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that I’m used to Dr. March’s ways. He’s very nearly as good as his dear old father was.”
    “I’ll send Merridew for him as soon as we’ve got you home,” Philip promised.
    “Wait ‘til Nanny and I are inside before you tell him,” Miss Twainsbury said. “His language will be something appalling, I’m sure.”
    Philip was struck anew by the contrast between Miss Twainsbury’s voice and her eyes. Her voice, though pleasing enough for a girl, neither too sharp nor too low, never changed very much. The inflections and cadences remained placid, cool, and colorless. Her eyes, however, snapped, twinkled, and laughed. They expressed a thousand shades of meaning to which her voice never gave a clue.
    They were pretty eyes, too; brown shot through with amber lights. Slightly almond-shaped between rows of lengthy lashes, they gave an exotic touch to an otherwise typically English face: good skin, slightly round cheeks and chin, and ash blond hair springing rather wildly from a hastily devised knot on the back of her head. He believed Miss Twainsbury, for whatever reason, worked quite hard at remaining unanimated, but she was betrayed time and again by her expressive eyes.
    “Is the fire out in the kitchen, dear?” Nanny Mallow asked.
    “I’ll check again,” Miss Twainsbury said.
    Whereas Philip had felt strong and alive while carrying Miss Twainsbury into his house, gathering up Nanny Mallow gave him the sensation of being a callous brute. The more he tried to carry her gently, without jarring her injured leg, the more obvious her attempts to conceal her pain became. It was undoubtedly a relief to them all when she fell unconscious before he’d carried her all the way through the main room of the cottage.
    “Has she done this before?” Perriflyn asked.
    “Yes, several times,” Miss Twainsbury said, hurrying to cradle the gray head before it knocked into the door frame.
    “Not good,” the apothecary muttered.
    ‘Does the doctor live far?” Miss Twainsbury asked.
    “I don’t like these spells of fainting any more than you do.”
    “Perhaps it’s better this way for now,” Philip said, his boots crunching through the snow. It came up to their tops, and some sifted in. “I’d rather she be unconscious and out of pain during the carriage ride. The road isn’t going to be good.”
    Merridew had opened the carriage door, though he’d then climbed back onto the box. His breath and the horses’ steamed like fog in the frigid air.
    After they’d tucked her carefully into the carriage, wrapping her round with blankets and propping her into the corner with the fat round sausage of a pillow that Mavis had dredged up, Mr. Perriflyn climbed in, sitting beside Nanny to hold her upright.
    Miss Twainsbury hesitated before entering. “The dog?” she asked, turning back.
    “Oh, yes. Come on, boy,” Philip called. “Come on.”
    Rex danced forward, one ear inside out, flipped over the top of his square head. While Philip called to him again, patting the carriage step, he wiggled backward, forefeet splayed out in the snow, his back end higher than the front. He seemed perfectly willing to join in this game, as soon as someone explained the rules to him.
    “Come on, ye daft beast,” Merridew called. “It’s cold as a witch’s—”
    “Merridew!” Philip said crossly, and the coachman folded his arms across his chest and stared off into the silent afternoon. The snow muffled every sound; even their voices sounded muted.
    “Maybe if we drive off, he’ll follow,” Mr. Perriflyn suggested, tucking his thin hands into his armpits.
    One glance at Miss Twainsbury’s vividly reproving eyes and Philip made up his mind.
    Climbing down, he approached the dog slowly, his hands spread out at his sides. “Good boy,” he said soothingly. “Time to get in the carriage.”
    Rex looked at him out of one eye, his head tilted to one side. Philip came closer and closer. Then Rex dashed left. Philip swerved right and