Horace grunted. “I’ve told you not to wear silly costumes, haven’t I?”
Nora blew out a breath. Flowing gauze skirts and voluminous sleeves caught fire much more often than narrow trousers and heavy work coats.
“Don’t know why you bother with all that.” Frowning, Horace waved his scalpel at the ruffled collar and neat pintucks peeking above the top of her apron.
Nora rolled her eyes. “If I dress too fine, I’m silly. If I dress too plain, I’m unwomanly.”
Horace sniffed.
“I know you don’t think it matters, but it does,” she argued. “I can’t treat anyone unless they come to me in the first place.”
“They don’t come for your wardrobe, my girl. And I don’t think she cares one whit for this conversation.” Horace motioned to the lifeless corpse. “How cruel to make her listen to such vacuous fluff.”
“And what would you discuss with her instead?” Nora crossed her arms, waiting.
“I’ve been telling her about useful plants. Ironweed. Heal-all. Goldenrod.”
Nora hated that her mouth dropped open right after his comments about not being surprised. “You haven’t.” Nora scanned him for signs of bluffing.
“I certainly have,” he murmured. “It’s what I did when I thought you were as good as dead from cholera. You weren’t awake for most of it, but we discussed the making of paint pigments. I figured you’d be interested due to the supplies in yourfamily’s flat. I was right, wasn’t I?”
“You never once told me…” She’d seen him muttering away over corpses for more than a decade, but always assumed he was taking mental notes of anatomy—not carrying on conversations.
Horace glanced at her with his sharp eyes. “There are thousands of years of human knowledge to cram into a mere sixty or seventy years of mortality. Might as well review every fact we can, when we can, with whomever we can.” His nose wrinkled. “You’re getting sloppy. If I see another novel in this house—”
Nora colored. “I hardly read any. They’re mostly Julia’s.”
“Hardlyisn’t none. If you’ve spare hours, you should be studying. You’ll have plenty of time to rest during your confinement.”
Nora’s gaze jerked from his careful fingers to his face, which betrayed no emotion.
“My what?”
Horace lifted the girl’s arm to clean her tiny fingers. “Your pregnancy.”
Nora’s nostrils flared, his words ricocheting through her brain. “I suppose when the time comes—”
“You truly don’t know?” He looked at her over his spectacles, mildly curious.
She pressed her hand to her hip. “Horace!”
Redipping his sponge, he wrung it out again. “I’d say you’re four or five weeks along. Check your dates.”
“You can’t possibly—” Her voice rose with warning.
Horace shrugged. “You’ve overslept twice. You eat less. You cover your nose more frequently here in the theater, and there’s some slight edema around your nostrils—”
Nora’s hand flew to her nose, relieved to feel it the exactsize and shape she remembered. Edema indeed!
“And I used the water closet after you,” Horace added, as if a detective with a case tidily solved.
“What does the water closet have to do with it?” she asked, instantly regretting it.
“I could still smell your urine. I’ve never been wrong about this before.”
“Lord give me strength,” Nora muttered. She shook her finger at him. “Don’t start any rumors, Horace. If I were expecting—and I’m not—I’d certainly know before you.”
Horace shrugged, conceding.Too easy.He never gave up a bone without a growl.
