Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(56)

He was that way today, asking questions, telling her things, getting upset when she didn’t remember what he’d just told her. She didn’t want to know things until she asked. Then there seemed to be a way of storing the answer so it wouldn’t get lost so easily.



“Let’s try this again,” Ralph began, his voice tight as he wiped his glasses on the end of his tee shirt in frustration. “Do you remember how we met?”

“No.”

“Sure you do. We were in preschool together. I hit you and then you hit me back.”

“Sounds good,” she muttered.

He frowned. “Got us both in a lot of trouble.” He replaced his glasses. “What about your parents? Do you remember them?”

The sadness almost choked her. Too much sand had fallen out her mind: she couldn’t remember her own family.

“Go away,” she ordered.

“What?” Ralph replied, caught off guard.

“Go away!”

“But I thought—”

“Just go away. You’re not right for me. I can’t think when you’re here.”

As he rose, she could see the hurt in his eyes.

“I’m not going to give up, Cyn. You can’t stay this way forever.”

“Why not?” she challenged, confused why he was so angry. Why did he care?

“Because you just can’t.”

She didn’t bother to watch him walk away. It didn’t matter. The image of the kitten came again, chasing after the string. She thought maybe that was her, trying to hook her claws into a piece of her old self so it wouldn’t slip away.

The one called Morrisey appeared at the edge of the sand. He had someone with him, a man in a black suit. The one called Ralph had called him a spook. She didn’t know what that meant, but he still made her nervous, like she’d done something wrong.

After some sharp conversation, the man removed his shoes and socks. His feet were white like the sand. Cynda giggled. Maybe he wasn’t so scary after all.

He refused to sit on one of the pillows, so Morrisey settled himself and made the introductions. “Jacynda, this is Agent Klein. He knows you from before.”



She angled her eyes upward at the looming figure. He didn’t look happy.

“I’m here to find out what happened to you,” he announced.

That again. “I’m not right. Someone did this to me.”

“Who?”

She shrugged. Every now and then, she had the answer. Then it would disappear, circling away from her like one of the fish in the pond.

“What do you remember?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said. That wasn’t quite right, but she wasn’t sure she liked this man.

“Do you remember someone putting something against your head?”

“No.” Maybe if she kept saying “no,” he’d go away.

“Is there anything you do remember?”

“No.” Morrisey gave her a curious look, but held his silence.

The one named Klein started peppering Morrisey with questions. All of them were about her.

The noise was getting to be too much. “Go away,” Cynda commanded, pointing. “Talk about me over there.”

A smirk appeared on Morrisey’s face as he rose to his feet. “She has a point. Let’s leave her to her thoughts.”

“What thoughts? There’s hardly anything left.”

“What’s left is hers, and we need to respect that.”

As they walked across the sand, Morrisey turned and gave her a wink.

Hours later, after she had napped, the man named Morrisey returned carrying a tray of hot tea. He wasn’t in his suit, but in loose clothes. Maybe he wasn’t important here, but one of the inmates, like her.

“I’m sorry about Agent Klein,” he told her. “He insisted on talking to you.”

She sampled the tea. “I like this.”

“It’s Russian orange spice. Very pleasant.” He took a sip and sighed in appreciation. “What have you been thinking about this afternoon?”



“Kittens.”

“And string?”

She nodded and screwed up her face in thought. “Why does everyone want to know who made me like this?”

His face grew solemn. “Because it was a very wrong thing to do.”

“Oh.” She looked down. “I didn’t tell the truth. I remember the fiery tube, the one that made my head hurt.”

He looked very puzzled. “Why didn’t you tell Klein that?”

“I don’t know if he’s right or not.”

“But I am?”

Cynda thought about it, and then nodded.

He grinned. “I’m very pleased to hear that.” Another sip of tea. “You’re starting to remember. That’s a good sign.”

Cynda wasn’t sure about that. It was hard to sort through the memories, know where they belonged, know if she could trust them.

“Do the…ah…” She worked on the name, but it wouldn’t come. She pointed toward the roof. “Do they ever talk to you?”

“Oh, the dragons? No.”

“They won’t talk to me, either. I’ve tried.”