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The three maids waited in the balloon for most of the night, in increasing agitation. Mirabelle’s face was like thunder, imagining Igor ravishing the Breton wenches as they slept in their beds. As is often the case during a long tense wait in the black of night, the maids thoughts turned increasingly murderous, worry transposing to anger and thoughts of vengeance.
The truth was that the Russians were having a great deal of difficulty finding any food. The peasants were starving and there was nothing to steal. Dreading returning to the balloon empty handed, they continued the fruitless search.
Meanwhile Pseu was leisurely perusing ceramic tiles in the Locmaria quarter, unaware of the difficulties of the Russians.
Eventually, the three men returned to the balloon, with nothing to show for their nights escapades. Mirabelle snorted derisively, resisting the urge to slap Igor.
“It’s getting light” said Boris, “We really must leave now, food or no food. Let’s go!”
The balloon rose just as the sun was casting a pinkish glow and the river mists were rising in ghostly wisps.

Exhausted from lack of sleep, the occupants slept, taking turns to stay awake. Fanella was on the first watch, shivering and grumpy with hunger. Surreptitiously, she gobbled down a few foul tasting handfuls of lard. When it was Adeline’s turn to keep watch, she had a similar idea, and likewise swallowed some greasy globs of lard, thinking, as Fanella had done, that a few handfuls would not be missed. When the others took their turns on the watch, they also had similar ideas, erroneously assuming that nobody else had thought to do the same. By lunchtime, when they’d all had sufficient sleep, there was not a great deal of lard left. A dramatic and judgemental argument ensued with everyone accusing each other of monumental stupidity, but as Boris wisely pointed out, they were all equally to blame.
“But we’re over the sea now, and we’re losing height!”
Uh oh, said Pseu to herself. I can increase the wind speed to hurricane force, but that might be a bit too risky. Or I can allow the wind to resume it’s prevailing westerly course, but that wouldn’t help, they’d end up back where they came from and that would be catastrophic.
“Perhaps I can help” whispered Belen telepathically. “If you think you can land the balloon on my decks.”
It would be a tricky landing, but there was no other option. Quickly Pseu worked out the likely coordinates of the ultimate descent and beamed them to Belen.
“The homing parrot will help” added Belen. “Follow the bird and adjust the wind direction accordingly.”

Sadie paused for a moment. She noticed with a little sadness how frequent her swearing and snapping had become. She felt as though she was reverting to an earlier version of herself, before all her happiness training, when she worked as a pet food tester. The company motto was “If you wouldn’t put it in your mouth, don’t expect your pet to!” Sadie had to test everything from doggy treats and chewy bones to disgusting wet globules of liver mixture. She shuddered, remembering the time she found the rat tail in the food she was trialling. Needless to say, her rampages of negativity were frequent back in those days.

Get a grip, Sadie my girl. It doesn’t matter what time period you are in, the point of power is always NOW!

Sadie did not realise she had spoken out loud, and was suddenly startled by a voice seeming to originate from behind the Virgin Mary.

“Too fucking right!” shouted Sanso exuberantly. “No need for air balloons; your carriage awaits, milady! I’m afraid I couldn’t get the zebras at this short notice, but I think you will find the pacific singing frogs do the job quite satisfactorily. Of course,” he added proudly, “I did need to round up quite a few of them.”

Despite the wine and late gambling at the inn, Giacomo Casanova woke up refreshed and ready to go. In fact, if he hadn’t had his content of those two, he would not sleep well. Senator Bragadin had tried to warn him against excess, but God gave Giacomo a strong and robust constitution and an insatiable appetite for all senses matter.

Last night’s dream was disarming. He saw whales arriving at Gibraltar’s port. He had recognized the place from his numerous travels around Europe. It hadn’t really changed. Just maybe more monkeys than in his memories of the place. The whales were very colorful and they were asking for squirrels and keys in Russian. His training with the freemasons told him not to simply dismiss it as an after-party dream.

He heard someone snoring. A man, after the sound, how unusual, even if it happened once or twice before. He never attempted female conquest during a trip, he avoided easy or vulgar, and their current pace imposed a lack of commitment that wasn’t to his liking.

Father Balbi, a man in his fifties, didn’t seem to have the same luck with his constitution. The priest didn’t seem too keen on upholding his vows either. His face was red with bad wine and strong female scent might explain the dark circles around his eyes and the look of unattended tiredness. The man snorted in his sleep. It was also true they were travelling days and sometimes nights when they couldn’t earn their bedroom at gambling in the main room of the Inns. It wasn’t rare that Giacomo, despite his natural penchant, would lose everything on a turn, simply because he couldn’t stop a disastrous bet.

Just after their recent escape, Giacomo and Father Balbi didn’t want to attract too much attention with fancy clothes. Now they were far enough from Venice and their recent earnings allowed them to buy more suitable silk breeches and even wigs. His French gambling name was Jacques de Seingalt. He thought he had learned enough French during his previous visit to Paris, that he could be easily mistaken for a native. With women he learned the language of love, and with gamblers the language of the streets and when to keep his mouth shut.

Last night he not only earned their bedroom for the night, he also learned a few interesting elements. Nobles were at the Inn and they didn’t think of discretion as a virtue, nor did they refrain their bets at a good game. And Giacomo knew how to make games interesting. After a few turns at a card game, it wasn’t long before one of them told that there would be a party at Versailles the following day. Madame de Pompadour, patron of the arts, was giving a somptuous party. Looking at a few faces, it didn’t seem to be of everyone’s liking. But nobles were somewhat like cats, they didn’t care about what commoners did think.

Their first destination had been Paris, Giacomo wanted to meet with his friend de Bernis to help him find some regular income. Paris would have to wait. Versailles was calling. If Madame de Pompadour was giving a party, de Bernis would be at the Court. And that scoundrel Saint-Germain would be there too, he had a few masonic connections which could prove advantageous.

Anna’s voice and young face trailed off as the Queen emerged from her dream. Confused for a moment, she tried to get rid off the undefinable guilt she always felt when dreaming about her late sister. You simply didn’t speak about Anna. And you couldn’t take pleasure in childish dreams.

Her guilt soon transformed into a mild irritation and she frowned as she remembered the cavagnol game of the previous night. She had lost again. The amount didn’t really matter, it was more about the principle. She always lost. But she took a momentary pleasure in thinking that Jeanne-Antoinette also lost most of her bets.

With a sigh, she looked at the big ornate windows. Someone had opened the heavy velvet curtains while she was still asleep, and it certainly didn’t help keep the air warm in that time of year. Nonetheless, she enjoyed seeing the sky when she woke up, even in winter time when it was still dark or like today, when the colours of dawn preceded the Sun. She couldn’t believe she had slept so long.

It always was a too brief moment alone. As if summonned by magic, three maids entered the room silently, two of them holding her morning dress, that they carefully deposited on a chair, and the other holding the copper basin of fresh water for the Queen’s quick morning ablution. The maid put it on top of the sauteuse chest made of rose wood and carved beautifully. One of her daughters once told her that she swore the chest in her bedroom was alive and would jump on her bed at night to play with her.

One thought leading to another, she looked at her collection of stuffed toy, unconsciously counting them and checking if they were all in order. She had two cabinets made of rose wood especially for her “friends” as she used to call them. She had begun to buy them after she almost died giving birth so long ago. At first it was just a simple gift from the King. She first thought it to be a lion, but apparently it was one of those Asian dogs. The finish was crude, it had small beady eyes and the curly tail didn’t hold very long on its bottom, but she developed a liking for it. And after a few weeks, she felt it needed a friend, so she had a lion made as a companion for her asian dog.
Her ladies-in-waiting, began to bring her new ones, little dogs (she had a liking for them), zebras, fluffy cats and dwarf goats, she even had an owl and two rabbits, one white and one cerulean blue.

Her eyes almost missed the twin ferrets, offered to her by Saint Germain after a gambling party. He had said they would bring her luck. She didn’t really liked them, they were scrawny and heavy, certainly weighted with lead.

It was time to get up, she had her weekly Polish concert to organize. One of her small pleasures.

Although the ride was smoother inside the tunnel, the breakneck speed and jolting of the previous leg of the journey had taken its toll. Cedric’s back was aching, and he was impatient now for the journey to end so that he could relax, stretch out, and get the damn corsets off. His neck was stiff from the weight of the wig, his toes were cramped in the narrow shoes, and his eyes were red and sore from the lavish make up. Fuck this, he muttered, 21st century boys clothes are alot more comfortable.
“Wait until you see the clothes in the 22nd century, Cedric” whispered Pseu, who had heretofore been keeping a low profile. “Living breathing moving fabrics, that shape themselves to whatever position you’re in, supporting yet flexible and not restricting in any way.”
“Sounds heavenly, why can’t we go there instead?”
“Because you wouldn’t want to come back, that’s why. Why do you think it is that you hardly ever see time travellers from the future in the past? The damn clothes, that’s why! It takes a brave gallant soul to subject themselves to the clothes of the past, even briefly.”

“Is this a breach of time travelling protocol?” wondered Sadie. “Strictly speaking timewise, cork bums aren’t fashionable for another twenty years or so.”
“Well, I suppose that’s how trendsetters operate normally, how else would fashions change?” snapped Conseula, whose heart was set on a new Gilles Culeau bum. “And if you think I’m going to settle for the sheeps head wig currently popular, when those gorgeous elaborate confections of jewels and feathers are just a decade away, you’ve got another think coming!”
“I do think it would be wise to wait until we get there first before deciding on costumes, so that we fit in, you know, stay inconspicuous. Not only that, but are all these bums and whalebone hoops going to fit through the tunnel?”
“Incon fucking spicuous? Us? In this timeframe? Are you completely mad?” retorted Consuela. “Not fucking likely! Say, Chair, can you recommend a wig shop?”
Sadie sighed, and hoped the tunnel was very wide, and very high.

Of course she was keen to visit the “New Stonehenge”, as it was being penned in social media, but first she must sort this damned parcel mix-up. Said parcel was large, flat, wrapped in brown paper and addressed to a Mr or Mrs Chuen. Flove suspected it contained a family photo. Why she was wandering around Hastings with the parcel, or the exact nature of the mix-up, was unclear to her. Let alone something she could explain coherently to anyone else. Yet there she was, waiting in line at the Post Office with this blessed parcel. Her frustration may have made her a tad impatient with the lady who served her. “I am fed up with the Post Office getting things wrong. I am doing this for the good of mankind” she announced fervently.

“Early retirement!” Skye said, “Bloody cheek! Undercover operation, very hush hush, it was. The noteworthy case of the Welsh Leaves of Absinthe, a very interesting case indeed. Fifty Seven bottles in that case, and each one different. I had to case the joint first of course, then proceed with the utmost abandon. Absolutely crucial to work this one to the book ~ intuition and impulse, and absolutely no planning.”

“I can’t wait to hear all about it” said Pearl. “ I heard about the Rose surge while you were there, and something about a radioactive grafitti surge originating in an abandoned nuclear plant in the mountains?”

“Absolutely true, Pearl. I heard about that one on the way back to the airport, spontaneous radiactive grafitti appearing and it’s heading east. That’s the bizarre thing, it’s working its way across the country, and each new sighting is east of the last one.”

“Sounds nasty, what’s the plan to divert it?” asked Pearl.

“Liverworts.”

Have you ever dreamt that you forgot to put your pants on to go to school or to go to work? How did you feel in the dream ? Ashamed ? At ease ? Were you wondering how you got there in your undies ?
Dream memories were flying in Madam Li’s head. It had been a recurring dream in her childhood and her most dreaded fear. She had always checked on twice before living her house that she had a dress or trousers long enough to hide her ankles.

Her cell phone didn’t have any battery left and she was late. She would have to find one in the street. She ran out of her apartment after having checked her outfits twice and reassured took the elevator. She had her bags with warmer clothes inside for when she’d arrive in Harbin for the ice festival. She looked nervously at her cell phone again, still no battery of course. She put it back in her handbag. Someone entered the elevator, 30 more floors to go. She gasped when she realized the man, a westerner, had no pants on. She looked away quickly. Was he not aware of the missing element in his outfit ? She decided to make as if everything was normal.

Things went worse when she got out of the elevator. There were two men and a woman waiting at the check out desk, and they had pink underwears. Apparently the first man didn’t know them and the service apartment employee behind his desk didn’t seem at all surprised by the situation. When it was her turn, he looked at her, and at her long dress. She gave him the keys and as he turned away to put them back on the wall, she noticed that he was bare legs too. Something was wrong. Was it a surge in the population ? Would she have to stay here longer ?

The taser was a long range and when Mari Fe threw it away, it inadvertantly triggered the mechanism. The waiter was at that moment bringing a big plate of very hot soup to the table near Elza’s and was shocked. His body was shaken and Elza watched the soup making an odd design before splashing upon the table just behind her. She took advantage of the confusion to sneak out of the restaurant without paying the bill.

Elza beckoned to the waiter and ordered another slice of Romanov tart. The rendezvous was to be 11:11am, at the Rasputin Cafe and Cake Shop, located in an alley not far from Lubyanka Square in Moscow. But the surge team reps were late. Elza frowned, and called Katarina, who was posted in Baku, to see if Pearl and Mari Fe had left yet.

“Left? They haven’t even arrived yet.” Katarina replied. “ Oh hang on! I see two ladies ~ well, four actually ~ coming up the alley now, I better get off the phone in case it’s them. I’ll call you back. Oh my, what on earth are they doing? One of them has just jumped the other one…”

And then the phone went dead. Elza sighed, and ordered another tart.

Katarina knotted the scarf under her chin and grinned at her reflection in the mirror. The disguise was comfortable, colourful and effective. The carpet shop was located on a coordination point in an alley off Fountain Square, easy enough to find with a CP nav ap. There were several ordinary carpets hanging in the window and piled up near the door, in case any unsuspecting normal tourist chanced on the CP, but the new stock of old flying carpets was ready in the back room, awaiting approval from the Surge Team representatives, ready for the flight to Moscow.