Page 43 of The Devouring Time

We have no choice but to walk ahead of her to the front door. Adrian tries again once we’re on the stoop, but she cuts him off mid-word by shutting the door. The decisive click of the lock punctuates our dismissal.

We stare at one another in silence, then make for the sidewalk, passing the sentinel statues on the way out. I’m reminded again of the driftwood sculptures, and it suddenly occurs to me it’s because the same sense of being watched hangs around them.

“What now?” I ask unhappily.

Adrian ponders for a long moment…then sighs. “Let’s talk about it over coffee.”

We find a diner not far away and slide into one of the tiny booths. A tired-looking waitress brings us two steaming cups of coffee, then whisks back behind the counter to tend to the customers there. The warmth of the mug is soothing against my fingertips.

“Something occurs to me.” I stir sugar into the coffee, spoon rattling against the ceramic cup. “Bianca Giuliani had an ordinary life, but left it behind when she had a nervous breakdown.”

“Then tried to go home again, only to find her old life inaccessible.” Adrian drums his fingers on the tabletop. “The same might be said of you.”

“I noticed. Could the Timekeeper cult have been around so long ago? Have they been, I don’t know, drugging victims, using them for their own purposes, then abandoning them when they return to normal?”

“It’s as plausible as anything else.” He considers for a long moment. “Maybe your distant ancestors had some involvement in it?”

“That would explain why my name is there, but…James was the one originally meant to go to Hart’s Leap. They used me, but I wasn’t who they really wanted.”

“The book would tell us more.” Adrian scowls at his coffee. “Cambridge isn’t far from here, I’m sure someone there can translate it for us. But getting a stranger to drop everything and come to Salem in the next few days seems unlikely at best. And we don’t have time to wait around, not with people trying to murder us.”

“True.” We sip our coffee in silence for a few minutes, both of us thinking hard. At last, I say, “Giuliani’s breakdown keeps niggling at me. Her husband thought she’d gone insane. James probably thought the same about me. Then there was the madman in the marsh, and all of the people ending up in asylums from drinking the tainted booze.”

“I think it’s safe to assume Chrono-Flav—Chrysalis—is the added impurity causing them to become semi-catatonic,” Adrian says.

“Agreed, but my point is there seems to be a lot of people losing their grip on sanity when the Timekeepers are around.”

Adrian looks at me questioningly. “You want to interview some of the asylum patients? Or consult a psychiatrist?”

“Why not? You mentioned before one might be able to help me regain my memories.” I spread my hands apart helplessly. “It can’t hurt, can it?”

“I hope not.” Adrian sighs. “The man from the marsh was taken to Danvers. I can’t remember his name, but when I call in to the office I’m sure someone there can look it up for me.”

I finish my coffee and put down the mug. “Danvers isn’t that far from here.”

“Too bad we don’t have my car anymore,” Adrian says wistfully. “I do still think we need to get the book…but if we can’t wait for a translator to carve out time to travel here, we’d have to steal it—temporarily, of course.”

I consider his words, then recall the strange movements of smoke from Lovejoy’s cigarette and her casual dismissal of the fate of the men I’d apparently sent to rob her. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

He sighs. “You’re probably right. We’ll keep it in mind in case we get desperate, but for now going to Danvers seems the smartest move. If a psychiatrist there can recover your memories, it would go a long way to helping us find the Key.”

The Key of Mithras. Sometimes, I forget that’s Adrian’s ultimate reason for helping me. That he’s subjecting himself to this insanity of cults and magic and everything else simply because they have something his employer is paying him to retrieve.

“I assume most of your cases aren’t quite so exciting as this one,” I say ruefully. “Unless the insurance industry is far different than I’ve been led to believe.”

“I wouldn’t call it boring, but the sorts of cases I work almost never involve murder. Unlike those in the life insurance division.” He finishes his coffee and puts the empty cup beside mine. “Usually, it’s just a matter of asking the right questions or surveilling a suspected fraudster. I frequently pretend to be in the employ of a rich, White art collector looking to make a quiet purchase, as you saw when we met.”

“Does it ever get dangerous?”

“Generally, no. This sort of crime almost never involves overt violence. Even thefts made at gunpoint tend to end with the victims tied up and scared, but otherwise unharmed.” He checks his watch. “We should send a telegram ahead to the asylum, so they’ll be expecting us.”

“What are we going to tell them?”

“The truth, or as much as is needed.”

I twist my napkin between my fingers, my belly sinking. “When they hear about my memory loss, my actions, they may want to…keep me.”

Adrian reaches across the table and puts his hand on mine, stilling my nervous movements. I look up and find his warm eyes fixed on me. “I won’t let them.”