The Time Roads

“Then why bring me here?”

“To question you. Someone murdered Susanna Patel. Someone who knew her quite well, and that is telling you more than I should.”

Síomón rubbed his hand over his numb face. “I wish I could help you.”

“So do I, Mr. Madóc. So do I. Now, please, sit. I have a few more questions.”

A few questions turned into several dozen. Once more, Ó Deághaidh led Síomón through the past week. When had he entered his rooms? Who brought him meals? On which day did Evan De Mora visit him? Had Mr. De Mora appeared distressed? What about Miss Patel?

“Did you know that Mr. De Mora and Miss Patel had been lovers?”

Síomón gripped the table’s edge to steady himself. “Lovers? No. I had no idea. I thought—” He eyed Ó Deághaidh, suddenly suspicious. “Are you certain?”

“We are certain, Mr. Madóc. We have that information directly from Mr. De Mora.”

Síomón opened and closed his mouth, unable to respond to this new information.

Ó Deághaidh watched him in silence. When he resumed his questions, they seemed to come at random, skipping over the past week, then leaping to years before, including his first meeting with Evan De Mora. Gradually, as he answered questions about Evan’s recent behavior, Síomón’s panic receded, replaced by a realization that brought him no comfort.

They think Evan murdered Susanna.

At last, Ó Deághaidh let out a sigh. “Enough. We’ve had a long day, you and I, Mr. Madóc.”

“Am I free to go, then?”

“Yes. But remember, the investigation continues. I would prefer that you not leave Awveline City.”

“Of course, Commander. I only meant that I was tired and would be grateful for some sleep.”

“That you may have, Mr. Madóc.”

A garda called a cab for Síomón and escorted him home. The ride back to his rooms remained a blurred series of images. Moonlight alternating with clouds. Dusky purple skies. Faint stars pricking the darkness. Long shadows stretching over the roadway. He was vaguely aware of the garda helping him inside. Even with the man’s assistance, it took Síomón three tries to unlock his door, but at last he was inside. Safe and alone.

He scanned his rooms. Nothing extraordinary met his sight. Books, papers, and furniture all looked the same. Aside from Kevin Garret’s strange absence, and the coating of dust, his rooms looked as though the past few days had not occurred.

Save that Susanna is dead, and the Garda suspects Evan.

He dropped into the chair by his desk. After a moment’s hesitation, he yanked open the drawer and searched through its contents. Keys. Slips of paper with numbers scribbled upon them. An inkpot. A pair of dice he and Evan used to play statistics games. But no white packet of strange powder.

Síomón shoved the drawer closed and rested his head upon his hands. I was upset. Confused. Nothing more.

Work. He needed to work. To distract himself from the news about Susanna. He reached blindly for the nearest book: Numerical Theories of the Syrians.

For an hour, he was able to lose himself in reading and making notes. As one reference led him to another, he pulled out other books, until he had an untidy heap upon his desk. Metaphysical properties. Particles of thought. Time streams. The various theories hung in his mind, vivid and clear. It seemed that he had finally found the necessary strands to pull his theories together.…

The vision wavered. The brightly colored strands of his reasoning unraveled into a handful of nothing. “Damn,” he whispered. “Damn. Damn to all eternity.”

He pushed back his chair and stood. He’d go mad if he stayed alone much longer. He pulled on a hat, gloves, and overcoat as he walked out the door. There was no question of visiting Evan, not with Ó Deághaidh’s oblique accusations fresh in his thoughts. But Ó Dónaill—Ó Dónaill had strongly suggested that Síomón come to him if he had any questions.

Questions about mathematics. Those aren’t the questions you have.

Those are the ones I can bear to ask.

The hour was later, and the streets much emptier, than he had expected. After a frustrating half hour, he flagged down a cab. Síomón gave the name of a street three blocks from Ó Dónaill’s house. Mere precaution, he told himself, but the memory of Aidrean Ó Deághaidh’

s sharp, disquieting gaze seemed to follow him, even now.

The cab dropped him off at the agreed upon address. Síomón paid the fare and disembarked, to continue the last distance on foot. Ó Dónaill lived in a genteel neighborhood of aging gabled houses. Most of the windows were brightly lit, but the streets themselves were quiet and the sidewalks empty. A line of yellow halos marked the procession of streetlamps.