”C’mon, hero,” Kit said, taking Malcolm’s elbow. “Let’s clean you up and look at that wrist.” He steered Malcolm through the crowd and hustled him off to Rachel Eisenstein’s infirmary. She fussed over the wrist, told him he d sprained it heroically and warned him, “Don’t tackle anything more strenuous than dinner for a couple of days, okay?” She suspended his injured wrist in a real sling. His shirt, retired from sling duty, had begun to dry, revealing tears and gore stains. The rest of him, however, was squeaky clean: Rachel had given him a bath in disinfectant and new clothes.
”Yes, ma’am.” He saluted her with his unbandaged hand.
”Good,” Rachel smiled “Now, scoot I have work to do. Some of the tourists were hurt during the ruckus and others are having hysterics. Unstable gates,” she grimaced, “are not conducive to integrated psyches. Wish I’d been there to see it. Just my luck I was stuck on call and couldn’t leave.”
Kit sympathized, then they left Rachel to the demands of her profession. Once in the corridor, Kit said, “You never did answer. Are you game for the Britannia Gate?”
Malcolm chuckled thinly “You should know without having to ask. Where shall I take her? A night at the opera? Or maybe a stay in the East End to discourage girlish romantic fantasies?”
”I leave that to your discretion and wisdom. I would suggest we collect my granddaughter, though, and head over to Connie Logan’s. Kid’ll need a good down-time kit.” .
Malcolm nodded. “Are we playing tourist for this trip or am I getting her ready for her role as disguised boy?”