“Mei?” Then she remembered the photograph on his credenza of the exotically beautiful Asian woman. She’d seen it every day as she’d headed to the practice room, but never had the nerve to ask who it was.
Morrisey’s voice grew distant. “She was my lover. She was pregnant when she went Off-Grid. Mei died in childbirth. So did the baby.”
Cynda felt his guilt enveloping her like a brittle Highland mist. To say she was sorry would be meaningless in the face of such a loss. “What kept you from killing yourself?”
“Harter. He made sure I had something to keep me occupied.”
“Breaking the fourth dimension?”
“It seemed an impossible task, and it kept me from brooding.”
“Not so impossible, apparently.” She had to ask. “Did you ever wonder if you could go back and change things?”
“That’s why I started working on the project in the first place. It wasn’t until after Harter made the first few trips that we began to realize that there might be limitations. Then we lost a Rover…” his voice trailed off.
She’d probably learned all this in the Time Immersion Academy, but right now she couldn’t remember the details.
“Harter was devastated. He tried over and over to prevent the death, but nothing worked. Once there’s been a mortality within the time stream, something precludes correcting that loss. I have never been able to determine what that is.”
Mei and Chris are gone forever.
He looked up at her. “When I finally realized that, it was like losing Mei all over again.”
Cynda turned back toward the butterfly where it rested on a leaf. Now she understood his passion for all things Asian—the artwork, the tatami mats, the sushi and Tai Chi. Theo Morrisey was honoring his dead lover every second of his life.
He rose from the bench in a fluid motion. “If you must leave, all I ask is that you make sure you’re doing so for the right reasons.” His footsteps retreated.
What did that mean? She had no clue. Of all the mysteries she’d worked through, T.E. Morrisey was the most difficult to untangle.
“I’ve been here too long,” she muttered.
“I second that.”
The voice was familiar. She glanced around the solarium, trying to find the source.
“Up here,” it called. A ball of blue wandered out on a branch, many legs moving in concert. She edged to within a foot of the creature. It was about the size of a shrew, and had eight distinctive appendages.
“Nice color,” she observed, thinking hard. “You’re not real, are you?”
“I’m real to you,” it answered.
She’d seen this thing before. Memories bubbled up unbidden—a monstrous version taunting her and then a smaller one issuing a warning not to go down an alley.
“A warning you ignored,” the arachnid observed coolly. “Bought you a knife in the chest.”
That memory surfaced as well, evoking a deep shiver. “If my brain’s been rebooted, how can you be here?”
“You didn’t think that would fix everything, did you?”
“Apparently not.” Then she smiled. “It’s really you.” He was smaller, but just as sarcastic. “You’ve been gone for a long time.”
“So have you,” he replied wistfully. “How soon are we leaving?”
“Tomorrow morning should be just about right.”
“Good. These hummingbirds are driving me mad.”
Chapter 27
Just last night, she’d finished her drawing, adding the colored grains of sand that brought the dragon to life. In the sunlight, it almost seemed alive.
Cynda heard the door to Morrisey’s private suite open and close, then his tatami sandals on the walkway. How she had grown to love that sound. This hour had become their time to meditate together, or just speak quietly about whatever was on their minds. Some mornings they did not speak at all, the conversation unfolding on a different level.
In deference to the warmer weather, Morrisey was in his green silk robe, the one with the embroidered phoenix on the back. Lithe, he covered the distance with smooth motions and joined her under the pagoda.
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.
“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.