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needed elsewhere. We’ve had another death down the hall, and several others are showing symptoms.”
    Blake nodded. “I’ll be there momentarily. You and the others can do as much for the dead as I can.”
    Quincy didn’t argue but instead slipped quietly from the room.
    Blake knew his strength would not last much longer. He needed sleep, but he couldn’t bring himself to take the time. He rested his elbows on his knees and stared at Amanda. What would he do if she should die? When had she become so important to him? He tried to recall exactly when he’d realized the joy she provided with her quick smile and willing hands. She’d been more help than he’d ever acknowledged. She’d proved to be a bright student, quick to learn, and willing to accept correction and guidance—traits he’d found lacking in any man he’d ever attempted to teach. He should have told her all of these things. Instead, he’d chastised her if she occasionally dropped an instrument or misdiagnosed a patient.
    The remembrance of his pomposity shamed him, and he gently lifted Amanda’s hand to his lips. “Forgive me,” he whispered.
    Her eyelids fluttered. She looked at him, her deep brown Broadmoor eyes appearing clear and bright. “For what?” she murmured before slipping back into a semiconscious state.
    He wanted her to remain awake so he could ease his feelings of despair. “Selfish man,” he muttered. “You should be thankful she’s not feeling pain at the moment. Instead you only want to relieve your own guilt.”
    He released her hand and brushed a damp curl from her forehead. Even in the throes of debilitating illness, she remained lovely. He met with little success as he attempted to recall the first time he’d felt the agonizing ache that occurred when she was absent. She had woven herself into the fabric of his life, and now he couldn’t imagine a future without her. He stared at her quiet form and knew without a doubt that he loved her.
    “Now what?” he whispered into the silent room. For the first time in his life, he was willing to acknowledge his love for a woman, but he knew she’d likely be dead within a few days—a week at most. He rested his face in his palms and listened to her uneven, rasping breath. “Please spare her, God.” He swiped at the tear trickling down his cheek. “I beg of you. Please let her live.”

4
    Jonas sighed and shook his head in disbelief when Marvin hurried into the library at a near run. “Mrs. Andrew Winberg and children,” he announced, clasping a palm to his chest and inhaling deeply.
    Beatrice glared at the butler as she brushed past him to enter the room, Miranda and Randolph at her heels. “I told him I know my way into the library and it isn’t necessary to announce family.”
    The woman’s surly tone and pinched features had become her trademark. Yet today she appeared even more agitated than usual. And Jonas had already tolerated his share of distress for one day. Would he never get out of this house? He must find some way to retrieve his papers from Mortimer’s office. A wave of guilt assaulted him. His thoughts should be with his suffering daughter rather than the business files. But if any of his underhanded dealings became known, both friends and family would be harmed. He didn’t want to dwell on what might happen to him if such a thing should happen. No doubt he’d be faced with the same difficult decision his brother Langley had made years ago. But taking his own life wasn’t something he wanted to consider. He wasn’t certain if it was that thought or Beatrice’s whining voice that sent a chill racing down his spine, but he wanted to rid himself of both.
    “If there’s a reason you’ve come to call, you’ll need to cease your histrionics, or we’ll never understand you,” Jonas barked at his niece.
    His wife withdrew her handkerchief and waved it in his direction. “There’s no need to shout.”
    “If I’m going to be heard, there is,” he