Baker laid Weasel on the grass and stepped away. Pete broke through the mob, shoving the men aside until he got to his friend’s still form. The men formed a circle around Pete as he knelt on the grass.
Weasel’s glasses dangled from one ear. Pete tucked them into his own pocket. “Weaze! Talk to me.” He shook his shoulder, but Weasel didn’t open his eyes.
Pete spun around and looked up into the faces that hovered above him. “Call 911!”
Murmurs of, “What’s that?” “911?” “What did he say?” buzzed in the night air.
“Let me have a look.” It was Snipe. He lifted Weasel’s eyelids. “Give me your light over here, one of you.”
Baker held his torch over Weasel.
“He took a solid whack on the head from one of you, all right. You might have done him in, you know.” Snipe pushed Weasel’s shaggy bangs away from his forehead. “He’s got a lump the size of a sovereign, but he looks like he’ll pull through. I don’t think he has a concussion.” As he said this, he placed his hand over the dark bump on Weasel’s head. When Snipe took his hand away, the bump was still there, but much smaller and less angry looking.
Pete gasped and Snipe looked up at him, with a slight grin.
“I have some medical training.”
How come Snipe didn’t sound like himself? How could he make that bump almost disappear? And how could he tell if Weasel had something wrong by looking in his eyes? Pete thought only doctors could do that.
“We wasn’t out to hurt nobody,” Baker said.
The crowd murmured agreement.
“Well, you did anyways.” Pete’s voice shook with anger.
Snipe signaled Baker. “Here you. Help me get him to the carriage.”
Baker scooped Weasel into his arms and followed Snipe up the bank to where Mr. Greenly paced next to his horses.
They handed Weasel up to Mrs. Greenly and Margaret, then the mob broke up. They held their torches overhead and silently slipped away into the trees.
“At least they’ve called off the hunt for the monster,” Pete said.
“Blimey. That were something,” Rush said.
“Cut the Blimey,” Snipe said. “He’s one of us.” Snipe pointed at Pete.
“One of us?” Pete asked.
“Saying 911 blew your cover. Now I get why you’re so not up on anything in this century. You’re a Traveler. From the States, by the way you sound. What century? My guess is twentieth or twenty-first. Am I right?”
Pete nodded. “And how about you?’
A little more in the future. More like 3010.”
Pete’s mouth gaped. “Holy beans.”
“I remember 911 from my history lessons.” Snipe aimed a thumb at Rush. “He’s my Guide. Where’s yours?”
“I don’t have one. I’m the guy that opened the Timelock. It was sort of an accident. Now I’m trying to close it up. Fanon and Weasel are here by accident, too. My fault.”
“I heard there was trouble. I’ve been trying to go home for a few days now, but I can’t find a Time Portal that’s working.” Snipe crossed his arms. “So it was you who caused the problem, eh?”
“Yes,” Pete said. His head down, he dragged his toe in the dirt.
“How is it that you—” But Snipe hadn’t finished his question before Margaret opened the carriage door and peered out.
Her gaze on Snipe, she said, “Weasel’s coming round. We’d best take him home to tend to that bump on his head.”
Pete started to climb into the carriage, then looked back at Snipe and Rush. “Where are you headed?”
“I’m not sure,” Snipe said. “We’re just trying to find a way home.” He glanced at Margaret,
“We can’t take you back to London tonight, but Mr. Greenly can take you in the morning,” Margaret said. “We can manage two more in the stables for the night, don’t you think, Mrs. Greenly?”
Mrs. Greenly inspected Snipe and Rush, then called up to Mr. Greenly. “What say you, Mr. Greenly?”
“I say we leave this place before more trouble finds us. Those two can come along if Miss Margaret is agreed.”
“That I am,” she said.
Pete sat next to Weasel who slumped against the seat, holding one of Mrs. Greenly’s handkerchiefs to his head. He was bundled inside a blanket, his eyes closed. Once in a while he groaned, but very softly.
Snipe and Rush jumped onto the back of the carriage, and Mr. Greenly snapped the reins, starting the horses up the road and back to the Kingsley estate.
They were out of sight of the lake when Margaret asked, “And what of Fanon?”
Pete bolted upright. “Oh, no!” He’d forgotten all about Fanon. What had happened to him? Did those men hurt him, too?
Pete sent a silent message out. “Fanon, where are you?” He waited, hoping to hear Fanon’s voice in his head, but Fanon didn’t answer. Pete covered his face with his hands. What a mess he was in. What a mess Fanon was in. What a mess everyone in every century was in. He tried to imagine that Roman chariot in Times Square.
At the stable, Mr. Greenly lit a lantern, then as Mrs. Greenly and Margaret went to the main house to find extra blankets, he rousted Bailey from the back room.
Bailey slouched into the light. He rubbed his eyes and yawned, but when he saw Snipe and Rush, he straightened up and crossed his arms. “More charity-boys from London, eh?”
“None of your concern,” Mr. Greenly said. “Find them a bed for the night and see to these horses.”
Bailey grumbled, but unhitched the horses and led them to their stalls.
Mr. Greenly took Weasel by the legs while Rush lifted him by the shoulders and eased him onto his straw mat.
Mrs. Greenly returned with a compress for Weasel’s head wound, and Margaret covered him with blankets and set a pillow under his head.
Weasel groaned and Pete and Snipe hurried to him.
“What’s wrong, Weeze?” Pete said.
“Pain. Lots of pain.” He groaned again, this time loudly.
“Where,” Snipe asked.
“My feet.”
Pete lifted the blanket. Weasel still had the boots on that he’d complained about all day. He still had on the William’s soggy clothes.
“Hold this blanket up while I get him out of his wet things,” Snipe told Pete.
Quickly Snipe peeled off Weasel’s jacket and shirt. Grabbing the heel and toe of each boot, he tugged them off, too, then he pulled off the drenched pants.
As Pete covered the shivering Weasel with the blanket, Weasel sighed. “Ahhh. So much better.” It was only a few minutes before he was snoring.
“Poor lad.” Mrs. Greenly held her hands together as if she was ready to pray for Weasel.
“He’ll do well with some rest,” Mr. Greenly said, taking his wife’s arm and leading her off.
“Good night,” Margaret said, but she stayed looking down at Weasel.
“He’ll be all right, Miss,” Snipe said. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
“I’ll do the same thing,” Pete said, but Margaret didn’t seem to hear him. She aimed a steady smile at Snipe, then pulled her cloak around her shoulders and followed the Greenlys to the house.
After they made themselves a place for the night, Pete changed into dry clothes and settled onto the straw, cross-legged. He propped his hands under his chin and asked, “So what’s it like in 3010?”
“On which planet?” Snipe asked.
Pete sat up straight. “You live on different planets?”
“Oh, yes. Different galaxies, too.” He yawned.
“So, are you Doctor Snipe? I saw what you did for Weasel.”
“No. Everyone in my time is a healer. That’s part of our training. And my real name’s Zeno.”
“Ze-no.” Pete said the name and smiled. “I like it. Why are you here?”
“Vacation and a bit of research. I’m specializing in ancient civilization and their social reforms. Where better than to spend a little time in a place called a Spike. I thought hard suffering would help me write a better paper.” Snipe yawned again. “We’d better get some sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a challenge. I’ve got to start another search for a portal that’s working and get out of here. It’s time for me to go home. I’m already overdue. I have some major exams coming up.”
Home. It was time for him to go home, too. Pete stretched out, wondering how all of that was going to work. How was he going to find Fanon and bring him to a safe hiding place until getting home was possible? His head buzzed with all the things he had to do before—he stopped to count—two days was all he had before the full moon. Could he figure out the spell? Could he—
“Pete. Where are you?”
“Fanon?”
“No, Queen Victoria.”
Fanon was starting to sound more like Weasel. Now both of his friends were sarcastic.
“Where are YOU?” Pete asked.
“I made it to the other side of the lake like we planned and I waited, but you never showed.”
“Weasel got hit on the head. We came back to the stables. Sorry. Couldn’t help it, Fanon.”
“So what now?”
“What now?” Pete repeated. Good question, but one he didn’t have the answer to. “Did you test that teleporting again?”
“It’s still not working.”
“Look,” Pete said, “I’ll get back to pick you up.”
“Okay, but don’t be long. This side of the lake doesn’t have much cover.”
“I’ll be there. Promise. In the morning. Early.”
The question, was how was he going to do that?