"No one needs to hold him," Geneviève said.
Paper rustled. "Mrs. Vale, last time he broke a nurse's wrist."
"Last time I wasn't in the room."
"The second course is worse than the first. Three days of it. Whatever the mind wants, the body fights."
"Then put a chair by the bed and give me his hand." Her voice stayed patient. "He'll lie still for me. He always has."
A pen scratched across paper.
Aria's nails dug into her knee.
"And afterward?" Evans asked.
"Afterward he sleeps. When he wakes up, I'm the first thing he sees, and I tell him he had a fever."
"He's had a great many fevers this autumn."
"Then he's a delicate man, Doctor. Write that down too."
The pen scratched again.
"There's the other matter," Evans said. "The surgeon has asked for photographs."
"He'll have them on Monday." A cup touched a saucer. "The nose. The line of the jaw. Nothing that makes him look ill, and nothing anyone would notice across a dinner table."
"Anyone?"
