Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(51)

“Jacynda,” she corrected proudly. That she could remember.

She rose stiffly and followed him. When she stepped off the sand, she abruptly halted. “What are they called?”

He turned around. “Pardon?”

She pointed upward at the creatures on the building. “Those.”

“They’re celestial dragons.”

“Cel…lestial dragons,” she repeated. “Do they eat people?”

“They won’t hurt you, if that’s what you’re worried about. They guard the temple and whoever is inside it.”

She liked that idea. “What did you say your name was?”

“Morrisey.”

“I’m Jacynda,” she announced.

A bemused smile. “I know. What did you think about while you were sitting out there?”

“Kittens.”

He gave her an odd look. “Why kittens?”

“They chase string.”

“Did you used to have a kitten?”

Did I? “I don’t know,” she admitted. “What are they again?”

It took him a moment to recall her question. “Celestial dragons.”

“I like them.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Feel free to ask me anything you wish.”

As they walked, she pondered that offer. “Was I always like this?”

“No, you weren’t.”

“What happened?”



He hesitated and then suddenly veered toward the sand again, gesturing for her to follow. Kneeling, he scooped up a white handful. “This is what your mind used to be like.” He spread his fingers, letting the sand drain out in rivulets. When nearly all of it was gone, he closed his fingers again, stopping the flow. “You’ve lost a lot of your memories and your ability to connect objects with their names.”

She looked at what was left in his palms. It didn’t seem like much. “Will it get better?”

“Maybe.”

Cynda turned, studying the structure behind them. “Why do they live up there?”

This time, he knew what she meant. “I don’t know,” he replied, dusting off his hands as he rose. “Maybe they like it there.”

“Do they have one of these on them?” she asked, holding up her wrist to expose the blinking band.

“No. You’re only wearing that because we’re afraid you’ll get lost.”

“I won’t,” she assured him. “I know where I am.”

He looked genuinely puzzled. “You do?”

Cynda nodded. “I’m here,” she declared, gesturing toward the ground. “Where else would I be?”

He smiled, although his eyes still looked serious. “How Zen. Come along, you need your rest.”

Cynda kept looking at the dragons over her shoulder as she followed the man named…whatever it was. She’d come back in the morning. Maybe the dragons would talk to her then. She bet they knew things no one else did.





Chapter 17




Wednesday, 31 October, 1888

Old Bailey (Central Criminal Courts)

With Keats’ name in nearly every newspaper, it wasn’t surprising most of London’s underworld was here. The criminals wanted a front row seat for this one, a rare chance to see a copper sweat.

From his position in the dock, Keats had a clear view of the courtroom. In front of him was the chair from which the judge would make his pronouncements and sum up the case for the jury. To Keats’ left was the jury box and to his right the spectator’s gallery. It was filling rapidly. He recognized some of the faces: petty thieves and confidence men he’d arrested, a few of the prostitutes, a forger, and some of the local toughs.

Then he heard the catcalls start up.

“’ey rozzer, bet ya wanna be up ’ere now, don’t ya?” A chorus of laughter. “They’ll ’ave to cut the rope mighty short for that one.”

In reality, the rope would have to be longer because of his slight weight. Keats inwardly grimaced: knowledge was not always a good thing. He stiffened his resolve, if nothing more than to uphold the reputation of Scotland Yard.

Just in front of the spectator’s gallery was where the barristers sat. Lord Wescomb would be to the left of the long table, the Crown Prosecutor on the right. Just behind the barristers sat the privileged witnesses and visitors. That section was already crowded. He saw familiar faces, and that cheered him.

Alastair was talking animatedly to another man, most likely Reuben Bishop. Seated a short distance away was Lady Sephora Wescomb. Her anxiety was displayed by the constant fussing with the strings of her reticule. The Chief Inspector sat next to her, pointedly not looking in Keats’ direction. In the second row was Keats’ cousin Roddy, dispatched by his grandparents to provide daily reports on the trial’s progress. His usual gay demeanor was missing. When Roddy peered up at him, Keats gave a slight smile, hoping to allay the young man’s fear. It proved futile. Roddy had always looked up to him, called him a hero. Now he saw that even his cousin’s feet were made of clay.



Keats tugged on his coat sleeves. The action did nothing to obscure the chains at his wrists. Every movement generated a rattle. It was humiliating and the extra weight made his healing rib ache. How many men had he put in this very dock? How many had been innocent?