“Ah, we can’t possibly—” the man began.
“Do it. Now!” The menace in her voice did the trick. They halted in a side street, clearly flustered by her presence.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Ah, we can’t tell you that,” the man replied nervously.
“Yes, you can,” Cynda countered. “That way, I don’t get nasty about you following my ass all over London.”
She waited for the startled expression at her raw language. Instead, the woman fished a tattered notebook and a short pencil out of a pocket, eyes aglow. “Good heavens, she’s just like they said.”
“Prudence!” the man hissed.
“Oh, this is perfect. I never thought we’d have a chance to talk to a Past.”
“Prudence!” the man hissed again, louder.
Past? The ha’penny dropped. “You’re Futures, aren’t you?” Cynda asked.
The woman nodded enthusiastically.
“Why are you following me?”
“You’re Jacynda Lassiter! I mean, what an opportunity. You’re a legend,” the woman gushed.
Her companion shook his head in dismay. “Before my colleague goes any further, you must forget you saw us.”
“Not likely. So why come from…” Cynda waved her hand to indicate sometime in the future, “to watch me work? I’m good, but not legendary.”
“Well, according to DeMoss, your techniques were responsible for—”
“Pru!” This time the man’s warning worked, and the woman’s lips snapped shut.
Drat. I was so close. “Were you following me the night I stopped the assassin at the party? My interface registered someone, but the readings were inconclusive.”
A cautious nod.
“So why aren’t you registering now?”
“We blocked it.”
“Why didn’t you block it that night?”
The man looked chagrined. “We forgot,” he admitted.
“So where else have you been?” The two traded looks. “Come on!” Cynda cajoled.
The fellow cleared his throat. “In Rotherhithe, near the Spread Eagle and Crown when you attempted to cross the water to Whitechapel; the night you were tossed under the beer wagon, and—”
“Never mind.” Why hadn’t she seen them before? What else was she missing?
After a quick look around, he offered his hand. “I’m Thomas, by the way.”
“Glad to meet you, Thomas.” They shook. “Is your last name Anderson?”
“Ah…no,” he said.
It was worth a try.
“Prudence,” the woman said and giggled.
This was embarrassing. “I’ve never had my very own entourage before,” Cynda remarked. “I really must screw things up.”
Pru became engrossed in the tip of her pencil.
Oh great. “Any tips so I don’t get myself shot, stabbed, or my brain remapped again?”
Silence. At least from the two in the alley. Out on the street, a baked potato vendor called out his wares in a sing-song voice.
“That bad, huh?” she said, growing nervous.
“Not really good,” the man admitted.
“Fate-of-the-whole-world stuff?” Cynda joked.
The man looked at her sharply. She’d hit home without meaning to.
“You’re remarkably calm about all this,” he said.
“Mostly because I don’t have a clue what’s going on. Something’s up. Something bad, but I don’t know what. It would be a great help if you guys could fill me in.”
“You don’t know?” he asked incredulously.
“That’s what I just said,” Cynda shot back.
“That’s not right. By now you should—” He stopped abruptly. “Why is it going wrong?”