Rose had been working for the Sewards for a full week. The most exciting things that she'd seen were the visitor who had delivered news about the end of the war and Mrs. Lincoln, who had brought a few minutes of comfort to Mrs. Seward.

The Secretary's wife tried to put on a brave front for her husband; he was rarely conscious for more than a few minutes at a time due to heavy doses of laudanum, and her smiling face greeted him in these sparse moments of lucidity. However, much of the time she was anxious and morose, worried that her husband would not recover. Rose was beginning to feel more concern for the harried woman than for the Secretary.

The Doctor stopped by in the afternoon on Rose's seventh day of employment. He still wore that slightly haunted look, and she could see the simmering tension in the tightness around his mouth and eyes. But he remained ambiguous in his answers regarding where he'd been and what he was doing.

Rose decided to change the topic to something more definitive. "I'm worried about Mrs. Seward," she said.

The Doctor's gaze fixed upon her with more attentiveness than she'd seen from him in days. "Yes? Why's that?"

"She's barely keepin' it together. She's really havin' a hard time with all this. I'm afraid she's gonna make herself sick."

He nodded. "I'll try to have a look at her when I go upstairs."

She followed him up to Seward's bedroom under the pretense of asking if Fanny wanted tea. The Secretary's daughter was quite devoted and spent much of her days and evenings at her injured father's side. She was stationed at her usual place today, and her mother sat opposite her holding the Secretary's hand between her pale palms. Sgt. Robinson was just leaving as they entered.

"Oh, Miss Rose," he said with a polite nod, "I was just going to call for you."

The Doctor slipped into the room behind her as she replied, "Yeah? What can I do for you?"

"Does Cook have any more of that broth you brought up this morning?"

"Yeah, I think so." She glanced at the injured man and noticed that the Doctor was bending over him. Fanny had gotten up to stand near her mother. "He looks a little better," she offered.

"I believe the broth agreed with him."

"I'll get another bowl. Oh, an' Cook's just finished a cobbler. I think you could use a slice."

She'd discovered that Sgt. Robinson had a bit of a sweet tooth. The former soldier remained professional in his medical duties, but during his meal breaks he relished the cook's delicious desserts. He was quite diligent in his care for the Secretary, and she felt he deserved a few moments of pleasure occasionally.

"Yes," the Doctor agreed, moving back toward the door. "Why don't you go downstairs and get some," he said to the sergeant. "You look as though you could do with a break."

"I'm fine," he protested. However, his limp belied his words. A bullet wound had removed him from battlefield duty, and he still experienced pain when he stood for too long.

With a quick glance at the leg, the Time Lord said, "Doctor's orders. I'll stay here until you return."

Sgt. Robinson looked at the Seward women. Mrs. Seward's attention remained on her husband, but Fanny was watching the small group at the door.

"Yes, Sergeant, go," she said gently. "Sit for a little while. We'll be fine."

He nodded gratefully then hobbled out into the hallway. The Doctor followed him with the comment, "Oh, and save a slice for me!" He beckoned to Rose before entering the room again.

She stepped outside. "What?" she asked softly, sensing something clandestine in the offing.

He took her hand and led her a few steps down the hall. "Seward's getting too much laudanum. He needs to regain full consciousness, and soon."

"Yeah, I had a feelin' it wasn't good for him to be drugged up all the time."

"It won't be, but I doubt Dr. Verdi or Sgt. Robinson will see that, at least not yet. So you're going to have to get the bottle and dilute it."

"All right," she said.

"I'll distract Mrs. Seward and Fanny. Pour out about half of the contents and replace them with water."

"Yeah."

They returned to the bedroom. The Doctor crouched at eye level before Mrs. Seward, who blinked at him in mild surprise as she turned slightly toward him.

"Mrs. Seward," he said with kind deference, "please forgive my forwardness, but you look a bit pale."

She lifted a hand to her bosom; the appendage trembled slightly. "I'm fine, Sir. You needn't be concerned about me."

Her other hand lay limply in her lap. He rested two fingers over her wrist and murmured, "Oh dear."

Fanny moved to stand behind her mother, placing a hand upon her shoulder. "What's the matter, Doctor?"

He looked up, and Rose could see genuine concern in his expression. "You're overtaxing yourself, Mrs. Seward. You're exhausted and need to rest."

"Mother, I told you to ask Dr. Verdi for a sleeping draught," Fanny said in gentle remonstrance. "She hasn't been able to sleep more than a few hours since Father was injured," she explained to the Doctor.

Rose had slipped around behind them to stand near the bedside table. The women's backs were toward her, so they did not see her hand reach out quickly and close around the bottle of laudanum. But the Doctor's sharp eyes caught her movement, and he gave her a quick nod of approval.

Rose walked quietly to the adjoining sitting room and poured a good measure of the liquid opiate into a glass then carefully dribbled water into the bottle. She waited a few moments to return to the bed chamber, watching the Doctor as he asked Mrs. Seward if he might listen to her heart.

Her hand clasped against her bosom. "Oh, no, that won't be necessary," she replied, sounding slightly breathless.

"We appreciate your kindness, though," Fanny said.

Rose surreptitiously returned the bottle to its original place then gathered a few items onto a tray, including the glass of laudanum, to take downstairs to be washed.

"If there's nothing else," she said with a slight bow to Mrs. Seward.

The older woman shook her head absently, and Rose stepped outside. She heard the Doctor say a few more words about proper rest and meals before he joined her.

"Done," she said simply, gesturing toward the glass.

"Good. That's one thing taken care of."

From his tone of voice, she knew there was more. "Right. So what else do we need to do?"

He shook his head; the inscrutable expression had returned to his face. "Keep your eyes open," was his only reply.

On April 13, a large, black carriage drawn by four powerful horses drove up to the house. Rose heard the clatter of the heavy wheels against the cobblestones as she was dusting in the parlor. She looked out the window, expecting to see Mrs. Lincoln or another of the well-dressed officials who periodically stopped in to inquire about the Secretary's condition.

Two burly men sat behind the driver. Both climbed down and stationed themselves near the door. It opened slowly, and another man exited. All three pairs of eyes scanned the street carefully before the passenger emerged.

Rose saw a tall man unfold his lanky frame from the interior of the conveyance. His head was bent, showing her only his dark hair. His three companions surrounded him as he walked toward the house, preventing her from seeing his face clearly.

William's quick footsteps echoed against the marble in the hallway as he hurried toward the front door. By the time she heard the sharp knock, she had moved into the parlor doorway so that she could see the foyer clearly.

William opened the door with a bow. One of the stocky fellows stepped inside first, again looking around as he asked the servant if anyone else was visiting.

"No Sir, only the house staff, Sgt. Robinson, and the family are here," he replied.

With a curt nod, the man stepped aside, permitting the honored guest to enter. Now Rose could see his face. The prominent cheekbones, dark beard, and deep-set eyes were all familiar to her, but she still required a moment to realize that she was staring at Abraham Lincoln. She gave a tiny gasp of surprise.

The bodyguard heard her and directed a stern look in her direction. William followed his gaze.

"That's Miss Rose," he informed the guards. "She helped Secretary Seward after the accident."

Three sets of eyes appraised her critically, leaving Rose vaguely uncomfortable and nebulously guilty. After all, she wasn't really supposed to be here. For a moment she felt like a spy.

"I'm sorry," she murmured. "Didn't mean to intrude—was just cleanin' in here."

"There is no need to apologize, my dear," the President's deep voice rumbled warmly. His long stride carried him to the doorway in a few moments. "If anything, I am the one who should feel regretful. I had heard that a young woman provided assistance to my good friend when he was injured, and that she was subsequently offered a position here. I should have inquired immediately whether you were nearby so that I could offer you my gratitude."

With a somber smile, he took her hand in his. She looked up at the craggy features, struck by the deep sadness hidden behind his gaunt, dark eyes. It reminded her a great deal of someone else she knew quite well…

"Thank you, Sir," she managed, wondering whether she should curtsy.

But the President had already dropped her hand. He bowed his head slightly then turned to follow William up the stairs. Rose stood still for several seconds. She'd spent hours with Queen Victoria, one of the most regal women in history, yet she was left with a feeling of deeper respect and admiration from her brief moment with this common but noble man.

She began to remember a few things she'd read about Lincoln: His humble beginnings, in a log cabin, wasn't it? His lack of formal schooling but voracious appetite for learning on his own; she'd related to that bit so it stuck in her memory. The admiration of generations of Americans, as well as world leaders for his political skill and intellect.

And then she recalled one more thing.

"No," she muttered, watching the President as he disappeared down the upstairs hallway.

This great man would meet a dreadful end. The specific facts escaped her, but she knew that his assassination loomed in the near future. Was that why she was here? Was she supposed to warn him, to change his plans and prevent the tragedy? That must be what she was meant to do.

She needed to find the Doctor, to ask him, to be certain. But she had no idea where he was or how to locate him. He'd been so ambiguous about his whereabouts. Maybe she should return to the TARDIS on the chance that he was there?

He often visited in the late afternoon, though. She decided she'd wait until dusk. If he hadn't made an appearance by then, she'd go in search of him.

Rose was distracted for the rest of the day. She watched President Lincoln's carriage drive away after he'd had a short visit with Seward. She felt some small comfort knowing that the Secretary was more alert today. The reduction in laudanum dosage was helping; Fanny and Sgt. Robinson agreed that he seemed relatively cogent for the first time since the accident.

Mrs. Seward remained anxious and frail, though. Rose still worried about her, but there was little she could do, aside from bringing tea and subtly trying to encourage the woman to eat.

Rose was lighting the gas lamps in the front parlor when she saw Sgt. Robinson enter the house. He alternated between day and night shifts; he would stay from dusk until dawn for the next three days.

He caught a glimpse of her in the window and waved, making a point of coming into the room for a moment to speak to her.

"Good evening, Miss Rose," he greeted.

"Sergeant," she replied with a wan smile. She'd hoped the figure coming up the darkening street was the Doctor, and she couldn't help feeling disappointed.

"Is something the matter?" he asked. He was a perceptive man who quickly read other's emotions on their faces.

"No," she said, attempting to muster some cheer. "But you missed our big visitor."

His eyes widened slightly. "No! Was he here?"

"Yeah. Abraham Lincoln paid a call this morning."

"Well, I am sorry I missed that. I've seen him from afar and heard him speak—he's a magnificent speaker—but I've never met him."

"He's a kind man," she said. "Came over to thank me for helping Mr. Seward the day he was hurt."

"I'd heard that about him, so I'm not surprised."

"But there's this sadness to him," she continued. "Somethin' in his eyes…"

Robinson nodded. "He was devastated by the War. He wanted so desperately to keep the country united. And he's done it, but there've been such consequences…" Unconsciously he shifted his weight off his injured leg.

"Must've been really hard on him."

"It was. I've heard Mrs. Seward discuss it with Miss Seward. They both know him fairly well."

"He doesn't deserve it."

"The war, you mean?"

She paused for an instant. "Yeah, right, that's what I mean."

He studied her face for a moment. "Are you sure you're all right?"

Rose nodded. "Yeah. Seein' him—it was just kind of a big thing."

He smiled gently. "I'm sure it was. I should get to the Secretary now. Have a good night."

"Yeah, you too."

He left her in the half-dark room immersed in her wholly dark thoughts.

To be continued…