Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(86)

She awaited his reaction, anticipation making her fidget with the chopstick in her hands.

Morrisey looked out at the sand and then shot to his feet. “My God, it’s magnificent!” He cautiously made his way down the steps to examine her sand sculpture. He paused near a wing. “I have never seen a T’ien Lung like this, Jacynda.” He beamed at her with a mixture of pride and something indefinable. “It’s,” he gestured in unusual agitation, “incredible.”

Cynda nodded, her heart light. It was incredible. And she’d created it.

Morrisey returned to the pagoda, still beaming. “Is it you in dragon form?”

“Yes. The ones on top of the pagoda would never come down to talk to me, so I decided I’d send them a message of my own.”

“And so you have. Do you know the significance of the color yellow?” he asked, pointing to the sand dragon.

She shook her head. “I thought it was pretty.”

“It is, but it comes with its own lore. Yellow signifies a celestial dragon that cannot be captured, tamed, or killed. It is said it will only appear when perfection is found.”

Cynda looked back at the dragon and cracked a smile. “Perfection?” Then she laughed, shaking her head. “Hardly. I’m still missing so much.”



“Still, you’re remembering names more readily now. New memories are being retained.” He smiled. “You’ve moved past building sand castles and throwing tantrums.”

“I liked my sand castles,” Cynda laughed.

“I knew you could do it,” he said, that look of pride returning.

“I wouldn’t have if you hadn’t run interference for me.”

“Then we both deserve the applause.”

You more than me.

“There is one more thing before I leave,” she said. “It has nothing to do with the Victorians or any of the other stuff. I’d like to see you do Tai Chi with a sword.”

His eyes flashed in surprise. “I would be honored,” he told her. “You realize I will damage the sand dragon.”

“It has served its purpose.”

He nodded and then vanished into his rooms. She closed her eyes and waited. Above her, the peg clock marked off the time. It whirled away, seemingly oblivious to the fact that everything was in flux. To it, time was just a certain number of seconds per day.

A few minutes later, Theo Morrisey took his place in the center of the dragon, his dark hair contrasting with the pure white silk of his loose tunic and pants. In his right hand he held a long sword, a red sash tied to the hilt.

He began with a deep bow of respect. As he raised the sword, the morning sun spun a line of gold down the edge. Like a king who has claimed a legendary blade, he flowed across the sand, moving with controlled grace. He was a tiger in the reeds, a heron upon the water, an eagle soaring in the clouds. Human poetry.

Incredible.

When he had finished, he turned and bowed to her again, beads of sweat on his brow. She rose and returned the gesture.

“Thank you, sensei,” she said. She had never called him teacher before.

Visibly startled, the sword quavered in his hand for an instant. Then he rejoined her on the platform, his breathing deep from the exercise.



She waited until he got settled and his breathing returned to normal.

“When I return, will you teach me that?” she asked.

Something flared behind those dark eyes. “When you return, I’ll teach you anything you desire,” he answered softly.

~??~??~??~



The Government’s Complex was as utilitarian as she’d imagined, a fact that only darkened her mood. The knot in her stomach felt like it was studded with a million sharp needles. She was about to do something either incredibly brave, or immensely stupid. Ralph had already weighed in that it was the latter. Their farewell this morning had left both of them in tears.

She’d hoped the farewell with Morrisey would go better, but that looked to be in question. When he didn’t jump back into the private grav car after a quick goodbye, her nerves flared up. She couldn’t handle another scene like she’d had with Ralph.

Klein was waiting for them, along with a young man. She stared at him, but the name wouldn’t fall into place.

“Johns Hopkins,” he said. “I delivered your letter to Montrose.”

Cynda worked on that for a few seconds. An image appeared: Hopkins lying on a bed, each breath a struggle.

“You owe me a couple beers,” he added, smiling. “And Copeland’s head.”

Copeland. TPB’s hired gun. The last time she’d seen him was right after he shot Defoe. The night my brain was blanked.

Klein cut in. “Give her the gun.” Hopkins produced one from his pocket. “It’s a Webley, period authentic. Use it if needed, though I’d prefer that bastard alive.”

Considering Copeland’s history, it was a sensible precaution. Gingerly, she took the firearm and put it into a pocket. She couldn’t miss the frown forming on Morrisey’s face.

“She’s not your assassin, Klein,” he growled.

“Didn’t think she was.” Klein pointed, “Chronsole room is that way. Before you leave, I need to talk to you, Morrisey.”



Her boss nodded, the frown still in place. Cynda stuck out her hand, hoping he’d make this as painless as possible.