He turned as they approached, even though they did not call out greeting, and met her eyes with a soft smile.
Only then did she breathe.
Only then was she steady.
“Roland,” she said as she climbed the final stair. “I didn’t think you would come.”
“I’ll be outside,” he told her as her grandfather slid away from her to open the doors, giving them a brief moment of privacy. “But I couldn’t stay away.”
“Roland …” she said again, her eyes moistening.
“No tears,” he instructed, leaning forward to cup her cheek and wick away the threat of them from her lashes. “You are strong. Today is your day. And you look …” He paused, taking a step back as he took her in, turquoise eyes sliding over the paisley dress and the neat coil of her hair. “You … Mae!”
She blinked. “What?”
He only met her eye in response, a knowing glint flashing there. “You are wearing it.”
What a shame that she could not answer, she thought, turning and racing into the embrace of the hospital. What a shame that duty called.
What a shame that she only had one heart to beat like a war drum at a single given moment.
Such was life.
They were led through a series of polished, echo-filled hallways, past two large surgical theaters and a lecturing auditorium, and up a set of rear stairs to the offices by a quiet little man who had been awaiting them near the entrance.
Mae glanced several times at her grandfather, at the way his face softened and his eyes shifted around these halls, at the way his gait seemed to change the farther inside they got.
She wondered what he saw here. What he felt.
She wondered if any of it was regret.
They stopped outside a heavy wooden door with a brass nameplate mounted at its center.Dr. Henry Cecil, Chief Surgeon.
She blew out through pursed lips air that felt cold, despite its previous tenure in the warm embrace of her lungs.
“They are ready for you,” the little man said, knocking and turning the knob. “This way, please.”
Mae nodded and stepped across the threshold, from polished marble floors to thick, tufted carpet, into the brass-and-oak embrace of the office itself.
Inside, three men awaited them.
One, behind the desk at the center of the room, must have been Dr. Cecil, a severe-looking man with gray at his temples and gold at his cuffs. Another middle-aged man was standing near the window, his hands clasped behind his back, and a third, youngerman was seated in a leather armchair across from the desk, his ankle drawn up over his knee.
The youngest man looked the least willing to be present, his glossy brown hair in an uncombed flop over his forehead and his cheeks still pink with what looked like last night’s revelry.
She suspected that he was her tormenter, purveyor of frogs and pig guts. The younger Mr. Cecil.
“Good afternoon,” said Dr. Cecil, coming to his feet and walking around the desk to greet her grandfather, his hand outstretched. “You must be Alvin Casper. It is an honor, sir.”
“I am,” he replied, wary. “And this is my granddaughter, Mae.”
“A pleasure,” she said, keeping her hands folded in front of her, knowing very well her place.
But to her surprise, the doctor extended his hand to her too. “I hear,” he said, “that you diagnosed posthumous thrombotic embolism last month, young woman. Is that true?”
“Oh,” she said, surprised as she pulled her hands apart and proffered one to be shaken. “Yes, I … the coroner …”
“Mr. Richards is well known to us,” he said with a curt nod. “He is very impressed with you. May I present Dr. Wendell Davies of St. Bartholomew’s, and my son Cary, who is here at my own behest, for reasons I’d wager you are already familiar.”
