Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(23)

“Ja…cynda,” she said. The other pieces were too damaged to read. She tucked away the handkerchief and took hold of the cup once more.

“Well,” Alf observed after taking a puff on his clay pipe, “I guess that’s one way of ’membering who ya are.”

“’Ow’d ya end up in the water?” Syd asked. “Ya jump in?”

She could still feel the smooth hands on her neck, the sensation of floating through the air. “He threw me in.”

“Off that bridge?” Syd pointed upriver. She craned her head around, though to do so made her neck ache more. In the distance, a huge iron structure with three arches rose above the water. She recognized the gas lamps marching across it. Cynda nodded, turning her attention to the tin cup once again. The liquid inside was very hot and she blew on it to cool it. It tasted strong and sweet. She liked that.

“Who did that to ya?” Alf asked.



“Brother.” Not brother.

“Well, ’ell,” Syd said, shaking his head. “I don’t fancy me family, but I don’t try to kill ’em.”

Alf spat on the ground. “Where do you live, girl?”

Scanning the shore, Cynda didn’t see anyplace that looked like home. Then, in the distance, she saw a white fortress. It seemed familiar. “There,” she declared, pointing. “I’ll go there.”

Alf followed her eyes and then laughed. “We got a Royal here, Syd. She says she lives at the Tower.”

“She might; ya never know with that crazy German lot.”

As they chatted back and forth about the eccentricities of the Queen and her brood, Cynda neatly folded the tarp and then handed it to Alf. He stowed it in the boat.

Syd unshipped the oars, one at a time. “Must be goin’. We’re losin’ money ’ere.”

Alf gave her another long look. “Keep yerself safe, girl.”

“If yer gonna keep talkin’ all mornin’, we’re goin’ to lose all the trade,” Syd chided.

“I hear ya.” Alf climbed into the boat and with swift strokes they moved away from the shore. As the craft caught the current, he turned and waved.

Cynda returned it. Once the boat became a small speck on the oily river, she sighted on the white tower and started walking along the Thames. Maybe she did live there. There was only one way to find out.

~??~??~??~



Jacynda’s room was untouched, exactly as it had appeared earlier in the week.

“She hasn’t been back,” Alastair mumbled. Her body wasn’t in the warehouse, and no one had seen her since the night of the fire.

Perhaps they came for her again. They’d done that in the past, but the last time they’d let her take her belongings. That was what made this disappearance different.

Alastair methodically checked the room, but all her possessions appeared to be in the Gladstone. Had she planned on leaving, or just never unpacked? Curious, he opened it up, wondering if he might discover a clue as to her whereabouts.



A spare dress, some undergarments, which he set aside quickly, a brush, toothpowder, and socks. Inside one of the socks was a pocket watch. He opened it and gave the stem a wind. Nothing happened. Perhaps this one wasn’t from the future. Just in case, he tucked it in his pocket to keep it safe.

Then he found a Vespa box. Why would she carry one? She didn’t appear to smoke. Maybe women did in her time.

What an unholy thought.

More digging unearthed a strange stuffed animal. It was caramel-brown with black rings around its eyes and a long, angular body.

“A weasel?” he mused. It seemed an odd thing for her to carry across the centuries. Perhaps it had some hidden meaning.

The final item in the Gladstone was a small box with a hinged lid. Alastair wavered: this was something very private. Perhaps it was best not to pry too far into her personal life. Finally, he gave in to the temptation: he’d already violated her privacy by searching the Gladstone in the first place.

He opened the lid. Inside was a photograph that he remembered well—that of Christopher Stone in his coffin. Alastair had commissioned it so Jacynda would have something to remember her lover by after his violent and untimely death. It tugged at the doctor’s heart that she carried it with her even now.

Stone had been young, perhaps mid- to late twenties. According to Jacynda he was a merry sort who could tell a good joke and had a sense of adventure. Alastair regretted he’d only seen the man after his passing. With a troubled sigh he repacked the case, checked the room one last time, and then headed for the bookshop to return the spare key. There was a finality to this task, weighing him down like a millstone.





Chapter 8




If they wouldn’t feed her here, she’d have to find her own food. Cynda spied the moldy potato in a bin behind a pub. It had black spots on it, but she didn’t care. She dug the worst parts out with her fingers and ate it slowly. It tasted grainy, but was better than nothing.

She’d felt safe in the crazy place. The Mouse Lady had watched over her. There was no Mouse Lady here. Maybe the not brother who threw her in the river would find her. Throw her in again. She looked up, panicking at the thought.

When a portly man walked out of the rear of pub, Cynda shrank back, hiding herself behind a pile of planks. He belched and then unbuttoned his pants. A stream of urine hit the board fence. When he finished, he shook himself and went back inside.