Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(91)

“I’ll be damned.”

“What are you going on about?” Defoe asked.

“Nothing,” she said. “Why didn’t Mimes see me?”

“I went invisible and took you with me.”

“Neat trick.”

“It can be useful. So, what brings you here?”

“I didn’t intend to be here. Right now, my interface seems to have a mind of its own. I was supposed to go back to the night Keats was framed. I ended up on the fourth of November instead. When I tried it a second time, I was here, in September.”

“Playing their games again,” he muttered. “I landed in New York City. Couldn’t get to London no matter how I tried. Then some messenger boy handed me a ticket for a steamship, so I’ve spent the last week floating across the pond in First Class, regretting the wasted time.”

“So why are you here?” she quizzed.

“Testing a theory.” Defoe looked around again, suddenly uncomfortable. “We need to compare notes—something we were going to do the last time, but were interrupted.” He straightened his jacket. “Oh, and one other detail—if anyone asks, I’m Malachi Livingston.”

“Livingston,” she murmured. Why does that sound familiar?

“Dr. Montrose has probably mentioned me. I’m on The Conclave.”



“You’re one of them?”

He shrugged. “I got bored. Retirement is fine, but I have to keep my hand in. Let’s find a dining room with a quiet corner. I need to rest.”

Is this what she had to look forward to? Being bored to tears and having to content herself with meddling in the time stream?

“Pity they don’t have sushi here,” she lamented.

He shot her a look. “You actually like that stuff?”

“I do now. And Tai Chi. Chess, even. I’m getting pretty good at it.”

Defoe knit his brows. “I take it Theo oversaw your care?”

“Sure did. He helped me put my mind back together. It took a lot of effort to keep the shrinks out of the way.”

“Did he mention the Duckling Effect?”

“The what?”

“Oh, Theo,” he said, shaking his head.

“Look, I’m tired, so speak English.”

“You still have the attitude, I see.” He offered his arm and they strolled along the docks. “Just don’t shoot the messenger, all right?” She nodded.

“Klein told me that after NMR treatment, the patient often adopts traits of the person most involved in their therapy. It’s sort of like a baby duck patterning after its mother. Your sudden love of sushi is a good example.”

Morrisey hadn’t told her any of that. Part of her was sincerely irritated. Then she shrugged it off. “Beats not knowing who the hell you are.”

A chuckle. “You have me there.”

“Anyway, there are worse people to pattern myself after.”

Defoe’s eyebrow quirked upward. “True, but I wonder if the world is ready for a Morrisey-Lassiter hybrid.”

“Then they shouldn’t have screwed with my brain in the first place.”

She paused and turned toward the water, thinking of Chris as he made his solitary journey downriver. She couldn’t remember their last time together. It was squirreled away in her memories, just out of reach.



“You’ll remember it eventually,” her delusion assured.

“He was a great kid,” Defoe said softly.

She could only nod, clenching her teeth to hold back a new round of tears.

At least now she knew the truth: Mimes had been involved in Chris’ death, but he’d had help from TPB’s minion.

Someone who isn’t crazy. Someone who could pay the price for murder.





Chapter 2




The dining room was busy, but with a generous gratuity they were shown into a private area. Cynda sat facing the door.

“Paranoid?” Defoe suggested.

“Hell, yes,” she declared, plopping her hat on the table. “Aren’t you?”

“Sometimes.” He ordered tea and cake, his words brusque. Meanwhile, her delusion shambled across the table and parked himself next to a sugar bowl. He had a fascination with those for some reason.

“So what’s going on here?” she asked once the server puttered off.

Defoe held up a hand for silence, then opened his interface and positioned it on the table. “It’s set to dampen our conversation. You’d have to be standing on top of us to overhear us.” It was a clever trick. To a Victorian, it would look like he was just overly concerned about the time.

“More of Morrisey’s fancy software?”

“Exactly.” Nevertheless, he lowered his voice. “We are experiencing a power struggle between our time and the future. Now is the battleground.”

“Morrissey said now was very unstable.”

“Extremely, or Sergeant Keats wouldn’t be facing the noose.”

“I thought it was because I sidetracked him a few weeks ago so he didn’t catch Flaherty when he was supposed to.”

“I doubt it was completely your fault, though you may have contributed to the time aberration,” Defoe explained. “I’ve inadvertently altered timelines before, but nothing came of it. It always went back on track.”