Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(29)

As they walked down the passageway to the back door, Alastair asked, “Do you need money?”

“No. I have an ample sum.”

“Where are you staying if I need to find you?”

“Rotherhithe. I’m at Mrs. O’Neill’s boarding house on Neptune Street. It’s near the chemical works. I’m known as Sean Murphy over there. Send a note, rather than coming yourself. It’s too dangerous for both of us.”

“If I come, I’ll be en mirage.”

It took a moment for that to register. “So I’ve finally pulled you down that road, have I?”

“Somehow, I always knew you would.” They clasped hands and then Keats hurried across the yard to whatever fate awaited him.

The nice man with the beard had said she’d be safe here, that the new man would take care of her. She would just have to trust them. With nothing else to do, Cynda’s eyes wandered around the kitchen. It was clean but sparse. There were a few dishes in the tall cabinet on the wall and only a teapot on the stove. It was so quiet compared to the crazy place.

The man with the brown hair returned. “I’ll lay a fire in the parlour. It’ll be more comfortable there,” he told her. “I’m sorry, I just moved in. I don’t have a lot of things squared away yet.”

It sounded like this was important to him, but she had no idea why.

“I collected your Gladstone from Pratchett’s when you didn’t return,” he continued, carrying a load of kindling into the next room. She followed him noiselessly as he dropped the wood into the hearth and then lit the gas lamps, one by one. “It’s just there,” he said, pointing toward a black bag sitting next to a chair.



Cynda studied it, running her hands over the leather. There was a long rent in the side of it. Then she pulled her hand back suddenly, a cold pang shooting through her chest.

She looked up at him. He was staring into her face, puzzled.

“Something…bad,” she said, shivering.

“You were mortally injured when you were carrying it. Your lover’s ashes were inside that Gladstone. You took him home with you.”

“Lover?”

“You can’t remember him, either,” he murmured. “How much you’ve lost. Well, come here and watch me light the fire.”

Cynda hefted the case and brought it with her. Sitting on the floor near him, she began to pull out the contents, one by one, like a child on Christmas morning. First, the clothes. She held a navy dress for a long time, eyes closed.

“Pretty,” she whispered.

“Yes, especially when you’re wearing it.”

That only confused her. By the time he had the fire lit, she’d set the clothes aside and was holding the stuffed animal.

He looked over at it. “Is it a weasel?”

Cynda shook her head, hugging it fiercely, not knowing why it brought her such comfort. After she set it in her lap, she dug further into the case, pulling out a small box. She opened the top, peered inside and then slammed it shut.

“Sad,” she said, pushing it away on the floor. “Can’t.”

The man looked like he understood. “You may not remember Mr. Stone’s name, but you still feel his loss.” He waved her over to the couch. “Come here, it’s too cold on the floor for you. I’ll fetch you a blanket.”

When he returned, she was clutching the stuffed animal in her arms again. It felt good to pet the top of its head.

“Jacynda, do you know who I am?” the man asked.

She nodded. “Fred.”

The hope in his eyes evaporated. “No, I’m Alastair. I’m a doctor. Do you remember me now?”



“No.” The pieces in her brain just weren’t coming together. She could see images, places, people, but they made little sense.

“My God,” he murmured. His voice sounded different now, as if there were small pebbles in it. “What have they done to you?”

She stopped petting and moved her finger upward to the side of her head where the strange mark resided. She tapped it a few times.

“Will it get better on its own?”

She shrugged.

“Damn them,” he muttered.

She started at. Something wasn’t right.

“I apologize. I’m sounding like you now.” Then he paused. “You remembered I don’t swear, at least not often.” A smile grew on his face. “I would think that a good sign.” He pointed toward the animal. “You say that he is not a weasel. What kind of creature is he, then?”

She frowned. “Fer…fer…

“Ferret?”

“Yes. It’s a fer...ferret.”

Heartened, he returned to another question. “What’s your name?”

The handkerchief came to mind. Cynda pulled it out of her pocket and extracted the damaged piece of paper.

“Jacynda,” she announced. When he reached for it, she hid it away. She trusted him, but it was the only thing that told her who she really was.

“Where did you get that?”

“At the crazy place. A woman gave to me.”

“But how did she know your name?” He frowned. “Someone had to tell her. Who brought you there?”

“Macassar,” she replied, pointing to her head.