On the corner, a sandwich board stood outside a freshly scrubbed building front. The chalk on it was in Eamon’s careful hand. It read:
Dr. Eamon Tierney Clinic
Injury, illness, consultation
No one turned away.
The front room smelled like herbs, soap, and antiseptic. I stepped inside and paused just past the threshold, undoing my coat.
Eamon was leaning over a young girl’s arm, wrapping a bandage around a neat stitch line. The woman’s mother hovered anxiously nearby, wringing her hands. The girl herself looked more curious than scared, craning to see what he was doing.
“No,” he was saying patiently. “She doesn’t need to stop playing. She needs to stop playing on rusted metal, there’s a difference.”
The mother fretted. “But the wolves?—”
“If a wolf had bitten her,” Eamon said, tying off the bandage, “this would look very different. That ladder of yours is a far greater threat at the moment. Get it fixed.”
The girl giggled. The mother tried to scowl but it became more of a sigh.
Eamon caught sight of me over their heads and grinned. “You’re next,” he said, teasing around the edges.
“I don’t have an appointment,” I said.
“You never do,” he replied.
The woman glanced between us, eyes widening slightly as recognition dawned. “You’re?—”
“Yes. I’m Tamsin,” I said gently. “You should get home before the weather turns though.”
They went, the mother ushering the girl out with a muttered thank you. Eamon watched them go, then set about tidying his space.
“How many today?” I asked.
“Four humans, three wolves,” he said. “Two with old injuries, one with a cough, one with a question about whether their son’s temper meant he was secretly feral.”
“Does it?” I asked.
“No,” he answered dryly. “It means he’s sixteen.”
I stifled a laugh.
“Nox was looking for you, by the way. Something about a few messages for you. And an illegal card game. But mostly about the messages.”
“Of course,” I said. “I’ll go find him before he finds more trouble.”
“You’re probably too late,” Eamon murmured.
He wasn’t entirely wrong.
Our version of an office sat above the clinic. It had formerly been some minor official’s workspace, now a tangle of desks and maps and filing cabinets that had seen better decades. The window looked out over the street, the glass wavy from age. Griff had reinforced the door with a new bar that blended in so well you wouldn’t notice it until he dropped it into place.
Bishop sat at one desk, pen moving steadily across a ledger.Beside him, a second book lay open, columns of names marching neatly down the page.
He didn’t look up when I entered. “You’re late,” he said mildly.
“I didn’t realize I was expected,” I replied.
“You’re always expected,” he said.
