Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(27)

“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 questions and often she has no answers. She didn’t remember my name or yours, for that matter, but she insisted she had to get to this side of the river.”

“What’s this?” Alastair carefully pulled her collar aside, making her tremble. He looked up, disgusted. “Thumb marks. Someone has attempted to strangle her.”

“Good God,” Keats murmured.

Jacynda looked up at the doctor as if he’d just appeared in the room. “Who are you?”

He groaned. “Alastair. Alastair Montrose. We met at the boarding house.”

She shook her head, brows furrowed. Then she turned to Keats. “You?”

“Jonathon Keats. I’m with Scotland Yard. At least for the present.” She gave another shake of the head. Keats’ eyes filmed in sadness. “She wasn’t this bad a few nights ago.”

“When was that?” Alastair asked.

“The night Effington died. She found me in Rotherhithe. We went back to my room and—” Keats looked away, “she suddenly went hysterical, claiming that we were on a sinking ship. She said this temporary madness was because of her job, that she comes from the future. Quite impossible.”

Alastair fixed him with a look. “Was that all that happened?” he asked evenly.

Keats nodded too quickly for Alastair’s liking. Jacynda was rolling the edge of her shawl up and down in rhythmic fashion, watching them with childlike fascination.



The kettle’s whistle cut through the air and Alastair found himself welcoming the distraction. He assembled the tea and returned with the pot, placing it on the table with two of the new cups Mrs. Butler had purchased. He’d expected happier circumstances for their first use. While he sliced the cheese, he debated. Even if Jacynda and Keats had become lovers, her condition rendered the question moot. There was no point in hiding the truth from his friend any longer.

“She did not lie to you, Keats,” Alastair informed him quietly. “She is from the future.”

“Nonsense!” the sergeant spluttered, hot tea splashing over the edges of his cup as he replaced it firmly on the saucer. “If she’s going mad, just tell me. Don’t cloak it as some ridiculous tale.”

“It is not a ridiculous tale. I have seen her travel into the future.”

“Nonsense,” Keats repeated. In his distraction he was stirring the tea, though he’d added nothing to it.

“Remember that night when she was knifed in the alley, and no one could find her? She went to her time to be healed. The knife had slit her lung. She would have died here.”