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turned down?”
    “I’ll see what I can do.” A swish and the curtains sway closed.
    “Mrs. Darling, may we have the volume a little lower?”
    Jesse tries not to listen. It seems rude, somehow; the lady in the next bed is deaf, and touchy.
    “What did you say?”
    “The television. Could you turn it down.”
    “It’s not loud. I can’t hardly hear it.”
    Jesse cringes.
    The ward sister cracks, “Nurse! Would you take over, please.”
    Heels tap, tap away over the linoleum.
    “Hello, Mrs. Darling. Can I help?”
    Jesse breathes out. This is the nice nurse. Closing her eyes, she hears the morning show fade a notch or two. That’s so good. Yes, the wedding’s exciting, yes, she thinks it’s all a fairy tale—just like everyone else—but really, do they have to go on about the dress ?
    “Sorry about that.” The pretty nurse with the Scottish accent bobs in between the curtains.
    “I hope Mrs. Darling’s not too upset.”
    “Och, she’ll be fine.” The girl picks up Jesse’s chart and studies the figures. “Have you had any more headaches, or . . .?” She wriggles a hand beside her head.
    “No. Nothing.” Jesse wriggles her fingers obligingly. “My throat’s still sore, though. And I’m really, really bored.” Another day gone and she’s nowhere closer to doing what she needs to do. And money. What’s she going to do about money?
    “Being bored’s a good sign.” The nurse pronounces it gude , which Jesse finds charming. “The sore throat will last a few more days, I’m afraid—it’s from the tube. I can ask the doctor to prescribe something if it’s bothering you.” Moving closer, she murmurs, “Would you like a bit of good news?”
    Hope lights up like a sparkler. Jesse says fervently, “Yes, please.”
    The nurse looks around. “I shouldn’t be telling you, but if all goes well with your tests today, you might be back in the real world sooner than you think.”
    “Cross your heart and hope to die?”
    A grin. “Yes. But, only if Dr. Brandon thinks you’re well enough. There. Stuck my neck out.”
    “Hooray!” Jesse tries to throw her arms up. The sling gets in the way and she yelps as her elbow bumps the bedside table.
    The commotion upsets the old lady in the next bed. “What’s going on?”
    “Won’t be a moment, Mrs. Darling. Everything’s fine.” The nurse tries to make Jesse comfortable.
    “It is not. The way this place is run, it’s a disgrace!” The morning-TV presenters are back to shouting again.
    Rolling her eyes, the girl helps Jesse move her right arm back across her body. “Oh. You must have dropped this.” Scooping up the notepad Jesse had in ICU—it’s open on the floor—the nurse goes to hand it back. And pauses. “Is this your drawing?”
    Jesse, eyes closed, is slumped against the pillows. “Can’t draw.” She’s drained and abject.
    The girl says, “It’s very good, though.”
    Jesse opens her eyes.
    The nurse is holding the sketch so Jesse can see. “Amazing detail. Just like a photograph.”
    Jesse shifts uncomfortably. In the sketch, the massive walls of a castle rise tier after tier above a river that defines the base of a hill; above, a brutal tower dominates the site.
    The nurse hands the pad to Jesse. “Try to rest.” She grins. “I know that’s hard. Would you like some earplugs?”
    “Might as well get used to the real world.”
    Even louder, there’s no avoiding the TV now. “. . . and a source at Buckingham Palace has a tip for us. The soon-to-be Princess of Wales has approved final designs for her wedding dress. Woven from silk thread spun by British silkworms.”
    “Silkworms? What’s that?” Juggling the cord on the cumbersome remote, Mrs. Darling presses the volume button with impressive results.
    “. . . Lady Diana has been quoted as saying that she hopes this wonderful fabric will help restore the British . . .”
    Mrs. Darling shouts over the booming presenter, “I can hear it now.”
    Jesse says