Everything was still.
When she’d come to Larrenton, not even ten years old, soon to be an orphan and shell-shocked by the violence that had descended upon Camhurst, she hadn’t known how to feel about such wide open spaces. She’d lived all her life in an apartment in the center of Great Breltain’s capital. She’d been torn between the terrible fear of being exposed and alone beneath a menacing sky, and the stranger feeling of peace. Now she could see over a mile in every direction.
She was alone, and wasn’t that a good thing?
Down below, on the road, a dark figure moved fast astride a horse. Augustine. Her heart leapt in her chest, and she found the last of her nerves fading away. She’d tell him about the tools, and about the locked door, and he’d have a sensible explanation for everything. He would tease her for fearing padlocks while accepting his medical curiosities, his skulls, and they would turn to more substantial topics, patients and plans and fascinations. They would return to Larrenton. Together.
She picked her way back down the hill. A few times the ground gave way beneath her foot, compressing into a slick slide, but she managed not to twist her ankle. Finally on level with the house, she quickened her pace.
But the rider, who now stood in front of the door, wasn’t Augustine.
It was Mr. Lowell.
Jane slowed to a walk, then stopped entirely at the foot of the small set of stairs leading up to the door. “Mr. Lowell,” she said, causing him to start, then twist to face her. “Is everything all right? Dr. Lawrence should have arrived in town by now.”
“Aye, he did,” Mr. Lowell said. “Sent me with his apologies, ma’am.”
She frowned. “Apologies?”
“He won’t be able to make it back tonight. The road is still washed out this far, and he wants to be on call for night emergencies. I’m actually here to return Mr. Purl’s horse, and give this package to you.”
“And how will you get back? Surely he’s not expecting you to walk.”
“There’s a carriage waiting by the farms. The road is still intact between there and Larrenton, heavens be praised.” He considered a moment, then said, “Pardon my asking, ma’am, but I could likely get you to it, if you wanted. There was only so much I could bring with me. If you’d rather be at home…”
She almost agreed. But the clouds seemed darker now, heavier with rain than they had been just a few minutes ago. She was not eager to chance another carriage wreck.
And Lindridge Hall was just a house; she had seen its roof rotting from her vantage on the hill. There would be no danger here, except of nervous fancies.
“No, it makes more sense to stay. What did the doctor send?”
Mr. Lowell smiled and went over to the horse, which was tethered to the bare-branched husk of a young, dead tree. He opened one of the panniers and pulled out a bundle wrapped in oilcloth. She took it from him, feeling the familiar weight of books. By the size, she suspected at least one of them was the surgery ledger.
“He said you’d be inclined to work,” Mr. Lowell said. “So I gathered up some of the accounts from around the surgery.”
“Thank you,” Jane said, smiling. Augustine already knew her well. Idle wandering wasn’t fit for her spirit. Work would set her back to rights.
“There’s also a package Mrs. Cunningham came by to drop off.”
“The treatise I’ve been waiting on! Thank you again, Mr. Lowell.”
He grinned and tipped his hat. “Glad to be of help. And you’re sure you don’t want to go back?”
“Not just yet.” She hugged the package to her chest. “Send my regards?”
“Of course, ma’am. And with any luck, they’ll have that bit of the road shored up by tomorrow.”
* * *
THE RAINS BEGAN again less than an hour after Mr. Lowell’s departure. She settled herself in a front sitting room, where she could hear the comforting sounds of Mrs. Luthbright going about her day. Mrs. Purl came and went, leaving tea and a stoked fire in the hearth.
Mr. Lowell had packed her the large ledger book she had begun for Augustine, as well as haphazard records of occasional payments from patients who feared later debt, and orders he had sent away to Camhurst for. Behind it was her mathematical treatise and a slim volume she hadn’t seen before. But she ignored all of those in favor of a letter, for it bore Mrs. Cunningham’s familiar handwriting.
Sipping her tea, Jane opened the seal and spread the paper out on the desk. She donned her glasses （also thoughtfully packed）， and read: