I’m prepared for this question. “It is, but the more information I have to begin with, the easier it will be.”
A shudder seems to pass through her. I wish that she would come inside the house, but I don’t want her to think that I’m mollycoddling her either. It’s a difficult line to walk between pity and caring.
“And your mother won’t help you?”
I shrug. “I think she would prefer it if I didn’t dig too deep.”
“I’m sure she has her reasons.” She pauses, weighing up her options, then, “I don’t know how much help I’ll be, but I’ll try.”
I smile. It’s a start.
We spend the next couple of hours at the kitchen table together, poring over websites on my tablet. A casserole is cooking in the Aga, and the kitchen is warm and cozy, so warm that I find my eyes growing heavy.
When Orla says, “I think we’ve narrowed it down to the final couple of Morran families,” I jolt awake.
Blinking back sleep, I mumble, “I’m so sorry, I don’t feel so good.”
Orla places a cool hand on my forehead. “You’re hot. Do you have a fever?”
“No, I’m fine.” But inexplicably, tears spill from my eyes, and when I try to reach for the box of tissues, I’m light-headed. “Tired…” Even to my own ears, I sound drunk.
“I’m going to call the doctor.” Orla is already on her feet, making me feel soft as pillows when I see how quickly she moves.
“No, please don’t. I don’t want to cause you any trouble. I might just go and lie down for a little while.”
I make it onto my feet, but the room sways out from under me, and the world goes black.
When I open my eyes, I’m on the couch in the conservatory, a blanket thrown over me, and a man I’ve never met before is kneeling on the floor beside me.
“My name is Dr. Flynn. How are you feeling, Amelia?” He has kind eyes, freckles across his forehead, and silver hair sprouting from his nostrils. His accent is thicker than Declan’s, and loneliness washes through me.
I never thought I would miss him this much, after such a short space of time, but the house feels empty without him. My chestfeels even emptier, and I’ve been sleeping in the guest room, with the comforter pulled over my head to keep me warm.
“Better.” It’s a lie. My mouth feels dry, my head is pounding, and the room is still swimming around me. “What happened? Did I pass out?”
“Yes, Orla called me because she was worried about you.” He smiles. “She was right to be concerned.”
I peer around the conservatory, but there’s no sign of Orla. “Did she move me?”
I don’t want to think about her struggling to lift my weight. All the energy and vitality she had when I arrived has been used up by grief. She could’ve hurt herself.
“Don’t worry, she had some help. How long have you been feeling nauseous, Amelia?”
Shit. How does he know about that?
“A few weeks. It’s nothing.”
He nods sagely, and I wonder if it’s a kind of universal language that they teach in medical school. “When was your last period?”
Wow. It’s an intrusive question, and my immediate reaction is to stand up and get as far away from this stranger as possible. But my legs are shaking, and my brain cells are still trying to figure out which way is up, and I’m not getting very far unaided.
“I-I can’t remember.”
“Are they regular?”
“Yes.”
He folds his hands on his lap, and holds my gaze, his expression neutral. “Do you think that you might be pregnant?”
