Time Rovers 03 Madman's Dance by Jana G Oliver

studied the front door of Alastair’s new house like a copper. The doctor had chosen a good place to reside, though it was just too dangerous to march up and hammer on the door. With his companion in tow, Keats worked his way behind the building and was eventually rewarded by finding a back gate. There was a light in the rear of the house.
    Who else would be there? Perhaps Ramsey had laid a trap for him. His blood chilled at the thought. There was no other option but to knock and ask for help. Jacynda had put her life on the line for him more than once. It was only right that he do the same.
    “Stay here,” he advised softly, pointing to a patch by the fence. It was dry and relatively clean. “I’ll go see if Alastair’s home.” He gently pulled her shawl up, like a scarf. She obediently slid to the ground. Her acquiescence, though welcomed, was profoundly disturbing.
    His heart hammering, Keats rapped on the back door. Footsteps came his way.
    He shot a look back at Jacynda. She was right where he’d left her.
    What if Alastair can’t help her? What if she remains like this for the rest of her life?
    The door edged open. Keats let out a sigh of relief when he saw the doctor’s astonished face.
    “I am in desperate need of your help, my friend.”
    Alastair’s mouth fell open, then closed just as quickly. “Come in! Hurry, before someone sees you.”
    “One moment.” Keats hustled into the back yard and helped a bedraggled figure to its feet.
    Alastair bolted the door behind the pair of them and then ordered, “Go down the passage. Stay in the kitchen. There are no windows there.”
    “Is there anyone else in the house?”
    “No. Mrs. Butler doesn’t move in until tomorrow.”
    Keats helped the figure sit in a chair and then removed the red shawl.
    “Jacynda?” Alastair said, astounded. She looked up at him with a lost expression, quaking intensely. “What has happened?”
    “Some sort of mental collapse,” Keats explained. “I found her in Rotherhithe wading into the Thames in some bizarre attempt to reach this side of the river.”
    “Why in the…” Alastair knelt and took one of her hands. It was icy. “Help me move her closer to the stove. I’ll make some tea.” Once she resettled, he stoked the fire and put on a kettle, shooting occasional worried glances toward his guests. “You look awful,” he observed to Keats.
    The fugitive mustered a game smile. “I know.”
    “Apparently, you are still unable to go en mirage.”
    “That continues to elude me.” Keats removed his boots and set them near the stove, draping his wet socks over them. He wiggled his pale toes. “Ah. That’s better.”
    “Fisher told me about your letter. Have you had any luck finding the Irishman?”
    “Not a bit of it, though I am getting closer to the explosives.”
    “Then that’s some good news. How are your injuries?”
    “Healing. Still can’t do heavy work.”
    Alastair knelt next to Jacynda, warming her hands between his. She looked toward him, confused. “Do you know who I am?”
    A slow shake of the head. “Not…right,” she said, pointing to her temple. Alastair leaned closer, thinking what he saw was a smudge of dirt.
    As he reached toward her, she shied backwards. “I won’t hurt you.” She closed her eyes as if anticipating great pain. Delicately moving her hair aside, he studied the round mark.
    “What in the devil…”
    “There is blood on the back of her collar, as well,” Keats added, shaking his head in despair. “I felt you were her best hope.”
    Alastair examined the wound at the back of her neck with great care, all the while feeling his anger rise. Leery of frightening her, he went clinical to keep his seething emotions in check. “She’s been struck with something. It’s not fresh, though. A few days old.” He addressed Jacynda. “Who hit you?”
    “Macassar,” she said.
    “What?”
    “She’s not made a great deal of sense,” Keats explained. “I ask her