On the floor of the makeshift cell, the man stirred and let loose a groan of immense proportions. He lifted one quivering hand to his head and reluctantly opened his eyes to the dark of the cell. A curse fell from his lips as he tried to sit up and after a bitter struggle finally succeeded in regaining an upright position. Ralph Verten, also known to many as the General, shook his head quickly to free it from the cobwebs that were lurking therein and chuckled ruefully to himself. He knew that his actions would bestir the Doltish Doctor to rage, but he had not counted on quite the passionate violence that would ensue. He had almost been unprepared; admittedly, he had been. But one of the General's chief characteristics that he had spent countless years perfecting was deliberate action and the acceptance of the consequences. Oh, and feigning helplessness.

As it was, the doctor and his companion, who resembled Cecily remarkably but for her skin tone, were well on their way into the trap he had set for them. As a scapegoat, the Drivelling Doctor would be aptly repaid for the slight headache the General now had. Regaining his feet, he made his way out intending to make sure his prey did not wander from the prescribed path he had set out for them.

Similarly, north across the border into Scotland a man was similarly reviving after many hours spent unconscious.

Kenneth, Lord Dunnett opened his eyes to find a bright face peering down at him like a curious bird.

"Och, aee! Are ye know awake, braw laddie?!" the bird chirped.

The injured man felt his head and asked wearily, "What happened?"

The bird cackled, "Ye got knocked on yer knickers, me boyo!"

The unnobled lord blinked and groaned, "I'm afraid I'm still somewhat disoriented. Um, who are you? And, more to the point, who am I?"

The bird blinked back at him and cackled, "Oh, now that's an interesting twist!"

Daventry, as ordered, continued his surveillance of the doctor and the Tillbury. He felt much like a warden of a Panopticon but without the satisfaction of the surveyee's knowing they were surveyed. He shifted on the thornbush that was serving as his pillow. Sourly, he hoped that those inside were more comfortable than he was at the moment.

Alistair warmed his hands by the meager fire the child had attempted to make up. His stomach had stopped pitching and yawing like the deck of a ship and he had made some semblance of peace with himself. He suspected part of the reason was the woman who had been as of the beginning of this debacle no more than three steps behind him. He turned and looked at her for the first time without confusion, anger or despair. As she swept up the shards of glass that had been knocked over the night before in the rush to save the man's life, Alistair noted her short, spare movements, the set of her mouth in concentration, the complete focus on her minor task. He knew that she would never approach a task as if it were beneath her. He realized that she truly did not think it a lowly profession to be a physician. The thought made his heart tighten pleasantly and a small amount of color rushed to his pale cheeks. As if knowing she was watched, Rosemary raised her eyes to his and smiled.

This quiet, perfect moment was broken when the small girl returned to the room with a light step. "Da's awake!" she announced with a lilt of happiness. Alistair turned to check on his patient.

The man was propped up against the headboard of the age-bitten bed. The color, though altogether absent from his cheeks, was better and the dark eyes showed a hint of sparkle. The man looked up with eagerness as Alistair entered and offered his good hand to shake. "Thank 'ee, sir. I must thank 'ee. My Mary has told me what you've done for me, and I'm ever grateful. It must have been God's luck to have stop by our cottage in this time of need."

Alistair shook the proffered hand gladly and answered that he and the lady had merely been on their way south to London and had stopped to ask for hospitality.

"And, lo, but you were made to pay dearly for a roof over yer heads," the man shook his head sorrowfully, the accent strangely slipping then recovering itself. "But I must tell ye, that if on yer way to London ye be in for a long trip. Yer naught but in Northumberland now."

Alistair shook off his momentary confusion. "Could you tell us exactly where we are?"

The man looked surprised at the question but answered willingly enough, "You are two miles west of Blyth Snook on the coast."

Alistair groaned and smacked his head. Blyth was well known as a chief area for salt production, but had a small population Ü certainly not a place to catch a swift skiff south to London.

The man on the bed looked at him with amusement and then spoke in such a manner that Alistair immediately took note. "Mon ami, are you in such a hurry because of the man who is watching the house?"

Alistair was astonished not just be the man's change in demeanor but also by the news. He quickly dashed to the window to peer out only to flinch at his patient's shout of despair. "No, you fool! He'll see you!"

Alistair turned, "Who are you? And what do you know? And are you really that girl's father? Have you kidnapped her?"

The barrage of questions caused the man to raise an eyebrow and then rise from the bed languidly. "I thank you for the medical attention. The man without, by the name of Daventry, inflicted this upon me a few days ago as a warning that if I did not do as he said and engage in this pretense, he would do the same to my daughter, Mary. She is my daughter, you know." The dark eyes flashed. "And dearer to me than anything in the world." He raised a graceful hand to forestall any comments on the part of the physician. "My name is Fairleigh and I will warn you that you are in great danger, more so than perhaps you were aware of. No more I can say, but I will help you escape the clutches of the man without in return for one favor."

Alistair, about to say that he had already provided a service, was stopped by the realization of how much this Fairleigh was sacrificing to warn him. "What would you have of me?"

Fairleigh paled, took a breath, and said, "I will prevent anyone from following you, if you will take my daughter to London to a particular address where she will be safe from all harm. Her mother is there waiting for her." He looked at the doctor hopefully and upon receiving assent made ready for the game.

A day's ride south, Cecily and her companions attended to the business of spreading scurrilous lies against the Erskyn family that was picked up by others also traveling through Durham on an approach to Darlington.

The inn was "the Dirty Seadog" and had seen better days. The paint on the sign was faded so that the name of the inn was oft mistook for the Dirty Sead. The windows were caked with dirt, the beds notoriously occupied with miscroscopic life, and the customers characterized by missing teeth, lice and missing limbs. Suffice it say, then, that the innkeeper suffered a shock when three well-dressed travelers entered through the hingeless door.

The first, small but powerful, stalked into the main room and demanded three of the best rooms. The second, a man with a brightly shining waistcoat, followed immediately afterward with an expression that presaged the indigestion he would receive from the inn's best food. The third, completely covered in a cloak mimicking the look of the Cornish Lady, entered quietly.

The innkeeper, baffled, apologized that he had but two rooms free (which was a lie, he had more, but was afraid to put these wealthy guests anywhere near the other inhabitants of the inn for fear of thievery or murder!). The small man turned to the Cloaked Lady and snarled, "Fine. You obviously get a room to yourself. See what I suffer for you!" And he looked pointedly at Sir Waistcoat who snarled back as the two stalked up the staircase side by side rather than letting the other go first.

The Cloaked Lady leaned confidingly toward the innkeeper and murmured, "Never mind the gentleman, sir. We have all been trapped in the same coach for several days. And we are all of intemperate temperaments." A lock of russet-colored hair escaped from the cowl as she turned to follow the gentlemen up the stairs.

That evening in the communal dining hall the three had ensconced themselves quite happily and dug into deceptively repulsive food.

Gareth Cave, the Lowlander, had eaten his fill and morosely watched as his companions picked at their food. Then, still angry over the events of the day, he directed his stinging wit at the brilliant Alexander, "If you hadn't brought her along we wouldn't be several people short on this search now."

Alexander flushed and said, "It's not my fault that Martha had food poisoning. It was the fault of the food!"

"Yes, but with her appetite it's a wonder she wasn't brought down three times over!"

Alexander snarled at him and retorted, "That's not the real problem and you know it! Something's going on between you and Mariana. I don't know what but you won't take it out on me!"

Mariana flushed as Gareth snapped, "Keep your tongue between your teeth, dandy-coat! Your insinuations are insulting!"

"They are meant to be."

"That's enough!" Mariana stood up and threw her napkin at Alexander. Then she picked it up again and threw it at Gareth. "The two of you are imbeciles and if it is my presence that is causing this, I will go on to find James Havershaw myself!"

"No!" The men simultaneously shouted.

"Besides," retorted Alexander, "I'm the only one who knows what he looks like."

The other diners looked curiously at them, with one woman gazing intently at them.

Gareth looked about embarrassed, and then paused, his intention caught by the woman who was now trying so desperately to disappear into the background. "Good Lord," he shouted dramatically pointing a finger, "there's Cecily Tillbury!"

Alex jumped up knocking over his chair, "What? Where?!"

Mariana, who was still standing after her outburst, was the unfortunate recipient of that article causing her to lose her balance. She tried valiantly to retain it, but plopped into the lap of a very surprised elderly gentleman.

As Mariana fell, Alex and Gareth moved simultaneously in the same direction colliding into each other. Alex abruptly sat down on the hardwood floor and Gareth sprawled face first in front of him. During this debacle, Cecily managed to slip out unnoticed through the side door.

Gareth raised himself off the floor with a scowl on his faced directed at Alex which deepened when he noticed where Mariana was sitting. He brushed himself off as he quickly walked over to Mariana extending his hand to help her up. Removing her hand from the soup in which it had landed, she accepted his proffered help murmuring apologies as she arose.

"'Twas no trouble at all," the old gentleman twinkled up at her.

Tossing some coins on the table, Gareth frigidly bowed, while surreptitiously wiping his hand clean. "My apologies, Sir, and here is compensation for your meal."

He gave Mariana his arm and walked over to where Alex was in the process of standing up. As they came over Alex sarcastically asked, "Well? Where is Cecily Tilbury?"

Looking at him in disgust, Gareth exploded, "You clumsy oaf! She is gone, of course, thanks to your knocking everybody down."

Pointing a finger at him, Alex began, "Now listen..."

Mariana raised her arm regally stopping him in mid sentence. "I would love to listen to you two 'gentlemen' bandy words some more," which caused them both to flush, "but," she looked ruefully down at her soup splattered gown, "I must freshen up." With this statement she turned on her heel with head held high and marched out of the room.

Down the road speedily making good her escape, Cecily congratulated herself. She leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes thinking how well all of her and the general's plans were proceeding.

Cecily chuckled gleefully. Yes, everything was falling into place. Rosemary and that delicious Doctor were safely deposited in their cell and probably being tortured at this very moment. A small frown played across her brow as she thought of the insinuations the General had made regarding Rosemary. Cecily was not one for sharing a man's affections. She quickly banished that thought. What man would go for poor, dark Rosemary when he had had her. Cecily smiled and settled herself back on the cushions again. Yes, everything was turning out just as planned. The pieces had been set into play, the emerald was in the hands of Mr. Warburton, on to its final destination, and she was relaxing in a well sprung carriage after a hard day's work. 'Really,' she thought, 'this whole affair has been most bothersome! I hope the General appreciates my efforts.' She looked out the window as they rolled into the courtyard of an inn.

"Coachman!" She cried in her most imperious tone, "Where are we?"

"This be th' Jolly Fisherman, Miss"

"Yes, I can see that," Cecily indicated the gaily painted sign of a not so jolly old man in a small craft and gave the coachman a withering look, "But what town is this?"

"If I might ask why you'd be wantin' to know Miss?"

"No!" snapped Cecily, "You may not ask why. Just tell me what town we're in, surely you are capable of telling me that."

"Aye Miss, 'Tis me home town Miss, I surely do know where we are. Me mum lives..."

Cecily gnashed her teeth

"This be Hartlepool, Miss," the coachman said hurriedly, then ventured to add, "If I might say Miss..."

"Have done!" screeched Cecily, "You rustics are enough to try the patience of a saint!"

"Aye, Miss," muttered the coachman as he watched the witch stalk inside. "The patience of a saint bain't something you need to worry about much, now is it?"

Cecily stood in the entryway of the inn, contemplating it with an expression of disgust. "Another dirty hovel. How many more of these shacks will it be necessary for me to occupy on this wretched trip." She wavered between speaking for a room or merely ordering fresh horses. The need to keep ahead of the group that was trailing her prevailed and shortly she was on her way, more disgruntled than ever and in posession of a new coachman.

He woke up in a small bed in a dark room. It was not his bed, he was sure of that, though little else. As he sorted through the muddled thoughts that swirled through his consciousness three major problems presented themselves to him. One, he didn't know where he was. Two, he wasn't sure where he was going. And three, he had no idea who he was. "Whaaaaaaa..." he moaned, putting a hand to his head and struggling to a sitting position. "Where... I... what..."

"Awake are ye?" A small wizened man made his way to the bedside. "Well, it's about time. An' do ye ken who ye are now?"

"The bird!" gasped the stranger, grasping at a memory that suddenly presented itself. "You... you're the bird!"

"Ach, am I now? I take it ye've not regained yer senses then? Ah well, maybe I should have thrown ye in the shrubbery as the other gentleman suggested."

"Shrubbery? Other gentleman? I... I don't know what you're talking about. Please, where am I? Who are you? Who... who am I?

"First things first, yer in me daughter's auld cottage, where ye were when I coshed ye on the head with yonder pitcher. I am Lem McCreigh. As to who ye're, I havna a clue. Ye've woken but once before, ye didna ken aught then either."

"You... coshed me? Why"

"Well, ye were attacking the other gentleman, the one as was riddin' the cottage of the ghostie. I couldna let ye do that now could I?

"This - other gentleman - could you describe him?"

"Well, 'e was about yer age, but shorter and fairer than ye. I'm no sure but I'm thinkin' 'is 'air was blonde. 'E had the most unusual eyes..."

"His... eyes, they were blue, blue with green around the iris?"

"Yes, yes, that's 'im do ye remember?"

"I believe I do at that. Where is my coat? I've got to leave immediately." The stranger stood up.

"Leave! But ye've just woken up. Ye mustna overdo it laddie. Ye should rest yerself now."

"I don't have time to rest." The mystery man who was no longer a mystery, at least to himself, said grimly, "I have important business to attend to. It is a matter of life and death."

He gathered his clothing, leaving the tattered wig, and headed off on his horse which was thankfully still where he'd left it.

The old man stood in the cottage door looking after him and chuckling. "A bird am I? heh, Wait'll I tell t'missus. She'll ne'er believe it!"

As his stare of disbelief traveled from the warm loaf of bread to the bowl of steaming porridge decorated with melting butter and a drop of molasses, Alistair offered up a silent prayer of thanks that since it seemed his fate was to be entangled in the devious schemes of what seemed to be any number of sinister persons he was granted for companion a lady who was not only rising hourly in his esteem for her courage, forbearance and indomitable spirit, but who could also put together an appetizing repast.

"How did you do it?" he murmured in some amazement, picking up the knife by the bread and carving off a slice. "You cannot have been in the practice of making porridge in India!" He devoured the piece of bread in two huge bites.

Rosemary glanced over her shoulder from her place by the hearth to where Dr. Erskyn stood by the small, scarred table, before continuing to ladle out another dish of porridge for herself.

"Not often," she agreed, a smile of remembrance curving her lips, as she brought her bowl to the table. She noted the doctor's ingrained courtesy as he seated her without awkwardness or fanfare before taking his own chair. The doctor had in turn noted the graceful turn of her body and the way the heat from the cooking fire had flushed her cheeks. Alistair cleared his throat as he realized his thoughts were taking him down a path he did not want to travel. He concentrated instead on what she was saying.

"Never, had it not been for Primat, my ayah. In general, and as a matter of principle, she loathes English cooking, but she has a peculiar weakness for porridge. And my... my husband was also fond of it, on those rare occasions he rose in time for breakfast." Falling silent, she managed to smother the bitterness which threatened to choke her as she suddenly recalled the last time Robert had made an appearance at the breakfast table. One hand involuntarily rose to cover her eyes briefly before fluttering down and blindly seeking her spoon.

A mere three bites into his delicious meal and Alistair suddenly decided he did not much care for porridge after all. And it would not do, he told himself, it absolutely would not do to continue allowing this small, dark elf to crawl under his skin. So she still grieved for her husband. Well, and so she should. What business was it of his, that's what he'd very much like to know! He slowly and carefully placed his spoon beside his bowl. Perhaps not. Perhaps he really did not want to know the answer to that question at all. Where was that villainous black heart of his when he was most in need of it anyway? Confound the woman! Why was she looking at him as if he'd just flung the bowl at her head?

"Is there something wrong with the porridge?" she asked - was that trepidity in her tone?

He doubted it very much, and mentally called upon the most ill-natured beast he could mimic to reply with a growl, "You are sadly out of practice, ma'am." Shoving the bowl away from him, he exerted more force than was necessary and sent the dish skidding past the bread and across the table before crashing to the floor.

Rosemary's face went white, and her eyes widened into great, dark pools. For a moment she looked terrified. Then, slowly, she stood up and the power of her gaze on him made it seem as if she were twelve feet tall and he no bigger than a school-boy, and a badly-behaved one at that.

"I will hear your apology now, if you please, Dr. Erskyn." Her voice was low, like thunder in the distance, and her manner was one of icy calm.

He felt no bigger than a worm and knew he deserved no better. He begged her forgiveness with as much civility as he could scrape together, as he tried to tame the emotions which seemed to be tugging him in all directions. He could hardly admit to being something of a jealous brute. Blast that husband of hers for an idiot! If she were his wife, he'd never miss breakfast and the chance to stare across the table into those chocolate eyes of hers. Unless they were both to miss breakfast and... Dismayed to find his thoughts once again running away with him, he stood up and stomped huffily away into the next room to have a look at his ersatz patient.

Rosemary continued to stand by the table for long minutes, her trembling hands clenched together. She forced herself to take deep breaths. It had been an accident. Only a small mishap. Nothing like those meals with Robert. Those nightmares with Robert. This time things were different. This time she had made a stand. A wobbly one to be sure, but she had done it. And he had apologized, not very prettily nor with much grace, but with sincere embarrassment for his rudeness and violence. She stared down at the mess of broken pottery and congealing porridge on the floor. He'd be cleaning that up as well, she determined, with a lift of her chin.

She had just sat down to resume her breakfast when she caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of her eye. Turning her head, she saw the door to the outside was being opened slowly and surreptitiously. As she watched the opening gradually widen, her hand crept across the table and gripped the knife. Softly she rose to her feet and approached the door from its hinged side. When a hairy-knuckled hand wrapped around the edge of the door she suddenly threw herself bodily at the door, slamming those intrusive fingers between the door and jamb, and emitted a scream of anger which resonated over the invader's scream of pain, and which Alistair, engaged in a debate with Fairleigh on the virtues and pitfalls of eluding his surveillance versus confronting it, later swore had given him permanent tinnitus as well as temporary paralysis.