Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(89)

“Then I would suggest you take your time carrying out that order, sir.”

“I am willing to do that, madam; however, there is no guarantee he might not send another in my stead.”

She grew pensive. “I wonder how long it will be before the rest of us are considered a threat, Mr. S.?”

~??~??~??~



Ralph might rail against her about taking unnecessary risks, but Cynda knew this was where she belonged. Perhaps it was the hurly-burly of the city that attracted her, the vitality of everyday life. Victorian London was truly a free-for-all. Voices competed with the sound of carriage wheels and the low rumble of wagons moving slowly down the street. A load of hops rolled by as young boys scampered around the street, calling out to each other. A small knot of women traded gossip in a doorway, looking up when someone passed. All of this was muted in 2058, held in check by the rules regarding noise abatement, how long you could loiter on the street, sit on a bench in a park.



Cynda inhaled deeply, which she instantly deemed a mistake. After a prolonged coughing fit, she shook her head at her own stupidity.

Never were that smart, were you Lassiter? The grin came instantly. She had a name, and it had stuck. Though her mind still resembled a moth-eaten sweater, some things were clearer than they’d been before the Nothing Time. She sensed other people’s emotions more strongly than before. Danger registered more clearly, almost like a scent in the air. There had been benefits to misplacing her memories. Minimal time lag, for one.

Cynda shifted her Gladstone to the left hand to keep her right free. The pistol was in that pocket, though she didn’t expect to use it. Rovers weren’t gun sorts of people, though they’d been trained in how to fire some of the older varieties. Most preferred a Neural-blocker. A lot less messy, but frowned upon by TPB.

Her first inkling that she’d lost some of her Victorian savvy was when she went to cross a street and forgot to look in all directions. A hansom rounded the corner at a brisk clip and she had to lurch back onto the kerb to keep from being flattened. Then she felt a tug on her skirt, followed by the rapid patter of retreating feet. One of the toolers had just nailed her. She dug into the pocket and found a few coins missing. Fortunately, the bulk of her money was in the Gladstone. Her interface, buried in the secret pocket, remained safe.

“Money in boots, except for a few coins,” Mr. Spider advised from her shoulder. “That’s what you used to do.”

“That I had forgotten,” she grumbled. She’d given a lot of thought and preparation to this journey, but the “taken for granted” parts of her job weren’t mentioned in the run reports. Those would give her the most trouble. All the street savvy she’d relied on in the past was either missing or forgotten, making the danger seem much more tangible than before. She would just have to trust her instincts. She knew who her friends were here. She knew some of her enemies. In the middle was a lot of gray.



Gray could get me dead.

Since she couldn’t very well open the case and move the cash about on the street, she tightened her grip on the Gladstone and set off again, leery of what other traps lay in store.

It took a few hotels until she found one that had a room. When the clerk mentioned her accent, as he called it, she claimed to be from New York. That always did the trick.

He consulted his register. “I have only one room available. It has a sitting room with a separate bedchamber. It comes with attendance.”

Which meant you had a domestic fuss over you. That sounded good. A maid could bring you hot water for baths. “So why is it so busy?” she asked, signing the register.

“Between Guy Fawkes Day, the opening of Parliament, and the Lord Mayor’s Show, rooms are at a premium,” the clerk replied.

As he turned to retrieve the room key, his words hit home. “Guy Fawkes Day?”

The clerk turned around. “Oh, of course, you’re an American. You may not be aware of our celebrations. It is in honor of Guy Fawkes, who attempted to blow up Parliament as an act of rebellion. It is also called Bonfire Night.”

“Remember, remember, the fifth of November,” she murmured, her mind awhirl.

The clerk beamed. “I see you’ve heard the rhyme.”

As he selected the key and finished the paperwork, Cynda spied a newspaper lying on the counter. Pulling it toward her, she checked the date.

Sunday, November 4 1888

That wasn’t right. She was supposed to have arrived in London on the thirteenth of October, the night Nicci Hallcox met her Maker.



Off-time. It’d only happened to her once before, when she’d come to Victorian London in August to find a missing tourist. She would have blamed this episode on chron operator error, but she knew Morrisey wasn’t capable of making such a basic mistake.

Keeping her apprehensions to herself, she allowed the porter to carry her Gladstone to the room. Once she’d tipped him and shooed the dutiful maid out the door, she retreated to the bedroom and reset the interface for the night Keats’ life had slid off the rails.

OK, let’s try this again.

The overpowering smell of the river made Cynda’s stomach lurch. Why was she here at the edge of the Thames? She was supposed to be a short hike from the Charing Cross Hotel. She glanced down at the interface. The dial was blank. She gave the stem a twist. Still blank. A sharp shake did nothing to rectify the problem.