Margo thought about the man limping out of Paula's clinic and grinned "That's terrific!" She fluffed her own hair. "What can we do about this? Everyone says I have to dye it."
Paula studied Margo for several moments. "Yes; but we won't want to go too dark, unless you want her looking as funereal as I do?" She glanced at Malcolm. "Black hair with that skin tone will look terrible. Even dark brown is going to make her look anemic."
"Can't be helped. Use your judgment on how dark, but she can't go scouting looking like that."
"No," Paula agreed. "Definitely not. Red hair was associated with witches throughout most of the Middle Ages. Probably one reason red hair is relatively rare today-the gene pool was reduced through burning at the stake. All right, Margo, let's get started. Malcolm, you're welcome to sit in the waiting room. This will take a while."
How long could it take to dye one head of very short hair brown? Margo's answer came when Paula revealed her intention to dye every bit of Margo's hair: bodywide.
"You can't be serious!"
"Dead serious. And you'll need to touch up the roots every four weeks."
"But, but" That seemed to have become virtually the only thing Margo was capable of saying, lately.
Three hours later, Margo emerged, forlorn as a wet cat. She took one look into the waiting room's mirror and burst into tears-again.
"Hey," Malcolm said, rising hastily to his feet, "you look great!"
"No, I don't!" Margo wailed. "I look ...I look awful!"
The mirror revealed a pinched, pale face like an orphan someone had beaten and left for dead in some unspeakable sewer. She'd have died before revealing the ignominy of having hair dye applied elsewhere with a cotton swab.
"Hey, shh. Let's grab a bite of lunch somewhere then change into our costumes and pick up your luggage. We only have a couple of hours before the Britannia Gate opens."
Not even that prospect had the power to dispel the gloom that had settled over Margo. Just one other little consideration she hadn't foreseen in becoming a time scout. To get what she wanted, Margo had to give up being pretty.
That blow, after all the other battles she'd fought through nearly seventeen miserable years of being made to feel stupid, unwanted, unloved, and a burden to everyone who knew her was nearly more than Margo could bear. The solitary, single thing that kept her from breaking down into hysterical tears was the knowledge that such a childish display would destroy her chances of scouting forever.
Her chin quivered despite her best efforts to keep it still, but she held it high. She was going to do this. No matter what it took, no matter how many obstacles Kit Carson threw in her path. She was going to scout or die trying.
And nothing was going to stand in her way.
Nothing.
CHAPTER TEN
Victoria Station hadn't yet recovered from the damage of the unstable gate, but the worst debris had been hauled away and repairs had begun. Margo, palms sweating, clutched the handle of her frayed carpet bag. Malcolm smiled down at her, causing a sudden trip hammer lurch under her breastbone. Malcolm Moore, dressed as a wealthy Victorian gentleman, was enough to set Margo's; pulse racing.
He grinned suddenly. "You look nervous."
"I am nervous. This is real. It isn't a stage play, it's real. Do you get used to it?"
Malcolm's eyes took on a faraway look as his gaze focused on something Margo couldn't see. "No," he said softly. "You don't. At least, I don't. I could've found any number of teaching positions up time, particularly with my scouting and time guiding credentials in addition to my degrees. But I don't want to go back. Stepping through a gate..." He grinned again. "You'll see."
The air began to buzz. Margo pressed a hand to the bones of her skull. "Ow."
"Any moment, now."
Malcolm sounded even more excited than Margo felt, which was saying quite a lot. She checked her "uniform" again to be sure everything was in place. Under a heavy walking cloak, Margo's deep azure dress and starched white pinafore were immaculate. A pretty white cap and an enormous straw hat mercifully covered her hideous brown hair. Thick knitted stockings, ankle length boots, and fingerless mittens completed the ensemble, topped off by a beautiful badge in which a crown and the letters R.M.I.G. enclosed a setsquare and compasses.
"This," Connie Logan had told her with a smile, "is a particularly prestigious school uniform."
"What does R.M.I.G. stand for?"
"Royal Masonic Institution for Girls."
Malcolm, it turned out, was a Freemason, both in real life and in his down-time persona.
"I've found it helps enormously," he'd told her. "If you're in trouble-and it's very easy to fall into trouble, even- for an experienced guide having a network of sworn brothers dedicated to a creed of helping those in need can literally be a lifesaver."
"Are all guides and scouts Masons?" Margo asked, wondering with a sinking sensation if this would be yet another barrier to be overcome.
"No, but quite a few are. Don't worry about it, Margo. Membership isn't required."
At the time, Margo had felt relieved, but now, reviewing the details of her costume again, she wondered if anyone down time would expect her to know secret rituals or anything. Maybe this uncertainty had been part of Kit's plan? To impress upon her how much she had to learn? Margo shifted the carpet bag to her other hand and stiffened her back-although slouching was all but impossible, anyway, what with the horrid undergarments that were already pinching and chafing.
Doubtless physical discomfort was just another part of Kit Carson's plan to discourage her. Well, it wasn't going to work.
The air began to shimmer up near the ceiling. Well dressed men and women stirred excitedly. Then the gate began to cycle. Rather than opening out of the wall, darkness grew out of thin air right off the end of the high, gridwork platform, a ragged hole, a widening maw...
Margo gasped. Through it, she could make out the colors of twilight, the twinkle of a high, lonely star. Nearer at hand, a breeze stirred barren, low-hanging branches. She could see-but not hear-dead leaves which gusted into view. A warm, golden glow appeared, then a dark shape occluded the lantern light
Titters of laughter ran through the crowd when a figure in a tall hat and opera cape stepped through, rushing at them like an oncoming train. The gentleman doffed his hat politely to the waiting crowd below. "Your patience, please, ladies and gentlemen."
Tourists had begun to emerge from the Britannia Gate. Women in smart dresses, men in evening suits, ragged servants hauling steamer trunks, carpet bags, and leather cases, young women dressed as housemaids, all poured through onto the platform and made their way down the ramp to the Commons floor. Many were smiling and chatting. Others looked grim. Still others staggered with assistance from Time Tours employees.
"Never fails," Malcolm murmured. "Always a few come back sick as dogs."
"I won't," Margo vowed.
"No," Malcolm agreed dryly. "You won't. That's what I'm here for."
She suppressed a huff, wanting to point out that she didn't need a nursemaid, but even she realized she did need a reliable guide. And then, before she expected it, their turn came.
"Oh," Margo said excitedly, "here we go !'"
Malcolm gallantly offered his arm. Margo laughed and accepted it, then laughed again when he insisted on carrying her carpet bag. Their "porter," a husky young man named John, took charge of their hefty steamer trunk. Margo slid her Timecard through the encoder, then hurried up the long ramp at Malcolm's side while John waited with the other baggage handlers. Margo paused at the very threshold of nothingness, mortified that her hindbrain whispered, "If I step off, there's nothing there but a five-story drop to the floor."