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with an intelligence and an aptitude for it, like Cleo Anderson. I know it would cost more, as he would be the first to point out, but it would be richly rewarded. Money’s only the excuse, I’m sure of that." She was reaching for reasons, arguments, the weakness in his armor. "If he thought he would get the credit... if his hospital were to have greater success than any other..."
    Callandra looked up from her bread and pickle. "I’ve tried that." A heavy bunch of hair fell out of its pins, and she poked it back, leaving the ends sticking out. "I thought I’d catch his vanity. Nothing he’d like better than to outdo Dr. Gilman at Guy’s Hospital. But he hasn’t the courage to try anything he isn’t sure of. If he spent money, and there were no results, soon enough ..." She left the rest unsaid. They had been around and around these arguments, or ones like them, so many times. It was all a matter of convincing Thorpe of something he did not want to know.
    "I suppose it’s back to writing more letters," Hester said wearily, taking another slice of bread.
    Callandra nodded, her mouth full. She swallowed. "How’s William?"
    "Bored," Hester said with a smile. "Longing for a case to stretch his wits."
    When Hester arrived home at Fitzroy Street it was a little after seven o’clock that evening. Monk had already returned and was waiting for her. There were faint lines of tiredness in his face, but nothing disguised his pleasure in seeing her. She still found it extraordinary; it brought a strange quickening of the heart and tightness in the stomach to remember that she belonged here now, in his rooms, that when night came she would not stand up and say good-bye, uncertain when she would see him again. There was no more pretending between them, no more defense of their separateness. They might go to the bedroom one at a time, but underlying everything was the certainty that they would both be there, together, all night, and waken together in the morning. She did not even realize she was smiling as she thought of it, but the warmth was always in her mind, like sunshine on a landscape, lighting everything.
    She kissed him now when he rose to greet her, feeling his arms close around her. The gentleness of his touch perhaps surprised him more than her.
    "What’s for dinner?" was the first thing he said after he let her go.
    It had not crossed her mind that she would need to cook for him. She had eaten at the hospital as a matter of habit. The food was there. She was thinking of the missing medicines and Thorpe’s stubbornness.
    There was food in their small kitchen, of course, but it would require preparing and cooking. Even so, it would not take more than three quarters of an hour at most. She could not bear the thought of eating again so soon.
    But she could not possibly tell him. To have forgotten about him was inexcusable.
    She turned away, thinking frantically. "There’s cold mutton. Would you like it with vegetables? And there’s cake."
    "Yes," he agreed without enthusiasm. Had he expected her to be a good cook? Surely he knew her better than that? Did he imagine marriage was somehow going to transform her magically into a housekeeping sort of woman? Perhaps he did.
    All she wanted to do was sit down and take her boots off. Tonight was her own fault, but the specter of years of nights like this was appalling, coming home from whatever she had been doing, been fighting for—or against—and having to start thinking of shopping for food, bargaining with tradesmen, making lists of everything she needed, peeling, chopping, boiling, baking, clearing away. And then laundry, ironing, sweeping! She swallowed hard, emotions fighting each other inside her. She loved him, liked him, at times loathed him, admired him, despised him ... a hundred things, but always she was tied to him by bonds so strong they crowded out everything else.
    "What did you do today?" she asked aloud. What was racing through her head was the possibility