"Or worse," Kit put in.
"--or you just blend into the background and become invisible."
Malcolm nodded "Yes. But you have to be careful. The wrong clothing could get you hauled off to jail or Bedlam Hospital to be locked in with the other madwomen."
Margo shivered. "What about this charity girl stuff, then?"
"Well," Malcolm said, glancing at Kit, "given my reputation as something of an eccentric, it wouldn't be out of character for me to sponsor a young girl who'd been orphaned in a cholera epidemic, say, or by one of the tropical fevers that laid so many Europeans low in Honduras. You could be the child of some friend or even a relative. A niece, maybe, brought back to England for schooling."
Kit was nodding. "I like it. All right, choose something appropriate. Connie, why don't you fit her out while Malcolm and I update his wardrobe? If he's going to keep up his reputation in London, I suspect he'll need a new item or two. And you'll need a couple of `ink' getups as well, I think, so your down-time friends don't recognize you when you two go slumming."
Connie beamed. "Help yourselves. Gosh, I love it when scouts and guides put their heads together and go shopping!"
Kit groaned. Malcolm laughed. "Don't worry, Kit. I'll try to be gentle with your budget."
"Pray do, sir," Kit drolled. "It isn't unlimited, you know."
They strolled off in the direction of the men's clothing. Margo watched them go. "They're..." She pause, suddenly embarrassed.
"There what?" Connie asked curiously.
"Nothing," Margo mumbled. She'd been about to say, `There really sweet, aren't they?" but had stopped herself just in time. She'd gotten where she was by being tough and uncaring. Now wasn't the time to let down her guard, not with her dreams almost within grasp. But she couldn't help thinking it. They were sweet. Even Kit, when he wasn't glowering at her for whatever she'd done wrong most recently A flash of insight told Margo he glowered because he didn't really know how to talk to her.
That was all right. She didn't really know how to talk to him, either, not without a whole retinue of defenses in place. A smart mouth and a lifelong habit of sarcasm skillfully combined with pouting frowns and winning smiles-weren't exactly the most useful skills if she wanted to learn more about this man as a human being, rather than a legend.
Get real, Margo. Remember the fish pond. Try to get better acquainted with him--with either of them-and you'll have to talk about yourself. The less said on that subject, the better. For everyone concerned.
Margo sighed unhappily, earning as long, curious look from Connie, then she shook herself free of the mood and said brightly, "Okay, about this charity-girl costume. Show me!"
CHAPTER NINE
Brian Hendrickson had come from a family whose older sons enlisted for life in the Royal Navy. Briana third son born in the islands-had become a historian rather than a sailor. But his military upbringing lingered in a meticulous personality and a tendency to run his library with martial efficiency. His accent, a delightfully odd one, was right at home in La-La Land.
Kit, taking advantage of Margo's mood after the shopping trip, escorted her from Clothes and Stuff directly to the reference desk in la-la land's library. It was-high time she started learning more than remedial math, firearms history, and martial arts.
"Brian, this is Margo, my granddaughter. Margo, Brian Hendrickson, TT-86s resident librarian."
He smiled pleasantly and kissed the air above her hand, Continental-style. "Most pleased to meet you, Miss Margo."
She blinked, clearly startled. Brian Hendrickson startled most newcomers to TT-86.
"Where are you from?" Margo blurted.
A dazzling smile came and went. "It is more a matter of where I am not from, actually. I was born in the British virgins, spent the first three years of my life in Glasgow, then my father was posted to Hong Kong. Let's see ...I've nearly forgotten the Falklands, haven't I? I took my university degrees from Cambridge."
"Oh." She looked a little round-eyed.
Kit grinned "Which brings us to the reason we're here. She needs advanced lessons."
"Hmm, yes, I should think so, if rumors are true.
"They're true," Kit sighed. "Detailed histories, languages, the works."
The librarian tapped well-manicured fingertips against the desktop. "Yes. I should think Latin to start, followed by French-modern, middle, and old-to cover all bets. And Italian and Greek. And we'd better throw in the main Chinese dialects-"
"You're not serious?" Margo broke in, her voice echoing the panic in her eyes. "Latin? And ...and Chinese and all those Frenches ...and...
Brian blinked. "Well, yes, I am serious. Goodness, Miss Margo, you can't expect to scout if you don't speak at least ten languages fluently."
"Ten?" She glanced wildly at Kit. "TEN?"
Kit only rubbed the side of his nose. "Well, that's a fairly limited beginning, but yes, ten might prove just barely adequate. I speak twenty fluently and can make myself understood in considerably more than that. I did warn you, Margo. Scouting is a scholarly business, above all else. When you're not down time exploring a gate, you're studying. Constantly "
"But
"I don't make up these rules just to upset you."
"I know, I know," she wailed, "I understand that, but..."
"He's right, Miss Margo," the librarian said quietly. "My steadiest customers are never the tourists. They're the guides and the scouts. Particularly the scouts. They spend hours here every day, learning and learning. In fact, if you'll examine the gentlemen at the computers over there or back in the language labs, you'll discover half the scouts who work out of TT-86 on a regular basis. Excuse me, please."
Kit glanced around John Merylbone, a fairly new scout despite his age -- he was pushing fifty had come up to the desk.
"Brian, sorry to interrupt, but I need help. I'm looking for information on early British scholars' costumes. I'd heard there was a good general reference by Cunnington and Lucas from 1978."
Brian stared at the scout for long, unblinking moments, giving the distinct impression that John's request was utterly beneath his notice. Margo whispered, "Isn't that a little rude?"
Kit smiled. "No, actually he's thinking. Watch."
Brian started talking. "Well, yes, that's a very good general reference, but it contains a good bit more than you'll need. Covers all manner of charity costumes, through several centuries, actually. I'd recommend Rymer's Foedera, vol. VII, or Statutes of the Colleges of Oxford for the Royal Commission.-that's translated from the Latin, which is useful-or perhaps Gibson's Statua Antigua Universitatis Oxoniensis. Loggan also did some excellent work in Cantabrigia Illustrata and Oxonia Illustrata."
The librarian was busy jotting down names and titles while he spoke.
"Good grief! He didn't even use the computer!"
Kit only smiled "Don't look so horrified Nobody's asking you to learn as much as Brian knows. Nobody knows as much as Brian Hendrickson. He has a photographic memory. Useful for a research librarian on a time terminal."
"Oh. I was beginning to worry."
"You do that, "Kit laughed "I like it better when you're worried. Proves you're thinking."
She put out a pink tongue. "You're mean and horrible. Why does everybody else like you?"
Kit scratched his head. "Search me. Guess it's my good looks and charm."
Margo actually laughed. When she relaxed, his granddaughter was a remarkably pretty girl, with no trace of that Irish alleycat glare. He sighed, feeling old before he was ready for it.