Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(119)

“Are we going to my rooms?” Keats asked, realizing they were in motion.

“No, we’re going to my home,” Alastair replied. “It’ll be quieter there. I have a spare room, and you are welcome to it as long as you wish. I think it might not be prudent for you to return to your rooms for a few days. Not everyone is pleased that you have been found innocent.”



“Have they arrested the man who tried to kill Lord Wescomb?”

“No. We had hoped he would appear at one of the hospitals or clinics for treatment, but it hasn’t happened.”

“Which meant he had a private patron to care for him.”

“Or he’s already dead and in some obscure grave,” Alastair concluded. “I believe I might have seen the man. Someone was watching us at the Viaduct Tavern. I’ve given the description to the police. From what I hear, it is a match to the one Wescomb’s butler supplied.”

Keats went quiet. He had nothing else he wanted to ask. He half-expected someone to stop the carriage and haul him back to the scaffold.

He was only vaguely aware when their journey ended. Once inside the house, he hung his coat and hat on a peg near the front door in a mechanical fashion, not registering any of the details around him. He heard the sound of hurried footsteps coming down the hall toward them. It was a woman in a white apron. She looked about thirty or so, with brown hair and a welcoming smile.

“Mrs. Butler, this is Sergeant Keats. He’ll be staying with us for a time,” his host explained. “His conviction has been overturned.”

Her face broke out in a huge smile. “I’m so happy to hear that, sir.” The woman looked Keats straight in the eye. “I’m pleased you proved ’em wrong,” she said.

Alastair handed over a parcel. “These are his old clothes. If you could tidy them up, that would be ideal. We may have need of them soon.”

“Certainly.” She scurried off before Keats could thank her.

The parlor was small, but not empty. A figure rose from a chair. “Jonathon?”

Part of his oblivion lifted. “Jacynda…” He felt her arms around him, embracing. He was on the verge of tears, though he knew it was undignified.



Cynda felt Keats shiver. His face was sallow, pinched. He had aged in a few short weeks. Behind them, Alastair murmured something and left them alone.

“Sit down, you look awful.” In the end, she had to guide him to the couch and then he still would not loosen his grip on her hand.

“I am found innocent. I won’t have to go back to the prison,” he said, hoarsely. It sounded like he was trying to reassure himself.

“What’s going on with him?” Mr. Spider asked, studying him from her shoulder.

Nothing good.

“Jonathon?” It took a moment for him to realize she was talking to him. He looked over with bloodshot eyes. “When was the last time you slept?”

He didn’t reply.

Alastair came out of the kitchen, a tray in hand. He quickly assessed the situation. “If he needs to rest, there’s a spare room upstairs. It’s his for the duration.”

Keats didn’t stir. He reminded her of a child’s toy whose spring had run down.

She took his hand. “Come with me. You can have tea later.”

“If he needs something to help him sleep, let me know,” the doctor said softly.

She nodded and led the former prisoner to the bedroom. Without a word, Keats removed his jacket and boots and then swung his feet into the bed. She’d expected some comment about propriety. Nothing.

“It’s like someone forgot to turn off the light when he left,” Mr. Spider said, perching on the headboard.

Like me, after the reboot.

She tucked the blanket around him and sat on the bed. He snaked a hand out from under the covers and grasped hers. “Alastair told me what you did, with Flaherty and the prince.”

“It was the Fenian’s decision in the end. I couldn’t have forced him. It was because of his daughter.”



Keats frowned. “Is he willing to give us the explosives if we find her?”

Cynda nodded, though her gut told her it wasn’t that simple.

“Let me rest and then I’ll go out tonight.”

“Promise me you won’t go on your own.”

There was no reply as his eyes drifted shut. Cynda placed a kiss on his forehead. “I’ve missed you,” she said.

She sat next to him until his breathing grew deep and regular. Carefully rising from the bed, she tucked his hand back under the covers.

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” her delusion offered.

“Thanks,” she said quietly.

Even in sleep, Keats did not look at peace.

She found Alastair in the parlour, sitting on the couch. He looked older as well, evidence this ordeal had affected all of them in some way.

“He was in good spirits when he left Newgate,” he said. “Now, he is so distant.”

“Not surprising, though,” she replied. “After a huge shock, the mind has to regroup.” She huffed. “I’ve done that a couple of times myself.”

“I am still concerned about him. He is very bitter, and though I understand that emotion, I fear what it might do to him in time.”