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Atta pushed her lips together in a frown, brow wrinkled. “I have several questions.”

“All of which I’m happy to answer”—Sonder folded the newspaper and set it on the table—“but we really do need to get to work.” He gestured to a plate of food. “Eat up and let’s get busy.”

Atta sat and dug into the colcannon and fried eggs. “Did you make all this?” she asked Gibbs with her mouth full.

He bit into another piece of marmalade toast. “I made the eggs and the toast.” He pointed his toast at Sonder who was looking at them both with some measure of distaste. “He made the colcannon.”

Sonder brushed crumbs off his newspaper with disgust. “Would it be possible for the pair of you to chew and swallow prior to speaking?”

Atta laughed, shovelling in a bite of the most amazing colcannon she’d ever tasted. “This is what we get for having breakfast with a grumpy old man, Gibbs.”

“All right, have your fun. I’m going to the study.” He stopped to fill a cup with steaming hot tea and left.

“So,” Gibbs started, “you and the prof, huh? You can’t deny it anymore.”

“I didn’t deny it. I just said it was none of your business.”

He nodded a little solemnly and fiddled with his fork. “This is all pretty mad, isn’t it?” He wiggled his fork in the air in a circle. “All this Fae Plague stuff. I’m still not sure I believe it.”

“Fae Plague,” Atta mused, her appetite diminished. “That’s a good name for it.”

“I calculated your probability of success today.”

Atta straightened. “Do tell.”

“I already talked to Murdoch about it, but he’s optimistic.” Gibbs pulled one of his ever-present flip notebooks from his pocket. “The Infected?—”

“Inhabited,” she corrected and Gibbs looked at her. “You need to be all in or all out.”

He nodded skeptically and pushed his glasses up his nose. “I’m trying, but I need facts. To see things with my own eyes.”

Atta could understand that, but she didn’t agree. “The most incredible and inexplicable things in life can’t be seen, Gibbs.”

The sigh he heaved aged him. “I trust both you and the prof. I’m just?—”

He looked out the window and Atta followed his gaze to the foggy Hawthorn Grove. For a split second, a glimmer came out of the mist, making the twisted hawthorns look full and vibrant, lush like spring.

“I just need some time,” Gibbs said, pulling Atta’s attention back.

“That’s understandable. What’s there in your notebook?”

“Oh.” He looked down at his scribbled notes. “Projections. Your probability of success today with the . . . Inhabited.” He flipped a page, looking more like a detective than a scholar. “The patient is a Stage 2, but I looked at Murdoch’s notes last night and I think he’ll be at Stage 3 by the time you arrive. Most don’t live past Stage 3 for long.”

Atta nodded her agreement, filling a teacup.

“I placed your probability of success, based on the factors of a newly Stage 3 patient and the results from your prior. . .” He trailed off with a grimace.

It took Atta a second to decipher why. “Sonder told you we called it an exorcism, didn’t he?”

Gibbs scrunched his nose. “He did. Showed me the giant crucifixes, too, and a pair of monk robes he wants to convince you to wear.”

Atta baulked. “No fucking way. No.”

“I think it was a joke.”

“Thank goodness.” Atta sagged against the back of her chair. “The crucifixes were ridiculous enough. When did you two have time for all of this?”

“You takereallylong showers. Frankly, there’s a lot more hot water in the suite now that you’ve moved out.”