Nora’s muscles seized.
“Downstairs,” she commanded. “Now.”
***
Daniel usually dressed before breakfast, though occasionally he took a quick cup of tea wearing a fantastically embroidered silk dressing gown he’d purchased as a joke in Paris during his medical-student days. Arriving in the breakfast parlor in only a nightshirt, with Nora clad in nightdress and wrapper, was singular enough that Horace nearly dropped his spoon.
His bushy eyebrows shot up, eyes widening, as a bit of egg fell from his mouth and lodged in his full gray beard. “Good morning?” he offered hopefully.
Nora felt her cheeks burn scarlet. “Not particularly,” she snapped.
Mrs. Phipps locked narrowed eyes on the pillowcase fromthe opposite end of the table. “What is that, pray?”
“Delivery for Horace,” Daniel announced.
“And what is it?” Julia spoke coolly, but she had a white-knuckle grip on her fork. She was the newest member of the household and wife of Harry Trimble, resident surgeon and Daniel’s closest friend. Her conventional upbringing made these episodes something of a trial. Nora wished she could manage that tone—and that look. Julia was beautiful and flawlessly put together, as always.
Meanwhile, Nora’s rumpled nightdress and hastily tied wrapper did nothing for her dignity.
“That’s precisely what I asked,” Daniel said.
The pillowcase wriggled sharply, and Mrs. Phipps yelped. Horace leaped to his feet, almost upsetting his chair. Julia dove for the tea set, sweeping the tray of Meissen porcelain to the relative safety of the sideboard.
“You know what I say about specimens at the table,” Mrs. Phipps snapped. “Whatthingdo you have in there?”
“Sorry, Mrs. Phipps, but the old man deserves this one,” Daniel apologized.
Horace poked at the bag before opening it and peering inside.
“What are you doing with my wombat?”
The strange name made Julia retreat, pressing against the wall. It didn’t mean anything to Nora, either, but she was more used to this kind of predicament—and Horace’s bewilderment that anyone might possibly be discomfited by something new, strange, or of interest to science. She lifted her eyebrows. “What in the world is a wombat?”
Horace glared; he never approved of ignorance. “Marsupial from Australia. Egg-laying mammal. I’ve never handled one.Evans from the Linnean Society sent it over.”
“When?” Nora insisted. “You said nothing about this new guest.”
Horace shrugged. “Last week sometime. I’ve been experimenting with her food. She won’t take leaves, she won’t take berries, but I’ve got her onto vegetable roots.”
“She,” Nora mumbled, irked at Daniel’s triumphant grin. “But why wasshein my room?”
“They produce cubed droppings,” Horace added, his low-pitched voice humming with excitement.
Julia twitched. “There was an odd little square three days ago…in my embroidery.”
Mrs. Phipps scowled.
“Cubed, you say?” Daniel leaned in for another look. “How precise of a cube? Actual squared edges?”
Looking upward for strength, Nora almost crossed herself—another habit that had imprinted during medical school in Bologna. “Why was she in my room?”
Horace waved his hand, brushing off her question as he did all boring inquiries. “She’s not dangerous in any way. I haven’t seen her for a couple of days.”
Nora’s mouth dropped open, and Mrs. Phipps made a strangled sound.
“Lord save us, Horace,” Daniel scolded. “You might be a genius, but you’re no true naturalist. You mustcareabout the specimens you work with. She’ll die at this rate.” Forgetting breakfast, he tucked the cotton-wrapped wombat under one arm and retreated for the door.
“Where are you going?” Nora asked. “You’ve got to getready for hospital rounds.” Daniel seldom worked at the hospital and clinic in the basement of 43 Great Queen Street, but he’d agreed to look in this morning. Most days he was too busy assuming the care of Horace’s private patients, making house calls, and supervising a ward at St. Bartholomew’s teaching hospital.
