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“I’ll get it,” he said.

“I’m perfectly capable?—”

“I never suggested otherwise,” he snapped, but forced his tone to soften. “But as there are sick children who need tending and only one of us knows their preferences, perhaps I could be most useful fetching water?”

Abigail hesitated, then relinquished the bucket with a small smile. “Very diplomatic, Doctor.”

“Military training,” he replied. “Supply lines are as crucial as front-line action. I won’t be long,” he said over his shoulder.

He stepped into the corridor, the cool shadows of the hallway wrapping around him like a balm. The bucket swung in his hand with rhythmic purpose as he made his way toward the pump in the small courtyard. The murmur of distant voices—children, staff, the clatter of pots—drifted on the air, grounding him in the now.

God, would the ghosts never leave him?

He set the bucket beneath the spout and worked the handle with mechanical precision. Water splashed and frothed. As it filled, he braced one hand against the brick wall and exhaled slowly.

No smoke. No gunfire. Just damp stone and spring air.

He hefted the bucket, water sloshing gently against the sides. His shirt was damp with sweat at the collar, but his hands were steady now.

Back to work. Back to her.

By late afternoon, the melee had been tamed into something resembling order. All the children had been medicated, and the beds had all been made.The front door opened with a decisive swing, and quick footsteps approached the workroom. A woman entered carrying several parcels wrapped in brown paper, her elegant burgundy dress marking her as distinctly out of place in the humble surroundings.

“Abby, I’ve brought everything Dr. Hargrove recommended, plus extra honey and—” She broke off, her gaze settling on Graham with sudden intensity. “Who is this?”

“Marjory, this is Dr. Redchester. He’s been kind enough to assist us,” Abigail said.“Doctor, this is the Duchess of Sherton, but within these walls we dispense with our titles and here she is simply Miss Marjory.”

“A pleasure, ma’am,” Graham said, bowing.

Marjory adjusted the parcels in her arms. “Doctor, would you mind helping me sort these supplies? I fear the apothecary was rather haphazard in his packaging.”

Before he could respond, she was already moving toward a side room, clearly expecting him to follow. He glanced at Abigail, who gave him a small nod.

“Go. I can manage here,” she said, turning back to the ledger she was updating.

The adjoining room was little more than a glorified closet, lined with shelves of supplies. Marjory unwrapped her parcels with quick, precise movements.

“Are youthedoctor?” she asked without preamble, sorting small jars into neat rows.

The interrogation begins.

“I am.”

“You saved my sister in the alley.”

“Yes.”

“And now you’re here.” Her gaze was unnervingly direct. “Why?”

Graham considered several diplomatic responses, then discarded them all. “Because your sister is injured, overworked, and too stubborn to admit either condition.”

A hint of a smile touched Marjory’s lips before vanishing. “And you appointed yourself her guardian?”

“No.” The word emerged more sharply than he intended. “I appointed myself nothing. I came to speak with her and found myself useful.”

“Speak to her about what?” Marjory pressed.

“I don’t believe that’s any of your concern.”