The Time Roads

“Hardly too optimistic. Hopeful. Yes, we had a setback today, but I would urge you to continue your visits. Minz and Gerhardt speak of the soothing effect of familiar faces, and their latest research shows great promise.”

“Of course,” Síomón said, but his thoughts were still on Gwen. Had she sounded more desperate today? And, yet, she had remembered his name. That had to be a positive sign.

Still distracted by that possibility, Síomón only half listened as Loisg escorted him through the sanitarium’s broad and well-lit halls, speaking in general terms about Gwen’s condition. It was a familiar topic, this discourse on madness and obsession, and how a brilliant mind often shattered under unbearable pressure, only to seek refuge in that which had driven it mad.

For Gwen was mad, mad from too many numbers, and the damage appeared irreversible. However, they were trying kindness, as far as that went, and with Síomón’s permission, they employed some of the more exotic cures—combinations of music and drugs, the newest electrical therapy, and other techniques Síomón didn’t want to examine too closely. Loisg spoke of finding the root cause, as though Gwen were a complex number whose illness they could calculate.

They came at last to the staircase that wound down to the sanitarium’s foyer, a grand airy room decorated with opulent couches and rugs, and hung about with enormous paintings from masters in the previous century. Bowls of fresh-cut roses were placed about on marble stands, giving off a sweet scent. Several visitors clustered about the windows, waiting their own turn to speak with the doctors. Síomón recognized their look of painful expectation as he and Loisg came down the stairs. A lone man occupied a couch by the empty fireplace, apparently absorbed in a book. As Doctor Loisg took his leave from Síomón, the man stood and approached.

“Pardon me,” he said. “I’m told you might be Mr. Síomón Madóc.”

He was a tall man, with a lean tanned face that certain women might call handsome. His eyes were warm and brown, his gaze direct. He wore a well-cut black frock coat and silk vest. Obviously an educated man, though his accent was hard to place. There were traces of shadows underneath his eyes, as though he had slept badly, and an air of tension beneath that polite expression.

“I am Síomón Madóc,” Síomón said slowly. “But you have the advantage of me, sir.”

The man smiled, one that vanished as soon as it arrived. “Perhaps I should start over. My name is Aidrean Ó Deághaidh. I’d like a few words with you, if I might.”

He spoke politely enough, but there was something in his manner that told Síomón the question was a perfunctory one. “Concerning what?”

Another of those ghostlike smiles made its appearance. “Let us talk outside, Mr. Madóc. There’s a park nearby, and a pathway along the Blackwater, if you would be so kind as to indulge me.”

At once the clues shifted—Ó Deághaidh’s manner, the way his gaze absorbed every detail—and though the man had not mentioned any official title, Síomón knew why Ó Deághaidh had sought him out. He’s come about the murders.

He studied Ó Deághaidh with greater wariness. “I’m happy to assist you in whatever way possible, but if you’ve come with questions about the cases from last spring, I’ve remembered nothing new.”

“I didn’t say you had, Mr. Madóc. Please. Come with me.”

Síomón consulted his watch. An hour until his next lecture remained. Unless this man Ó Deághaidh wanted more than a few answers—and Síomón had none to give—he could easily make the university grounds with time to spare. He nodded his agreement.

They exited the foyer and set off along the sanitarium’s pathways, winding down the sloping lawn toward the gates below. Síomón had expected Ó Deághaidh to begin his questions at once, but Ó Deághaidh remained silent, glancing from side to side as they passed the masses of late-blooming lilies, their rich scent hanging heavy in the warm air. Though it was still early afternoon, the grounds were nearly empty, the lawns rolling in smooth emerald waves, with stands of ancient oaks here and there, and a thicker wall of shrubbery and trees that concealed the iron gates. From certain angles, Síomón could almost imagine himself at home at Gleanntara, up north in County Laingford. It was for that reason, as well as its reputable doctors, that he had chosen Aonach Sanitarium for Gwen’s confinement.

“You are a man of impressive wealth,” Ó Deághaidh said.

Recalled abruptly from his reverie, Síomón nearly stumbled. “And you are a man of abrupt turns, Mr. Ó Deághaidh. Or do you have a title I should use?”

Ó Deághaidh shrugged. “My title is Commander Ó Deághaidh, if you prefer a more formal address,” he said. “And I apologize for trespassing into your private concerns.”

“Of course,” Síomón said automatically. He felt an immediate spark of irritation, then, at himself and Ó Deághaidh both, and added, “But then, trespassing on private concerns is your trade, is it not?”

It was a direct jab. Rude, even, but Ó Deághaidh seemed unperturbed by the comment. “It is, sadly. We come to our jobs with a natural curiosity about the world, and our work encourages it. You might say the same for you and your fellow students, no?”

So the commander came well armed and ready to use his weapons. Síomón covered his reaction with a shrug of his own. “So they tell me. As the poet once said, ‘The tools of mathematics are a curious set—the eye, the hand, the pen, the brain. It is with these instruments, we cast our net. And bring to earth a flight of numbers fantastique strange.’”

Ó Deághaidh nodded in recognition. “Henry Donne. The famously obscure Anglian poet of the late sixteenth century.”

“An obscurity he earned,” Síomón replied. “And yet, worth studying. His meter falters, but I find his sentiments ring true.”

They had come to the outer gates, which opened onto Tulach Mhór Street, a broad avenue filled with carriages and the occasional motorcar. With Ó Deághaidh leading, they crossed between the horses and cars to the farther side, then into the park, where a series of well-tended footpaths soon brought them to the Blackwater, a dark and sluggish river that wound through Awveline City’s heart. The sun shone like a diamond in the September sky, bright against a lacework of silvery clouds, and other pedestrians strolled the walkways—women in silk-lined pelisses, their faces hidden beneath sweeping hats; men in high-collared shirts and bowlers. The air was summer-warm, but then a gust of wind rattled the trees, sending down a shower of brown and crimson leaves.

“As you’ve guessed, I’ve come about the murders last spring.”

Ó Deághaidh’s voice was curiously light, as ethereal as sunlight. Síomón’s skin prickled at the sound. “I thought the Garda gave up its investigation for lack of evidence.”

“The department merely suspended their inquiries. They did not close the case.”

“And now?”

“And now we have reopened it. Or rather, the murderer has.”