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Mary Ann’s eyes flew open. She sat up, blinking in the dim light, her expression shifting from drowsy confusion to wariness as she registered his presence.

“Please don’t be mad,” she whispered.

Something in Graham’s chest loosened at the solemn plea. He crouched down.“I’m not mad.”

Heather stirred at the sound of voices. She came awake all at once, sitting bolt upright with eyes wide and limbs in motion.

“Uncle Graham!” she exclaimed, far too loudly for the hour. “Have you ever played hide and seek? This was our special hiding place. Papa showed us and Mama could never find us.”

“Heather,” Mary Ann hissed, “you’re being too loud. Miss Norwood is sleeping.”

“Not anymore,” Ms. Norwood said as she straightened in her chair and rolled her neck. “When I checked on them before retiring for the night, I found their beds empty.” No excuse, no apology—just facts stated plainly. “When I discovered them and what this room meant, I hadn’t the heart to move them.” She swept a glance over his work clothes. “Your patients kept you late this evening.”

“An emergency surgery. Young man with a severed femoral artery.” He tugged at his cravat.

“You smell like that funny soap from the hospital,” Heather announced, wrinkling her nose as she inched closer.

“Carbolic acid,” he said. “For cleanliness.”

Mary Ann edged forward. “Did you save him?”

“Yes.” The single word felt good on his tongue.

“Ladies, we should retire to our beds and let your uncle have some peace.” Ms. Norwood stood and stretched her back, grimacing as something popped. “Sothisis how my grandmother ended up shaped like a question mark—falling asleep in her chair waiting for mischief to quiet.”

“Perhaps a glass of warm milk will help everyone get settled for the night?” Graham suggested and met Ms. Norwood’s gaze over the girls’ heads.

She gave him the slightest nod.“I’m sure that is the just thing. I’ll fetch it directly.” She pinned her charges with a stern look. “Try not to talk your uncle’s ears off before I return.”

After she departed, silence fell. The girls watched him, their identical expressions of curiosity making his collar feel suddenly too tight.

“Your rooms are not to your liking?” he asked, then immediately regretted the formal tone.

Heather shook her head emphatically. “They’re too big and too quiet.”

Mary Ann nodded. “And the shadows look like giants.”

“I see,” Graham said, understanding all too well the giants that loomed in dark corners. “Perhaps a night-light would help?”

Heather made a face. “We’re not babies.”

“Of course not,” Graham agreed.

The brief conversation stuttered to a stop. This was hopeless. He’d performed surgeries under cannon fire, yet he couldn’t manage a simple conversation with two seven-year-old girls who looked at him like he ought to know what to say next.

“You should tell us a story,” Mary Ann offered helpfully.

“I don’t know any stories,” Graham admitted.

“Everyone knows stories,” the girl countered, with the unshakable certainty of childhood.

Graham considered. “I know about how the body works. About bones and blood and how to mend what’s broken.”

“That’s not a story,” Heather complained. “That’s lessons.”

“Miss Abigail told us a story today,” Mary Ann said.

A small, unexpected warmth stirred in Graham’s chest. “Did she now?”