In her school-girl mob cap and pinafore, she wasn't taken seriously by anyone. Even the ladies thought she was adorable.

"Mr. Moore, what an absolutely delightful child. Your ward is a charm."

"You really must bring her out in a year or two."

"Oh, no, not back to that dreadful tropical backwater, surely?"

And so the evening went, in a wonderful haze of wine, sparkling conversation, and more food than she could possibly eat, course after course of it, with delicate little desserts between. She floated to bed that night and dreamed of long formal gowns, bright laughter, and an endless round of parties and dinners with Malcolm at her side ....

The next day they went riding again, this time in Hyde Park, with Margo sidesaddle in a long riding habit and Malcolm in immaculate morning attire. Some of the women they'd seen last night at dinner smiled and greeted Malcolm, then smiled at her. Margo returned the greetings with what she hoped was a properly humble air, but inside she was bubbling.

Hyde Park was glorious in the early morning sunlight, so glorious she could almost forget the horror of disease, squalor, and violent death such a short distance east. Because she was not yet "out" socially, none of the gentlemen they had dined with noticed her, but that was all right. It meant Margo had been accepted as a temporal native. She'd passed a difficult test with flying colors, as difficult in its way as that lethal little confrontation in St. Giles.

They spent the afternoon window shopping beneath the glass roof of the Royal Arcade on Old Bond Street, which linked the fashionable Brown Hotel to Bond John trailed along as chaperon. Margo gawked through the windows into Bretell's at #12 where Queen Victoria herself bestowed her considerable patronage. Margo left the Arcade utterly dazzled.

On their final day, Malcolm took her by train down to Brighton, where they wandered along chilly streets and Malcolm pointed out the myriad differences between the city of 1888 and the city where his family had been caught in the great Flood of 1998. They paused within sight of the waterfront. Malcolm gazed out at the leaden spray crashing against the shingle and went utterly silent. Margo found she couldn't bear the look in his eyes. She summoned her nerve and took his gloved hand in hers. He glanced down, eyes widening in surprise, then he swallowed hard.

"Thank you, Miss Smythe. I-"

He couldn't continue.

Margo found herself moving on instinct. She guided him down the street to a warm inn and selected a seat in the corner. When the innkeeper bustled over, she smiled and said, "Stout, please, for my guardian and might I have a cup of hot tea?"

"Surely, miss. Is there anything else I can get for the gennleman? He seems a mite poorly."

Malcolm was visibly pulling himself together. "Forgive me, inn keep," he rubbed the bridge of his nose with a gloved hand, "but I lost a dear brother not far from here. Drowned in the sea. I ...hadn't been back to Brighton since, you see."

The innkeeper shook his head mournfully and hurried away to bring the dark beer and a steaming cup of tea. Margo sipped in silence while Malcolm regained his composure.

"I shouldn't have come back," he said quietly.

"Don't the tourists come here on holiday?"

"Not often in February," he smiled wanly. "If one of my guests desires a holiday at the seaside, I generally recommend the Isle of Wight or even Man. I've avoided Brighton. Particularly during February."

The orbital blowup, Margo knew, had occurred in February, catching Atlantic coastlines in the middle of the night. The loss of life had been devastating even in the relatively sheltered English Channel.

Malcolm sipped his dark stout again. "You did very well just now," he murmured. "I'm not accustomed to being rescued by someone I'm guiding. You kept me from considerable embarrassment out there. This," he lifted the glass in a tiny salute and gestured at the inn, "was just what I needed: the shock of staying in persona to wake me up and the stout to deaden the hurt. Thank you."

"I- It just seemed the right thing to do."

A faint smile creased wan cheeks. "You've a good instinct, then. That's important. More so than you might guess." He drained the last of the stout, then took out his pocket watch. "If we're to make that return train, we'd best be leaving."

When Malcolm squeezed her gloved hand, Margo felt as though she were flying.

By the time the scheduled re-opening of the Britannia Gate forced them to leave London, Margo knew she'd found what she wanted to do for the rest of her life. I've done it, I've gone through a whole week down time, and I've come out just fine. She had a lot to learn yet, of course she'd endured humiliation and learned valuable lessons but now that she'd done it, she knew this was exactly what she'd wanted all along.

You'll see, she promised an unshaven face in her memory, you'll see, damn you. I'll do it. This was harder than. anything you ever did to me, but I did it. And if you do it again.. Just you wait. I'll prove it to you.

Margo had found where she belonged. All that remained now was to convince Kit Carson. And Malcolm Moore. Margo cast a last, longing glance at the gaslit windows of the Time Tours gatehouse, then stepped boldly through onto the grated platform in La La Land. It felt like she'd come home at last.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"There are," Sven Bailey told her patiently, "three basic grips in knife fighting." He demonstrated. "The hammer grip is the way most people pick up a knife, even kitchen carving and paring knives. Its a good, solid

Margo practiced on the slim knife he handed her.

"Then comes the fencing grip." He shifted the knife in his hand as though he were holding an envelope out to someone else. His thumb rested on the top of the grip. "This is a deadly grip in the hands of a trained knife fighter, very difficult to defend against. Learn to use it."

Margo copied the hold on her own knife. It felt odd.

"Third," Sven shifted his blade again, "we have the icepick grip." He now held the knife upside down, so that the blade lay flat against the length of his forearm.

"That looks silly," Margo commented. It felt silly, too.

Sven lifted his forearm toward her. "Would you care to hit my arm with that sharp edge in the way?"

"Well, no."

"Right. It guards your arm somewhat. Moreover," he moved with lightning speed, "you can come across your body with a wicked slash and follow up with a powerful stab."

The knifepoint stopped half-an-inch from Margo's breastbone. She gulped. "Oh."

"Limited, but useful. You'll master all three grips and the moves useful or unique to them."

"All right. Where do we begin"

"With the types of knife blades and what each is useful for." He retrieved the practice knife he'd loaned her, then rummaged in a case he'd brought out to the practice floor. Sven laid out half-a-dozen knives, all carefully sheathed.

"All right. There are two very basic blade shapes, with multiple variations. This," he drew a ten-inch, thick bladed knife, "is a Bowie. The spine is thick for strength. This whole side has been cut away, so the knife isn't symmetrical. The curved upper edge is called a false edge. It's often sharpened, but not always. Sometimes these blades have `saw teeth' added. Mostly saw teeth are a sales gimmick, based on bad twentieth-century movies. The teeth are too large to be any good sawing anything. Avoid them. They can get caught on ribs, then you're stuck with no knife."

"No saw teeth," Margo repeated.

"The Bowie is an excellent survival knife. it's strong enough to use for camp chores like cutting small branches for firewood if you don't have a hand axe. The blade's thick enough to use as a prybar without too much risk of snapping the tip off. Unfortunately, it has drawbacks as a fighting knife, such as sheer size, lack of a second sharp edge all the way back to the guard, not to mention its worst drawback: its anachronistic as hell most places or times you'd end up in. But you'll learn to use one because we're being thorough."