Rose's words tumbled out. "Oh my God. He tried to kill Seward, an' he stabbed Augustus an' Fanny and Sergeant Robinson, an' Frederick—I don't know if he's alive or dead. An' there's some poor bloke in the front hall, too—"
The Doctor's hand ran over her back. "Sshh. Everyone's going to be all right. But we need to leave. Now."
"But they're hurt. You can help—"
"No. They'll be in good hands. But once the police arrive, there'll be questions and suspicions building, and it won't be safe for you here."
She looked up at him. His expression remained tight and somber. He reached for her hand and took it firmly. She thought his own hand was very, very cold. He led her outside, around the back of the house and through an alleyway.
She saw lights coming on in neighboring houses. Several windows opened as people called out inquiries. The Doctor kept to the shadows until they reached the end of the street, then he draped his coat over her shoulder and looped his arm through hers. With brisk steps he escorted her for a dozen or more blocks.
Three times she began to speak, but he silenced her with a firm shake of his head and a hasty word or two about remaining quiet until they were somewhere safe. The TARDIS was miles away, so she doubted they were going there.
She was correct. After about ten minutes they reached an unimposing townhouse. They entered through the back door and quietly climbed the narrow staircase. He produced an old-fashioned key and slipped it into a door at the end of the hallway then motioned her inside.
She found a small room with a tiny sitting area and a bedroom set tucked into the far corner. A few coals glowed in the grate. The Doctor stoked the fire and lit a large kerosene lamp then turned back to Rose.
She was still standing near the door, trying to process all that had happened. He'd said that everyone in the Seward household would be all right. That was good—very good. Maybe they had averted more than one tragedy tonight.
"Did you save him?" she asked, her throat suddenly quite dry.
He did not reply. Instead he gestured toward the diminutive settee then poured some water into a tumbler. Rose sank down on the cushions and took the glass from him but did not drink.
"Doctor," she tried again, "Lincoln was supposed to be shot tonight. Did you save him?"
He closed his eyes for a moment then opened them to look past her. "No."
"No? What d'you mean? He wasn't shot?"
She saw him swallow. "He was."
"But he's not dead, yeah?"
"He's still alive, but he won't last past the morning."
She didn't understand. She stood up abruptly and grasped his hands. His coat fell to the floor. "But you were there, weren't you? At the theater. That's why we came here: To prevent his assassination."
His eyes flicked down her to left arm then back up to her face. "No, Rose, it's not. There are some things that can't be changed, some historical constants that mustn't be altered, and this is one of them."
"No, it can't be. You have to go an' save him. It's not too late, is it? There must be somethin' you can do."
"There's not," he said hollowly. "Lincoln is going to die just after 7:00 tomorrow morning. History can't be changed."
"But I've already changed it! That man—he was gonna shoot Frederick. He had a gun. I think he was plannin' on shootin' Seward, too. But I used the sonic screwdriver an' the gun didn't fire, an' Seward's not dead."
"Neither is Johnson."
"Who the hell's Johnson?" she asked. Tears of frustration, confusion, and anguish were welling in her eyes.
"Vice President Andrew Johnson. He'll take the oath of office tomorrow. He would have been killed tonight, too; that was the plan."
She blinked against her tears. "Is that what you were doin'? Savin' him?"
He nodded. "As Secretary of State, Seward was next in line after Johnson for the presidency. If both he and Johnson had been assassinated, the entire course of history would have been changed irrevocably."
"But not if Lincoln died? I don't understand." Tears streamed down her face now.
"I know, Rose."
Her hands balled into fists. She pressed them against his chest as a sob escaped her. And then she was crying in earnest, weeping in his arms until her legs turned to jelly. He held her securely, easing her down to sit in his embrace.
As her sobs slowed, he lifted her chin and held the glass while she sipped some water. When she'd finished, she saw that his eyes were bright and damp, too. He placed his hands upon her cheeks.
"This is the way it has to be," he said, finally meeting her gaze. His voice was soft now and his expression tender.
She nodded. "Yeah."
His fingers moved over her hair and then stopped. "What's this?" he asked, gently probing the site where her skull had impacted with the railing.
She winced as he increased the pressure slightly. The ache in her head had become a dull constant, inconsequential against the backdrop of the night's events, but now she felt it acutely.
"He pushed me," she replied. "That man. I tried to stop him from attackin' Frederick, but I fell back an' hit my head on the banister."
His hands dropped into his lap. "You were there, right there in the midst of it." His tone was heavy with regret.
"Always am." She tried to smile, but it felt more like a grimace.
"Give me the screwdriver."
She pulled it from her pocket. He switched it on and adjusted the setting before scanning her head then shifting the blue beam to her eyes.
"No concussion," he reported.
"I'm all right," she confirmed. "Suppose I've got a pretty thick skull."
He did not even smile at her attempt to joke. His attention had shifted to her left arm. As his cool fingers wrapped around her elbow, he lifted the limb. She looked down and was surprised to see a tear in her sleeve just over her bicep. Even more surprising was the blood that had saturated the fabric.
"Oh!" she exclaimed. "When did that happen?" But even as she phrased the question, she remembered the assailant rushing past her with that wicked knife in his hand. Still, she hadn't even felt it.
"Adrenaline," he said as he began rolling up her sleeve. "When it floods the human system, it often dulls pain temporarily."
Apparently it was wearing off, because she felt a distinct sting now, and it was rapidly turning into a throb. She watched as he exposed her arm and examined the wound. It had stopped bleeding, which she supposed was good.
"It's not too deep," he informed her, and she could hear the relief in his tone. "I'll clean and bandage it to prevent infection 'til I can repair it properly with the dermal regenerator."
He stood and busied himself at the dresser. Rose leaned back against the cushions as deep weariness began to overtake her.
"So whose room is this?" she asked, stifling a yawn.
"Mine, at least for the moment."
"You rented a room?"
"I couldn't very well keep going back and forth to the TARDIS, and I wanted to be where I could keep an eye on things."
"So what were you doin'? Watchin' the guy who was plannin' to kill Johnson?"
"I was watching a lot of people," he replied rather obliquely. He returned to the settee carrying a basin of water, a bar of soap, and a small towel. He deposited them on the little side table then sat down beside her again.
As he began working on her wound, she asked, "So where's Lincoln now? He's not alone, is he?"
"No, Rose. His wife is with him, and I believe he'll have many visitors throughout the night."
"Will he…" She swallowed as fresh tears pricked at her eyes. "Will he suffer?"
"No. The nature of the injury is such that he won't feel anything."
"That's good. I know I only met him for a minute, but I could tell he was a good man—a really special man."
The Doctor nodded soberly. "He was."
He wiped clean water over the cut. It stung deeply. She tried not to flinch, but it was hard to remain still in the face of pain.
He glanced up at her. "Almost finished."
"Yeah."
He dried the wound then wrapped it in clean strips of linen liberated from the unused bed sheet. She sighed unintentionally as he was unrolling her sleeve.
"You're tired," he said.
"Long day," she agreed.
He stood and held out his hand. "Come on, then."
He helped her up. Her legs felt shaky, and for a moment the floor seemed to tilt beneath her feet. She shook her head to clear it and found that he'd wrapped an arm securely around her back. He led her to the bed, where she sank down immediately. He removed her shoes then lifted her legs onto the mattress. However, the long skirt tangled about her ankles and calves.
"Let me help you with this," he said, already working at the buttons down the back of her dress with his nimble fingers.
Rose was too tired to protest. Besides, the dress did feel tight and restricting, and she needed comfort just now. The Doctor slid the garment down over her shoulders, mindful of her injured arm, then helped her to stand again. Fabric pooled on the floor, and she stepped out of it.
She wore a pretty, lace-trimmed cotton camisole and long slip. Freed from the dress, she was immediately cold and wrapped her arms around herself. The Time Lord lifted a folded blanket from the foot of the bed, and she lay down gratefully.
She was exhausted, yet when she closed her eyes the terrible images from the evening's carnage stormed through her mind. She thought of Lincoln, too, imagining the dreadful scene at the theater and his wife's anguish, and her chest became tight and sore.
She didn't realize that she was crying again until she felt the soft touch of silk against her cheek. The Doctor was bending over her, wiping her tears with his handkerchief.
"Sshh," he soothed softly. His hand brushed over her cheek, fingers lingering at her temple for a moment until tranquil blackness blanketed her, and Rose knew nothing more.
To be concluded…