Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(82)

Cynda reached over and tapped the silver band. “Ah, bro, something else going on?”



He turned back, sheepish. “I got married a few months ago.”

Married? “What’s her name?”

“Amanda. Our first child is due in four months.”

“Whoa. You move fast.”

“Mom predicts it’ll be a girl.”

“Good. She’ll run you ragged.”

His face warmed with a smile that seemed to lift the years. “That’s why I wanted to see you. Once Mr. Morrisey said you were doing better, I knew I needed to put some things right.”

Marriage and a child had put her brother in a whole new category.

“Raise your hand,” she said.

“What?”

“Raise your hand.” He did as asked, though she could see he felt it was stupid. “Repeat after me.”

“Cynder—”

“I—insert your name here—do promise not to be an ass to my sister in the future.”

He repeated the sentence back, a grin on his face, purposely leaving his name out.

She matched his grin and raised her own hand. “I, Jacynda Lassiter, promise to treat my older brother, whatever the hell his name is, with the respect he deserves as long as he agrees not to be a complete jerk.”

They slapped palms in the air and then hugged, hard.

“God, I’ve missed you,” he whispered. “Amanda and I want to name our daughter after you. Is that okay?”

Cynda pulled back, mouth agape. “I…all right.”

They fell back into the embrace, letting their old wounds wash away in mutual tears.

~??~??~??~



Saturday, 3 November, 1888

Spitalfields

“Dr. Montrose?”



A young man hesitated in the open doorway as Alastair set aside the instruments he’d been sorting. “I’m sorry, but the clinic won’t be open for another week or so.”

“I’m not here for that,” the fellow replied, already making his way toward the back of the waiting room.

Alastair studied him closely, carefully weighing whether or not he presented a threat. “Then how can I help you, sir?”

“By letting me play postman. I’m Hopkins. I’m an…associate of Jacynda Lassiter.”

“Jacynda?” Alastair hurried around the exam table. “How is she? Have her memories returned?”

“She’s much better,” the man assured him, reaching inside his coat to produce an envelope. “I was asked to deliver this letter to you. She needs some questions answered.”

“She is well enough to write me?” the doctor asked, unable to conceal his glee at the news.

“Yes. But if anyone from our time asks you about that, the answer is no,” his visitor advised. “I’ll come back tomorrow morning to get your reply.”

“But—”

The man named Hopkins was already out the door. Alastair eagerly slit open the envelope. A thick sheaf of handwritten paper was inside. He sat in his chair, propped up his feet, and began to read. The first full sentence made him whoop for joy.

Dearest Alastair,

I remember you now. I remember Keats, as well. This isn’t the way his life is supposed to be. We need to find a way to make it right again. I may need your help.

“And you shall have it, my dear lady,” he murmured, his eyes misting.





Chapter 26




2058 A.D.

TEM Enterprises

At Cynda’s request, Morrisey began filling in more of the missing pieces: about the Transitives and how they could look like anyone, how the Virtuals could appear invisible, and why it was the shifters held their secrets so closely. He spoke of what Harter had learned from a Future, someone ahead of them in the time stream. How it all would go to ruin in a few years’ time.

With some difficulty, he’d spoken of Chris’ death, his eyes filled with barely staunched tears. The longer he talked, the angrier she got. Not at him, but at those who’d played God with her life. Killed Chris. Used that silver tube and put her into the Nothing Time. They’d expected her to become a harmless child, giggling and building sand castles forever.

Not even close.

The bottom line: TPB was her enemy, and that wouldn’t change.

“I know you won’t remember everything I’ve told you,” Morrisey had said. “I’ll put a series of reports on your computer with multi-level encryption as most of this is very sensitive. That way, you can review them when you need.”

That was good, but what Cynda really needed was to hit someone. Repeatedly.

Sensing her internal upheaval, from that point on Morrisey gave her a wide berth, as did about everyone else in the complex. To curb the desire to give TPB more ammunition for committal, she worked out at the gym and practiced Tai Chi to calm the ants. She perfected her kicks and punches, but still had trouble with some of the other moves. To break up the long periods of exercise, Sigmund taught her chess and how to strategize. She studied Victorian history. Most important, she worked through things in her head. Day by day the red haze slowly lifted, replaced by icy resolve.



Whoever had made her this way were going to reap what they’d sown.