Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(87)

“No, I’ll see you off,” he said firmly.

Her heart sank. Please don’t make this harder than it is.

As Hopkins escorted them to the chronsole room, Morrisey offered a steady string of advice. That told her how worried he was.

“Find Harter,” he said. “He’s in London.”

“Any idea where?”

“He hasn’t communicated with us. You know whom you can trust in that time period. Rely on them. Do not do this on your own.”

“Yes, boss.”

The frown deepened. “Keep in contact on a regular basis,” he instructed, handing her something. It was a silver pendant. “If you press your thumb against the photo and your index finger on the back, it will allow you access to the database. I loaded what I thought you might need. It includes an image gallery to help refresh your memory, and you can add new data files.”

“It took a lot of time for you to do this for me.”

He shrugged, much like a young boy caught giving a girl a lollipop.

The chronsole room and the time pod were as dull as the rest of the building. The chron-op was a woman with pale hair and paler skin. She gave Cynda a bored look and turned back to the chronsole. Ralph wouldn’t like this scene. Luckily, she’d talked him into missing this.

Cynda paused before the time pod door. This was harder than she’d expected. She had grown accustomed to Morrisey’s stable presence, his wisdom, and his protection. She would truly miss him, as much as she’d miss Ralph. More. It felt odd to admit that.

“Miss Lassiter?” Morrisey prompted.

“Sorry. Anything else?”

He looked over at Hopkins. “I would like to do this transfer.”

“Why not? You invented the technology,” the Guv’s Rover replied.



The chron-op didn’t look pleased. They were a territorial bunch.

“If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to do this alone,” Morrisey added.

Hopkins raised an eyebrow at the unusual request. “Okay. Time for coffee,” he said. The chron-op gave them all a disgruntled frown, but followed the Guv agent out the door.

Morrisey waited for the door to close. With a trembling hand he gently touched her cheek. A delicate kiss brushed her lips. It felt warm, inviting. When he drew back, Cynda stared at him, too stunned to reply.

He caressed her cheek again, a sheen in his eyes. “Keep yourself safe, Jacynda. We have unfinished business, you and I.”

This was agony. If she failed in 1888, she’d never see this extraordinary man again.

When she didn’t speak, he reluctantly drew away. All business now, he took his place behind the chronsole. “I will make this as comfortable as possible, since you’re a bit rusty.”

She heard a chuckle from her shoulder. “That’s an understatement.”

Zip it, spider, or you’ll have to find your own way there.

Cynda knelt in the time pod, then raised her head, though that wasn’t standard protocol. The door closed with a final clunk that made her bones quake.

She saw his lips moving, though she could no longer hear what he was saying. A prayer, perhaps?

On impulse, she blew him a kiss. A tormented smile returned.

He mouthed something, then triggered the technology that would send her back one hundred and seventy years.

The fourth dimension had never felt so lonely.





Part Two




Nothing is easier than to

denounce the evildoer;

nothing is more difficult than

to understand him.”

- Fyodor Dostoevsky





Chapter 1




Sunday, 4 November, 1888

Hyde Park, London

Satyr exited the hansom at the northeast corner of Hyde Park near Marble Arch, where a crowd encircled someone spouting the wonders of socialism. He straightened his coat and tie, taking time to gather his bearings.

Though his position as Lead Assassin made him answerable only to the Ascendant, Satyr was mindful that the Twenty also wielded considerable power amongst the Transitives. Comprised of various members of the community, apportioned by rank or commercial affiliation, the Twenty were responsible for suggesting policy to their leader. Though the Ascendant was the pinnacle of their kind, it was the Twenty who decided when an Ascendant’s time had passed. Then the Lead Assassin came into play, dispatching the old so that they could vote in the new.

An eminently practical system of checks and balances.

The last time an Ascendant had been replaced was at the beginning of the year; Satyr could still hear the pitiful whimpers of his previous master as he prepared to deliver the final blow. Such cowardice made the job distasteful.

Unfortunately, the current Ascendant will not depart so easily.

According to tradition, the Twenty had a representative from each of the major guilds, a few lords, a judge or two, and a single female. Satyr knew the identities of some of them, though he wasn’t supposed to know any of them except for the Intermediary, who acted as a liaison between the Ascendant and the group.

The single female on the Twenty was a holdover from the late 1700s, when someone had installed his mistress in the group as a lark. It was joked that naming a woman to the Twenty was much like Caligula making his horse a Roman senator. That tradition continued to the present day, though the woman was no longer some lowly mistress. She was, in fact, the first female Intermediary and the most sought-after courtesan in London.