Free Chameleon by Cidney Swanson Page A

more … you know, badass.”
    Sir Walter chuckled and patted Will’s shoulder. “My dear young man. Rest assured the time will come for that. In the meanwhile, are you perhaps familiar with the phrase about the doom awaiting those who do not appreciate L’Histoire ?”
    Will rattled off the familiar quote. “Those who don’t study history are doomed to repeat it. Jorge Santayana.”
    “An adequate, if imperfect, rendering of what Monsieur Santayana wrote,” said Sir Walter. “My dear children,” (here Mickie bristled like a pinecone,) “Allow me to reassure you that if haste were necessary, we should act swiftly. You must understand that neither Girard nor I regard time in an altogether normal fashion. A year, or even ten years, we regard as a tiny nothing.”
    “Meanwhile the clock’s ticking for the rest of us,” muttered Mickie.
    Sir Walter smiled. “Indeed. Your friends await you even now,” he said, gesturing to the bus.
    We climbed aboard, Mick grabbing two seats to herself, Will and I sitting together.
    Across the aisle and up a few seats, I noticed Gwyn nodding her head as another student whispered and pointed at me. When the whisperer noticed that I observed her, she stopped mid–sentence and turned her face forward. No longer staring at me, she continued to drop quiet somethings about me into Gwyn’s listening ear. A quiver ran through me—an involuntary shudder as I remembered the silent years when I’d decided I wouldn’t talk to anyone. When they’d made fun of me. But Gwyn didn’t giggle. And she didn’t make faces at me. No, what she did wounded me far more deeply. She ignored me.
    I forced myself to pay attention to Will, still flushed with the thrill of having walked where Leonardo Da Vinci once walked. Finally, Will appeared to have talked himself out on the subject and we switched to a discussion of Sir Walter. The chatter of twenty–four students created sufficient white noise, especially when half of them were ear–budded to electronic devices. Among other things, we wondered if we should give the book we’d stolen from Helga to Sir Walter.
    “We need to wait for a chance to tell him when my sister’s not in the room,” said Will.
    “Right,” I agreed. “And I guess he’s got his hands full with translating Pfeffer’s volume for now. Although, no matter what’s inside it, I don’t think the journal Pfeffer stole is going to be enough to make people turn against Dr. Helmann,” I said. “I mean, the kind of people who would sit through the video presentation we watched without denouncing him for it, I don’t think they’re going to be all that disturbed by what he did to a handful of children in the last century.”
    Will nodded. “But Sir Walter’s not stupid; I don’t think those guys at the presentation are the ones he’s planning to persuade.”
    “Do you think he’s going to the government?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe.” Will looked behind us at his sister, who was sleeping with ear–plugs. “I looked at the Geneses website back on the hotel computer. Helmann’s name isn’t anywhere to be seen.”
    “He ought to be dead by now. Plus, it wouldn’t make sense for him to be listed under the name he used during World War Two, would it? The name of a war criminal?”
    “Guess not. I found one name I recognized on the Geneses site, though. Our friend Hans is listed there.”
    I shuddered involuntarily at the mention of my mother’s murderer.
    “You okay?” asked Will.
    “Um, yeah, I’m just … it’s all so …”
    “I know,” said Will, smiling and taking my hand in his.
    I looked down at the way our hands fit together.
    Perfectly.

Excerpted from My Father’s Brilliant Journey, by Helga Gottlieb
    Reflecting back upon an important lesson learned during the siege of Château Rochefort, my father writes:
    Du Lac’s soldiers held Waldhart, myself, and Lady de Rochefort, whom they seemed afeared to harm. This fear they overcame when Du Lac himself