So, so much potential. The plot is still interesting. In fact, its creative and fun and quite enjoyable. But the characters! The characters absolutely ruin this book.
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The air smelled of waterweeds, sewage, and dead fish. He instinctively held her hand more tightly. Much, much better than sitting in that stuffy room in the Temple building, doing homework! Lucy had a real gift for seeing the bright side of any situation in any historical period. The opposite, if anything. At least, he fervently hoped it was only mud. Then she performed a few dance steps and twirled around. He grinned too often when he was with Lucy. They were on the way to London Bridge. How thankful he would be to take off this stiff white ruff again!
It felt like the big plastic collars that dogs have to wear after an operation. Lucy turned the corner, making for the river. She still seemed to be thinking about Shakespeare. The seats were super. Lucy stopped, as she had on their way to the theater, to look at the houses built right over the bridge.
But he led her on. It looks like a perfectly normal street. Oh, look, a traffic jam! A man in a black hat leaned out of the window of a coach right beside them. His starched, white lace ruff came up to his ears. The coachman shook his head. Not a great place for time travel, then. They followed the French coachman, but after a while, the people and vehicles were crammed so close together that there was no way of getting through.
Dripping water wears away stone. That might apply to the other Montrose girls, but definitely not Lucy. Lucy, someone you could literally— He took a deep breath. For three seconds, he was afraid she was going to push him away, but then she seemed to get over her surprise.
She returned his kiss, at first cautiously, then putting her heart into it. But then he caught sight of a figure in a dark hood and took a step back in alarm. Lucy looked at him for a moment, rather annoyed, before she blushed and lowered her eyes. He said I kiss like someone pushing a handful of unripe gooseberries into your face. He had to straighten out the turmoil in his head somehow or other. He drew Lucy into the light of the torches, took her by the shoulders, and looked deep into her eyes.
But right at this moment we have a tiny little problem. A cry of surprise came from inside the coach. How do you come to be here? What does this mean?
Several, in fact. May I join you in your coach? Lucy had drawn Paul two steps aside, out of the circle of light cast by the torches. Only much younger. What are we going to do now? Come on, we have to reach the bank.
They were staring, spellbound, at the dark window of the coach, even more fascinated than they had been by the stage of the Globe Theatre. Paul just shook his head. Once again, they heard a soft laugh. How much easier your life—and mine as well!
If only you had heard the voice of reason, instead of telling your rosary. If only you had realized that you are a part of something greater than all your priest says in his sermons. Lucy and Paul heard him gabbling it under his breath. Bloody hell. Correct as I am, I therefore feel it my duty to lend Death a helping hand. Lucy nudged him in the ribs. Today, at hours, Lucy and Paul were sent to elapse to the year When they returned at hours, they landed in the rose bed outside the window of the Dragon Hall, wearing early seventeenth-century costume and drenched to the skin.
They seemed to be very upset; they were talking wildly, and therefore, much against their will, I informed Lord Montrose and Falk de Villiers. However, there turned out to be a simple explanation for the whole affair. Lord Montrose said he still had a vivid recollection of the fancy-dress party held in the garden here in , during which several guests, evidently including Lucy and Paul, had unfortunately landed in the goldfish pool after the excessive consumption of alcohol.
John Laing. No kissing allowed here! The speaker was a small gargoyle crouching in the pew right next to the confessional, as surprised to see me as I was to see him. Although that was hardly possible. To be honest, my powers of thought had switched off entirely. It had all begun with that kiss.
Gideon de Villiers had kissed me—me, Gwyneth Shepherd. I might also have stopped to remember that there was a wall between us, and a confessional window through which Gideon had squeezed his head and arms, and these were not the ideal conditions for kissing. I came down from cloud nine with a bump and forgot the gargoyle. Unfortunately, I was rather breathless, which tended to spoil the effect.
Good heavens! And, wow, could Gideon kiss! Did that mean that now he was carrying on as if nothing had happened?
Was the kiss some kind of declaration of love? Or had we just been snogging a little because we had nothing better to do?
The dress was white, with sky-blue satin bows at the waist and the collar, probably the latest fashion in the year , but not quite right for wearing on public transport in the twenty-first century.
The air smelled of waterweeds, sewage, and dead fish. He instinctively held her hand more tightly. Much, much better than sitting in that stuffy room in the Temple building, doing homework! Lucy had a real gift for seeing the bright side of any situation in any historical period. The opposite, if anything.
The air smelled of waterweeds, sewage, and dead fish. He instinctively held her hand more tightly. Much, much better than sitting in that stuffy room in the Temple building, doing homework! Lucy had a real gift for seeing the bright side of any situation in any historical period.