, or two-and-a-half shillings." Her head hurt.

"Two shillings is ..."

"I don't know," Margo wailed. "My head aches!"

Malcolm produced a card from his waistcoat pocket, handwritten with what was clearly a period ink pen. "Study this. If you forget and must refer to this, please explain that you're a recently orphaned American with a British benefactor and you just can't keep all this straight, then bat your eyelashes and look helpless and the shopkeepers will probably fall over themselves trying to assist you."

Margo couldn't help it. She burst out laughing at the ludicrous face Malcolm presented He grinned and handed over the card. Margo settled herself to study the rest of the currency -- florins, pence, groats, pennies, farthings, and all the rest-with a much improved frame of mind.

Horses, Margo learned, were tricky beasts.

Changing clothing in the cramped carriage was easy compared to managing an animal that weighed half a ton and scared her to death every time it blew quietly at the front of her shirt.

"All right," Malcolm said patiently when she succeeded in bridling the hack without losing a thumb or fingers, "do it again."

She shut her eyes, summoned up every erg of patience she possessed, and unbuckled the bridle. Then performed the whole terrifying procedure again. They did this an hour and she still hadn't even saddled the horse, much less gotten on its back. The "riding" lesson had begun with a bewildering new set of terms

to learn: withers, fetlocks, gaits, snaffles, cinches, leathers, headstalls ...

Oh, God, why did I ever think time scouting would be easier than college?

But even she could see the practical necessity of learning to control the mode of transportation from prehistory right down to the invention of the mass-produced automobile.

Margo finally mastered haltering and bridling, moved on to saddling, then spent twenty minutes exercising her hack on a lunge line to learn the difference in its gaits and learned to judge what it took to control a horse from the ground. By the time she passed muster, she was exhausted Her toes, fingertips, and nose were numb with cold. .

"Shall we break for lunch," Malcolm suggested, "then try our first ride afterward?"

Oh, thank God.

"Cool out your horse by walking him up and down the lane for about five minutes while John spreads out a blanket Then we'll water him and rest a bit ourselves."

At least Malcolm accompanied her on the walk. The horse's hooves clopped softly behind them. Margo had begun to feel less nervous asking questions. "Why do we have to cool him out? It's freezing out here!"

"Any time you work a horse, cool him out. Particularly in cold weather. An overheated horse can catch a fatal chill if he's not properly cooled down afterward. Horses are remarkably delicate creatures, prone to all sorts of illness and accident. Your life literally depends on the care you give your horse. Treat him with better care than you treat yourself. Your horse is fed and watered before you even think of resting or eating your own meal. Otherwise, you may not have a horse afterward."

It made sense. It also sounded remarkably similar to Ann Vinh Mulhaneys lecture on caring for one's firearms: "Keep them clean. Particularly if you're using a black powder weapon. Clean it every time you use it. Black powder and early priming compounds are corrosive. Clean your gun thoroughly or it'll be useless and that can happen fast. Don't ever bet your life on a dirty weapon."

"Mal-- Mr. Moore," she amended hastily, "are you carrying a firearm?"

He glanced swiftly at her. "Whatever brought on that question?"

"You just sounded like Ms. Mulhaney, about keeping firearms clean or losing the use of them. So then I wondered."

"One generally doesn't ask a gentlemen, `Sir, are you armed? As it happens, I am. I never travel to London, never mind outside it, without a good revolver on my person."

"Isn't that illegal"

His lips twitched faintly. "Not yet."

Oh.

"There are a few things about down-time cultures," Malcolm said with a sigh, "that are vastly preferable to up-time nonsense. Self-defense attitudes being one of them. Let's turn about, shall we? I believe he's cooling out nicely."

Margo turned the horse and they returned to the hired carriage, where she tied the reins and draped a warm blanket over his back. She then watered the animal from a pail John produced

"Thank you, John," she smiled

"Me pleasure, miss."

Margo grinned, but refrained from comment, since they were supposed to stay "in character" as much as possible to avoid slip-ups.

Lunch was simple but good: slices of beef and cheese on crusted rolls and red wine in sturdy mugs. John had built a warm fire and spread out a blanket for them.

Margo relaxed, draping her heavy cape around her shoulders and leaning close to the fire to keep from catching a chill. Clouds raced past through a lacing of barren branches above their little fire. She couldn't identify the tall tree but sunlit filtering down through the spiderwork of twigs and branches was wonderful.

"Nice."

Birdsong twittered through the silence. One of the horses blew quietly and let a hind leg go slack as it dozed. Tired as she was, it would have been incredibly easy just to close her eyes and fall asleep to the hush of birdsong and the profound silence behind it Far, far away Margo heard voices, the words indistinguishable with distance. And beyond the voices, the faint hoot of a train.

Margo hadn't realized the world before automobiles and jet aircraft could be so quiet.

"Ready for that riding lesson?"

Margo opened her eyes and found Malcolm smiling down at her.

"Yes, Mr. Moore, I believe I am."