Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(133)

A light snore was his reply.





Chapter 13




“Okay, I won’t kill him,” Cynda announced. Luckily Theo was asleep so he couldn’t hear her. “Actually, I’m very proud of him.”

As he’d painstakingly hopped all over Lord Mayor’s Day, then at set intervals into the future to judge the fire’s progress, Theo had dictated comments into his interface.

“I didn’t know you could do that. I really should read the holo-manual some day.”

The interface beeped. Text appeared in the air above it, an incoming message. It wasn’t from TEM Enterprises.

Cyn?

Hi Ralph. Why you at Guv?

Until the boss returns, company’s locked down.

“Locked down?” What about his sister? she typed.

TPB’s not touched her. We just can’t do business as usual. Fulham and I are at Guv now. How’s the boss?

Sleeping. Tried to fry his brain with all the transfers.

He learnt from the best. Sending you maps and newspapers.

Thanks.

There was a long pause. Be careful. This looks way bad. Another pause. Love you, Cyn.

She whistled under her breath. He’d never said that in all the years they’d known each other. It felt final.

Love you too, guy. Keep the lamp lit, will you?

You got it. Log off.

Logged off.

The maps appeared shortly thereafter, a stark blueprint of London’s devastation. The explosives ignited fires along the south side of the river in Rotherhithe, and in the East End. Driven by a strong wind, the flames moved resolutely westward. By the end of the first day, they’d reached the Aldgate Pump near Leadenhall Street. By the third, they were consuming St. Paul’s, and by the seventh they were turning Britain’s beloved national art treasures to so much powdery ash. The fire storm finally died out almost ten days later, coming perilously close to the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey. By Fulham’s estimates, nearly seventy-five percent of the city would be destroyed.



Three-quarters of London gone. It was unfathomable, even though she could trace the fire’s path on the map, street by street. Cynda heaved a sigh of relief when she realized that Alastair’s house was still there, miraculously untouched. Annabelle’s Boarding House was gone; so was St. Botolph’s Church, Spitalfields Market and most of the pubs she’d frequented.

“Pratchett’s is gone,” her delusion observed, poised on the side of the map. “This hotel, too.”

“Scotland Yard and most of Whitehall,” Cynda added. “At least it didn’t reach the Wescombs’ house.”

A familiar sound made her turn. Three newspapers sat in a pile on the floor, the whirling colors of the transfer fading as she watched. She scooped them up. The newspapers were from Scotland and Ireland. Not a surprise: the presses in London wouldn’t be functional for quite awhile.

The first one was dated November 16, a week after the fire began, and it detailed the locations of each ignition point in the East End.

Words leapt out at her:



HORRIFIC LOSS OF LIFE

Riots widespread–Army called out

Jews, foreigners and Irish face street justice

Mobs roam West End–hundreds dead

By the time she reached the final newspaper, published on the last day of the year, she could hardly breathe. The articles spoke of armed mobs, mostly in the posh West End. They’d stormed houses, robbing, raping and murdering with little police interference. Mayfair, Kensington and Marylebone were the hardest hit.



“The Wescombs live in Marylebone,” her delusion said.

“I know.”

By the time London finally regained control of its streets, nearly ten thousand souls had died by fire, disease or anarchy.

The heart of the British Empire was about to sustain a massive coronary.

We have to find a way to stop this.

~??~??~??~



“This is unbelievable,” Keats exclaimed, bending over the map he’d spread out on the writing table in Cynda’s hotel room. Alastair peered over his shoulder. “I realize you know things we don’t, but this is so outlandish, Jacynda. This must be a mistake.”

She glowered, not in the mood for this battle.

“Remember, this is their home,” Mr. Spider whispered from her shoulder. “Imagine what you’d say if someone told you everything you care for was about to be destroyed.”

Her delusion was right. She softened her tone. “I saw it for myself. London will burn if we don’t stop this.”

Keats was unconvinced. “Are you sure you’re well? You were hallucinating for a time and—”

Alastair gently touched his sleeve. “If you look closely, you’ll see small burns on her cheeks and hands. This is real, Keats.”

The sergeant loosened his collar. “How far does the fire extend?”

After directing a nod of gratitude to Alastair, she pulled out the second map, laying it over the first.

“It burns for ten days?” Incredulously, Keats traced his finger west until it halted near the Westminster Bridge. “That far.”

Alastair raised his eyes from the documents. “How bad does it get?”

She placed the newspapers in front of them and then retreated to the window as they sifted through the articles. Below her, people bustled along the street. Some carried baskets, no doubt with food purchased for the holiday. Food that might never be eaten.