Chapter 3
Friday, 31 August, 1888
Tonight, I tasted glory.
It happened with minimal commotion, as if she knew her fate and was willing to grant my quest without struggle. When it was done, so aflame was I that I rushed headlong into the streets to proclaim my triumph. None understood.
All things have a beginning. Tonight was mine.
Flipping forward in the diary with a gloved hand, he read further.
Thursday, 6 September, 1888
I detest funerals. They speak only to the living. Why would we, those who still draw breath, care of such things? I note the polished elm coffin was well regarded. Pity I could not claim credit for placing her within.
My search continues.
He closed the book and wrapped it in the fabric shroud, hiding it at the bottom of the wardrobe. Another time, the words would be there.
Cynda blinked her eyes, allowing them time to adjust. There was nothing quite like the darkness of a Victorian back alley. The pitch-blackness was augmented by the potent stench of far too many unwashed people and too few toilets, intermingled with the rank bouquet of rotting garbage.
She fidgeted under the weight of her clothes. Though she’d opted for fewer petticoats than the Victorian norm to keep the burden under an oppressive twenty pounds, it was still a far cry from the feather-light stola she’d worn a short time before. As Ralph had once astutely observed, Clothes are the measure of the time. At the height of its glory, Pompeii was an exquisite city boasting ideal weather and three crops a year. At the height of the British Empire, London, at least the East End, was a festering dump.
Rule Britannia, Cynda muttered, trudging down the alley.
She carried a black Gladstone bag with a spare dress, toilet items and a substantial stock of chocolate packaged in appropriate Victorian-style wrappers. She didn’t plan on staying that long, but Overdues could be tricky. They tended to wander. Even though Whitechapel wasn’t that big—only about a square mile—there were a lot of holes to hide in if a tourist didn’t want to be found.
She squeamishly gave a dead rat a wide berth. Those were never mentioned in TIC’s sales literature. Neither was the stark poverty of the East End, or the lack of adequate sanitation.
Instead, the vid-brochures waxed poetic about the virtues of time travel. ‘Imagine standing in the cheering crowds as Queen Victoria celebrates her Golden Jubilee (1887) or conducting research elbowto-elbow with Lenin in the British Library (1902). Be there as history happens!’
What a crock. Despite her misgivings, academic chronoresearch was here to stay. One trip could deliver fodder for a decade’s worth of professional articles and Vid-Net interviews— exposure that led to tenure and fatter salaries. As the leader in time immersion technology, TIC was always eager to exploit history and make an unholy profit in the bargain.
Until the last buyout. TIC had yet to regain its footing. Wage cuts ensued, then layoffs. Even Victorian London looked rosier than her employer’s future.
Cynda paused at the entrance to the street to get her bearings.
Despite all the chocolate she’d consumed before her departure, the mental fog remained. She blinked again, which only resulted in making the gas lamps appear multi-colored, like giant roman candles blazing into the grimy night. Every now and then, a bolt of lag-induced lightning would seem to strike the street in front of her, exploding in a burst of brilliant colors. The resulting thunderclap echoed like a thousand badly tuned cymbals. Her skin danced a two-step across her bones––all classic signs of advanced time lag. She was nearing the end of her reign as a Time Rover. Desk duty beckoned.
Not a chance, she said, shaking her head vigorously. She resisted the temptation to rummage in the Gladstone bag for more chocolate. If Ivan the Infant were on the ball, she’d be near the boarding house. Once she’d checked in, she’d track the missing academic and line him up to go home. Finding Professor Turner shouldn’t be difficult; Cynda was one of the best trackers in the business. She’d start with the closest pubs, and if that failed, then the brothels. Protected for a time from the local diseases and safely beyond the scrutiny of their spouses, the academics ran wild. If Turner wasn’t conducting research of a horizontal nature or drinking his weight in cheap booze, she’d head for the British Library. That was always her last resort.
A couple stumbled along, their off-key singing augmented by the level of cheap gin in their bellies. A bobby watched from the other side of the street with a benign expression. That puzzled her; she couldn’t remember a cop there in the past.
Navigating around piles of trampled horse manure, she hiked toward the boarding house. As men passed, a few politely tipped their hats in respect. She found that unnecessarily quaint. A carriage sailed by, the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves echoing in the narrow street. She passed a stable and then, a bit further on, a pub going full tilt. Frowsy, middle-aged women stood outside, gossiping. When an unaccompanied male wandered within range, their antennae went up like a praying mantis scouting its next meal.
Hello, luv, one of them called. The man sped up, his work boots slapping against the cobblestones as he hurried by.
Apparently, he wasn’t interested in what she was offering.
Cynda trudged on until she reached her destination: a nondescript structure on New Castle Street.
A. Phillip’s Boarding House. A Warm Welcome and a Soft Bed, the sign read. The bed sounded good.
Maybe I’ll sleep for a week and then find Turner. She mulled the idea and then shook her head. Not here. Anywhere but here.
Sweating from the exertion and the weighty clothes, Cynda hauled herself up the stairs and gave a quick knock. A twinge of unease caused her to glance over her shoulder. In the dim gaslight, she thought she saw a man watching her from the other side of the street.
When the door opened, Cynda swung around. Her balance faltered and she steadied herself on the door jam, the Gladstone banging into her knee.
Yes, miss? a woman asked in a less-than-friendly tone. She appeared to be about fifty years of age, with graying hair and a doughy complexion. Her breasts were a continent all their own.
She wasn’t Annabelle, the boarding house’s owner.
Momentarily disconcerted, Cynda blurted, I’m looking for a room.
The woman gave her the once-over and then frowned, hands moving to her hips. Mind you, we don’t rent to those who ply the trade…or those who drink too much.
It took a moment for Cynda to understand what she meant.
Oh, no, I’m not…I’ve stayed here before. Miss Annabelle knows me. I’m Jacynda Lassiter.
A look of chagrin. Oh, I’m sorry, Miss. Annabelle’s spoken of you. Come in, come in. You walked here alone? the woman asked, surveying the street. Before Cynda could reply, she added, Not safe for a young lady anymore. Come on, I’ll take you to my sister.
What’s up with Annabelle? Cynda took another look over her shoulder. The man was gone. Probably another lag-induced hallucination. She heaved a sigh of relief and hoisted herself over the threshold. The door closed behind her with a reassuring thud.
The nearest wall provided needed support as she followed the heavyset woman toward the back of the building.
I’m Mildred, by the way. Annabelle’s had a bit of an accident.
Hurt her foot a few days back. I’m here to help her.
Good to hear it, Cynda said, and then winced. That sounded less than sympathetic. Fortunately, Mildred didn’t appear to notice.
Annabelle Phillips sat close to the warm stove, one leg propped on the seat of a chair. She always had a reedy look to her, as if she were hollow and with a slight draft of wind might play a tune.
Kneeling next to her, examining the swollen ankle, was a young man with rolled-up shirtsleeves. He glanced upward at Cynda, his eyes an exhausted brown. A frown creased his face and she returned it. He wasn’t Professor Turner, the wayward academic.
That would have been too easy.
As Cynda opened her mouth to ask about accommodations, four scintillating lightning bolts set the kitchen in motion like a child’s toy. Sparkly-blue dots morphed into steel-gray ones. Right before the gray faded into black oblivion, Cynda staggered into the young man, her knees giving way.
Need chocolate… she whispered, and then fainted at the startled man’s feet.
Cynda clearly remembered the pressure of cold metal on her chest and a reassuring voice near her ear. She also remembered opening her eyes and seeing the hideous blue spider hanging in front of her. Easily the size of a five-foot solar panel, each of its eight hairy feet sported a pink ballet shoe. Compound eyes leered at her with menacing intent.
Get away! she shouted, batting at the arachnid. It stuck out its bright purple tongue. I hate spiders. Get away, get away! She swung and connected. The thing spouted an oath and then disappeared.
When she finally regained her senses, the scene had changed.
She was in a bedroom. Sitting a discreet distance away was the guy from the kitchen. He pressed a cloth to his cheek, and his eyes held no warmth. Fussing nearby was the woman who had met her at the front door.
I really don’t know why she’s this way, Dr. Montrose.
Annabelle says she’s been quite sensible in the past.
The physician didn’t reply, but allowed her to refresh the cloth in the basin. He replaced it over the injury.
Oops. In her zeal to nail the planet-sized spider, Cynda had cold-cocked a doctor. She suspected her bill had just doubled.
He noted she was awake. Are you normally in the habit of striking people, Miss…Lassiter? he asked coolly. When he removed the cloth, she realized why he was so pissed. A sizeable crimson blotch sat just below his left cheekbone, one that would probably degrade into a bruise by morning.
She shook her head at the question, contrite.