Page 29 of The Time Roads

The cabbie maneuvered his horses and cab into the thoroughfare leading away from the square. Síomón settled back and pulled the newssheet from his pocket.

SENSATION IN COURT, read the headlines. Doctor Breandan Reid Ó Cuilinn, a renowned scientist and the queen’s favorite, had plunged to his death from a balloon during an experiment. The cause for the balloon’s malfunction remained uncertain. The Queen’s Constabulary was conducting a thorough examination of the incident.

The rest of the article disappeared into hyperbole and incoherent smudges. This has nothing to do with me, Síomón thought, but he found his pulse beating faster at the mention of the Queen’s Constabulary. He crumpled the paper in his hand and looked out the cab’s window. As though to confirm the news, a line of blue messenger balloons glided north toward the capital in Osraighe and Cill Cannig. Aidrean Ó Deághaidh. A strangely unsettling man. Why had he quit his studies in mathematics? Did he regret working on this case of Awveline’s murdered students and not that of the queen’s lover?

The cab stopped abruptly. The cabbie swore. Ahead, voices rose in complaint, and someone shouted about a blockage. Síomón leaned out the window and saw a long motorcade creeping through the intersection ahead. Small pennants lined one automobile’s roof—the mark of a visiting dignitary.

Lord Ó Cadhla.

He drew back into the cab, feeling ill. Maeve’s father must have arrived by train that morning. Death in high places, indeed.

The noon bells rang, and still the traffic did not move. Síomón glanced at the newssheet, but he no longer had any desire to read about Court gossip. He stuffed the paper into his jacket pocket and closed his eyes to wait. The closed cab smelled strongly of sweat, old leather, and horse—it reminded him of the stables at home. Soon he was dozing and hardly noticed when the last vehicles in the motorcade passed by, and the lines of traffic oozed into motion.

He stood on a high peak, his gaze turned upward. Night had fallen. Glittering digits, like pinpricks of fire, stippled the dark skies. Síomón tilted back his head, trying to take in the entire number …

“Aonach Sanitarium,” bawled the cabbie, rapping against the cab’s roof.

Síomón jolted awake. Still groggy, he paid the cabbie and dealt with the gate guards. By the time he reached the main building, his head had cleared.

His visit was unexpected, however, and there was a delay before Doctor Loisg arrived in the lobby. The man frowned, obviously unhappy to see Síomón.

“Mr. Madóc. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, but today is not your regular day. I’m not certain we can accommodate you.”

“I understand,” Síomón replied. “However, you’ve said more than once my visits are helpful. Is there a reason why I should not see my sister?”

Loisg frowned again. “I did say that. But she spent a somewhat restless night.…”

“Indulge me this once,” Síomón said. “I promise not to distress her.”

The other man studied him a long moment, his round face uncharacteristically pensive. “Perhaps you are right,” he said at last. “Come with me.”

He dispatched a crew of orderlies to prepare Gwen Madóc for her visit, while he and Síomón followed at a much slower pace. He described the changes in Gwen’s behavior over the past day. She had left off reciting numbers, he said, his voice curiously distressed. She either wept or sat in dull silence, and when Loisg attempted to soothe her, she had struck him.

“We’ve installed an observation window,” Loisg told Síomón. “So that we can watch without your sister being aware. Just a precaution, you understand. Do you object?”

They had arrived at the third floor, to the visitation room itself. Síomón paused and searched Loisg’s face, but found only a doctor’s reasonable concern. “No. Not really.”

Loisg unlocked the room. Síomón proceeded alone. As always, he felt a jump of panic when the door closed behind him, and he heard the audible click of the lock.

Gwen sat underneath the windows, hands circling through the air as she murmured her numbers. She wore a simple, loose-fitting dress today, instead of her usual hospital gown, and someone had brushed and plaited her long fair hair. She appeared content, or at least absorbed, with no sign of the violence Loisg had described.

He scanned the room, noting the small observation window at the far end. No doubt Loisg was already stationed there, along with his orderlies. Telling himself that he had nothing to hide, and certainly not from his sister’s caretakers, Síomón eased around to a point opposite Gwen and lowered himself to the floor. Gwen seemed oblivious to his presence. She continued to gesture in those strange rhythmic patterns, her long fingers catching and stroking the air, as though weaving strands of light. “Seven,” she whispe

red. “Seven and thirteen and seventeen.”

She had returned to the early stages of her illness, when she recited only the simplest primes. He even recognized the old intensity in her whisper, as though her numbers represented words in a different language.…

Síomón’s skin prickled as he made the connection at last.

“Seven,” he said, when she paused. “That’s when our parents died.”

Gwen trembled, but did not look in his direction. “Thirteen. Seventeen.”

He remembered thirteen, when their uncle arranged a meeting with Glasfryn from Awveline University. Seven and thirteen. These were dates burned into Gwen’s memory, which even madness could not eradicate. But seventeen?

He glanced toward the observation window. Witnesses be damned, he thought and crossed the room to Gwen’s side. Gwen stiffened, her jaw working in sudden alarm. Síomón stopped a few paces away and knelt so that his face was level with hers.

“Nineteen,” he said softly.

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