Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(6)

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This day began like all the others: the grate of the bolt on the cell door, followed by the sound of metal bowls sliding across the stone floor. The food held no interest. Others would eat it.

She closed her eyes and returned to the wasteland of her mind. Little snippets of images and sound floated by, erratic clouds pushed by a light wind. A man’s face. He kept saying a word she couldn’t understand. Another face, warm and smiling. The smell of sheep. Something blue with legs.

Her head still throbbed, though the place near her temple was less sore now. She’d hoped that as the pain dulled, answers would come rushing back, that she would know who she was, what she was doing here. Wishful thinking. Asking her cellmates did little. One of them didn’t know her name. The other demanded her boots in payment for any answer.

She’d never been brave enough to ask any of the attendants. Most of them frightened her. If she admitted to them she didn’t know who she was, they’d never set her free.

If she could just remember her name. That would be a beginning. Once she knew her name, she could start to find the other missing pieces. There were so many of them.

What she’d discovered so far was of little comfort. The solid stone walls around her belonged to a mental asylum called Bedlam. Tormented shrieks rent the air at all hours. All mad people here, one of her cellmates had told her.

“Little miss?” a voice called.

She opened her eyes. One of the attendants, the nice older one, stood inside the door, his hands full of empty bowls.

“Did ya eat?”

She shook her head.

He sighed. “Ya got someone to see ya, missy.”

A woman entered the cell, then halted in front of her. The visitor knelt and peeled back the light veil she was wearing. Her eyes were hazel, and her hair brown, with some gray at the temples.



“My God,” she whispered. She hesitated for a moment. “Do you know how you got here?”

“No.”

“Do you know who you are?”

“I, ah...” She shook her head. “Do you?”

The woman leaned closer. “Yes.”

A thrill of hope rushed through her, even as she worked to tamp it down. “I won’t give up my boots,” she declared, fearing some trick.

“No, you keep them. You’ll need them.” She leaned even closer and whispered, “You are Jacynda Lassiter.”

Jacynda? “Why don’t I know that?”

“You’ve been hurt. Now repeat the name to me.”

She couldn’t. She’d forgotten it already. Tears threatened to flow.

“Jacynda Lassiter. Now you say it.”

She did. The next time she tried, it was gone.

“I know it’s hard.” The woman rummaged through a pocket and retrieved a piece of paper. She tore off a small section and handed it over. “Can you read it?”

She studied the finely printed letters and sounded it out. “Ja...cynda Lass...iter.”

“That’s it,” the visitor affirmed, smiling encouragingly.

She pointed to another word. “What’s this one?”

“Cynda. Your friends call you that. Now keep this paper safe. Repeat the names over and over until you know them without looking. You must eat and—” a pause and the voice lowered, “find a way out.”

“I don’t know how,” she wailed.

Her visitor took hold of her shoulders. “Now listen to me. If you stay here, you will die. Do you understand?”

She nodded. “Can’t I go with you?”

“No. You have to find your own way out. Eat and survive. It’s very important for all of us, Jacynda Lassiter.”

The woman lowered the veil, then knocked on the door. It swung open, courtesy of the attendant. A moment later, the door bolted behind her visitor. The cell felt empty now. She’d liked the nice woman. She looked at the paper and sounded out the letters. “Jacynda Lass...Lassiter.” The kind lady had given her a name. It might not be her real one, but she’d claim it anyway. She knew no other.



“You will see she eats?” the woman asked as they walked along the lengthy corridor toward the entrance. On the left side were countless cells, each harboring a lost soul.

“We’ve been tryin’, but she says she’s not hungry,” the attendant replied. “She says a lot of odd things. Thinks we make her sleep on straw ’stead of a bed. Says that there are two others in there with her and one of them’s tryin’ ta steal her boots. Says she’s been here for days. Only just came ta us last night.” Then he looked chagrined. “Course ya’d know that, bein’ family and all.”

The woman nodded. “You will watch out for her, won’t you?” she asked.

He thought for a moment and smiled. “I’ll take her to Mad Sammy. If she likes the little miss, she’ll watch over her. No one crosses Sammy.”

A matching smile blossomed on the woman’s face. “That sounds like a very good idea.”

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By the time Alastair reached Pratchett’s Bookshop, it was nearly eleven. He entered through the back gate and made his way down the passage to Jacynda’s rented room, his pulse racing with uncertainty. When his knocking brought no response from within, his heart sank. Perhaps the owner of the building had seen her this morning. That’s all Alastair needed: confirmation she was still alive, somewhere. Better yet, he wanted to hear Jacynda’s tale in person, while thanking God for her survival.