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Hubris, she thought in agonized self-reproach. Arrogance. You always think things can be fixed with money or logic.

No matter how many times she crashed headlong into the realities of life, she never seemed to learn her lesson. Nothing was certain. Nothing was safe. To be human was to live in precarity.

John came out of the bedroom and closed the door.

Reina lifted her head, her blood pumping with anxiety. “What did the doctor say?”

“Nothing yet. She’ll come out in a moment.” His gaze dropped to her interlaced fingers. “If you’re praying, I’ll wait in the hallway.”

“No,” she said awkwardly, unclasping her hands. “I was just—no. I don’t usually. Pray, that is.”

He absorbed that without seeming shocked or disapproving. “An atheist, are you?”

Reina moved sideways to make room for him on the settee. “Agnostic, I suppose . . . ?” Her lips quirked without humor. “Mamaíta wanted me to go to church, but the rector at St. James’s wouldn’t allow it unless my father vouched for me. Which he would never do, of course. The vicar at St. Peter’s said I could come to services if I publicly renounced my mother’s past—but that’s something I would never do. The rector at St. George’s said I could attend on Sunday, but I’d have to sit away from the rest of the congregation. And he said I could never be baptized there.” She gave a dry huff of laughter. “It’s just as well that no church would take me. I’m sure lightning would have split the roof as soon as I stepped inside.”

John didn’t seem to share her amusement. “None of them spoke for God,” he said flatly.

She shrugged. “Nature speaks more clearly to me than religion ever has.”

“They speak in the same voice.” John took her right hand and clasped it between both of his, warming her cold fingers. “I could take you to places I’ve been . . . there’s a trout stream that rises among the mountains near Cardiff. It flows beside castle ruins and a grove of green willow. Soft, the water is, and in the shallows, it breaks into music. If you walked there with me someday, you’d know it was as sacred as any church.”

Reina stared at him in wonder, trying to understand the world as he did. For her, life had always been a series of challenges that ended in either victory or defeat. In the disciplines of finance, economics, and law, results were clear and measurable. Her strength lay in making sense of things. It had never occurred to her that there might be a kind of strength in not making sense of things, in allowing for mystery and unpredictability. In regarding defeat as part of some greater process.

The doorknob turned, and Dr. Gibson emerged from the bedroom. Her slender hand extended in brief motion, like the flutter of a sparrow’s wing. Stay seated, it meant. The doctor released a slow breath and took her time about approaching them.

Reina felt John begin to let go, but she clung to him. Appearances didn’t matter. All that mattered was what Dr. Gibson was about to tell them. And Reina knew that hearing it out loud would make it hurt a thousand times more.

Dr. Gibson sat in an armchair near the settee and adjusted it so she could face them. Her expression was resolute, but some deep feeling shimmered beneath the surface. “I’m afraid the situation is difficult.” She paused, looked away, cleared her throat, smoothed her skirts before resuming with hard-won composure. “Let’s start with the more hopeful part. The child, a boy, is in good condition. Remarkably so. No apparent physical defects or breathing difficulties. His color is good, and his movements and reflexes are normal.”

“What about Tuppence?” John asked. “She survived the operation, aye?”

“Yes, but . . . I don’t want to give you false encouragement. This is hard to say. We must prepare for the worst.” Her intent green eyes surveyed their blank faces before she continued slowly. “When I arrived, Tuppence was at the verge of systemic collapse. The placenta had already detached, and the result was catastrophic blood loss. Surgery was the only way to stop it. In other words, it wasn’t a case of choosing the mother or the child—the operation was the best chance either of them had.”

“But you stopped the bleeding, didn’t you?” Reina asked. “And Tuppence is still alive.”

“For now,” Dr. Gibson said gently. “I tied off the major vessels and sutured the incision. But when the major organs—heart, liver, kidney—are deprived of oxygen for too long, they can’t recover. I expect by morning—” She paused, her eyes narrowing against a glitter of tears. She pressed the corners with her fingertips. “Forgive me. I’m not usually so—but my own mother, you see—this is how—” She cleared her throat. “It’s why I became a doctor.”

Somehow the crack in the doctor’s professional detachment was a comfort. The flash of humanizing grief, a sign that this was deeply personal to Dr. Gibson, seemed to affirm how much Tuppence mattered. It was a loss the doctor would share with them.

“If I’d brought you here sooner—” John began.

“No,” Dr. Gibson said firmly. “This was a rare case, with terrible complications. Even if I had been right here just as the labor started, I expect the outcome would have been no different.” Her gaze held his. “We can’t always save them. You know that.”

Reina could hardly think. She had to collect words and stitch them together like scraps from a sewing box. “Doctor, is she in any pain?”

“No, she’s unaware of pain. But I’ll give her a morphine injection regardless.”

A stranger came to the doorway, a good-looking man with black hair and blue eyes. He wore a rough tweed jacket and broadcloth trousers, and the kind of collarless shirt worn by workmen. He braced a shoulder against the doorframe in a relaxed posture, but there was an air of quiet authority about him. His eyes seemed to perform innumerable calculations and assessments.

Reina felt the reflexive loosening of John’s hand over hers before it tightened again. The moment was so quick, it was almost unnoticeable.

The man’s gaze had settled on Dr. Gibson’s weary face. “I’ve packed up the equipment,” he said in an Irish accent.

Dr. Gibson seemed to draw something from the sight of him, like a plant turning to light. She turned to Reina and said, “Miss Martin, this is my husband, Mr. Ransom.”

Reina blinked in surprise. “How do you do,” she said automatically.

Mr. Ransom gave her a polite nod. “Miss Martin.” His attention immediately returned to Dr. Gibson. “We’ll be taking our leave soon,” he said.