The house wasn't the worst of it. To the left, a Gothic tower rose up, almost a perfect replica of Big Ben, only slightly smaller; it even had a clock. Beyond that, there were buildings-most likely stables, a garage, and cottages for the staff. Bushes and trees, covered in snow at this time of year, were planted in many places. There were lawns everywhere, hidden by the snow, and neat footpaths.
Throwing on their coats and walking along the alley lined with trees and bushes, Richie and John reached a parking lot about fifty meters away, from which a wide driveway branched off in both directions. Four cars could pass each other if they wanted.
A beige vintage Bentley Eight was waiting in the parking lot. A thought flashed through Richie's mind:
"Just think-a gasoline-powered Bentley! What a rarity! It must have been from the 1980s. Oh, I hope I just live in a family of crazy antique enthusiasts and soon I'll get my hands on a proper holographic communicator with holo-net access."
Beyond the road, a huge rectangular pond, more like a swimming pool, opened up. It was about a hundred meters long and about ten meters wide, making it seem narrow. Beyond the pool, a large oval pond stretched perpendicularly.
Richie's rich imagination gave him a view from above. It looked like the two ponds formed a penis and testicles. This brought a smile to the boy's lips. Architects' jokes aren't always obvious, especially given the scale.
"John, remind me how big our yard is?" Richie asked casually.
- Sir, let me remind you that the territory of this family estate, Eaton Hall, covers four and a half thousand hectares.
Richie froze in shock. His eyes widened. He couldn't even imagine that one person could own so much land.
While the boy was digesting the news, he was placed in the backseat of the car. John sat in the front passenger seat next to the driver. The driver himself was unremarkable: a plain cap, a black suit, and an unremarkable appearance.
As the car pulled away, Richie peered between the seats and examined the dashboard. The car moved smoothly, as if floating. Trees lined both sides of the mirror-smooth road, offering a beautiful view of snow-covered meadows and ponds beyond. Streetlights lined the road. The transmigrator noted that the car pulled out of the gate after just over two miles. Three fucking kilometers in a straight line, just to leave the estate grounds!!!
At that moment, Richie's right eyelid began to twitch (a nervous tic). He sat pale in the chair, gripping the leather armrest tightly.
"Three fucking kilometers to the highway! Where did I end up? Is this 'little yard' actually mine?!" Richie thought.
It was a half-hour drive to school. Richie looked at the cars along the way; they were all vintage and ran on fossil fuels. He began to realize he'd surely stepped back in time. Surely everyone around him couldn't be so rich as to drive vintage cars and pay exorbitant taxes for using unpolluting vehicles. Especially since all the cars were right-hand drive and from the same era, roughly the 1970s and 1980s.
The boy expected to see a cool, elite school, but his expectations were dashed. It was an ordinary British state school. However, there was no uniform. The transmigrator remembered from the holopaedia that in England, students always wore a uniform.
Being thrust into the world of elementary school kids was terrifying. Richie was thrilled by one thing: all his classmates were a couple of years older than him-ten-year-olds. He was the smallest in the class. The other kids tried to keep their distance from Richie. Apparently, the kids were aware of the gulf between them and the heir to a huge fortune. Plus, at their age, a two-year difference seems like a huge gap. Or perhaps the boy's behavior before entering school had alienated his classmates. Richie was studiously ignored and seemingly unnoticed. Perhaps such a vacuum would have been a terrible blow to a child's psyche, but the adult couldn't care less. The transmigrator, on the contrary, was glad he wouldn't have to interact with that noisy crowd of kids. He was also glad he had a couple of years less school left.
The computer science lesson was the one that really got to Richie. The kids were brought into a classroom with computers. These were the ancient ancestors of holographic communicators. They didn't even have a plug-and-play graphical interface. They were just a small, bulbous monitor with wires running from the system unit's box. To boot the computer, you had to insert a huge magnetic floppy disk and enter commands manually! It was simply insane. This techno-necromancy terrified Richie; he didn't know how to operate such technology. No wonder he got a low grade for the lesson.
After class, Richie was met by the same Bentley and his valet, John. The boy was taken to fencing class. The transmigrator, who had never held a sword, was ready to give it his all, but during sparring, he was surprised to notice that his body was operating on ingrained reflexes, as if he'd been fencing for years. At first, the boy did lose a couple of duels, but soon he got used to listening to his body's sensations and began fencing quite well for his age. He even won a few sparring matches.
The day ended with a return home and dinner, after which the boy collapsed into bed and fell asleep.
A very busy day. Not a moment of free time. This kind of schedule was unusual for a transmigrator. He didn't even have time to research his background or search for information.
Soon, the boy was awakened by his valet and forced to do his homework. Richie wanted to sleep, but he had to sit down to do his homework. He cursed school. He knew he had to do something about it, but he couldn't think of anything yet. The word "externship" kept popping into his head, but how could he accomplish that?
The first problem with passing exams is that the transmigrator studied at school a long time ago and under a different curriculum. He doesn't remember much, and doesn't know even more. Moreover, he can't be called an excellent student. Only the best of the best are allowed to take exams externally, meaning to qualify, he'll have to pass everything with excellent marks. This means he'll have to memorize a huge amount of material.
The next day, everything repeated itself: aerobics in the morning, breakfast in a strange atmosphere that could hardly be called family-like, and classes at school.
Richie had no time to think about his time in the past; he needed to get used to the boy's role. He didn't want to be discovered.
The difference from yesterday was the trip home. Richie's hopes for a vacation had crumbled like a rickety pile of junk. Instead of fencing practice, he had extra lessons scheduled with a financial tutor.
That day, Richie was surprised to discover that he had a private office in the room next to his bedroom, furnished with luxurious antique furniture and a comfortable, modern office chair. On the desk, there was also an ancient computer. While by today's standards it was the most advanced and expensive personal computer, it wasn't much better than the school computer. The only difference was the inclusion of a graphical user interface, making it easier to work with.
Secondly, the adjacent room housed a classroom, which, for some reason, contained two walnut desks and the same number of chairs. A standard blackboard hung on the wall in front, next to it stood a standard chair with a backrest and a teacher's desk. The room was at least as large as a classroom for about twenty people. Along the walls stood cabinets filled with books, retorts, and chemical reagents. A plastic human skeleton sat in the corner.
An elderly man of about sixty was waiting for the boy in the classroom. He had gray hair and a neat beard. Round glasses covered his brown eyes. He was of medium height, stocky build, and had broad cheekbones. He wore a gray suit with brown leather patches on the elbows.
"Well, well," said the tutor. "Good afternoon, Richard. Please sit down at the table. We're having a lecture on finance today."
- Good afternoon.