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the door of a cupboard that took up all of the rear wall of his office. Hers was one of many bags and boxes, treasures he kept safe for those with no rooms of their own in which to store them.
    Essie's canvas satchels were two of the newest and cleanest, recently given to her by Mrs. Proctor. He wondered if the poor invalid had guessed that they would be parting gifts. "Shake your things out well before you go inside her house or you might regret it," he suggested as he handed them over. The office was as clean as he could keep it, but that hardly kept bugs and worse from invading in his long absences.
    "I'll stop and do it sometime during the walk so Mrs. Harker won't see."
    He frowned. The name was familiar. He would have asked Essie about her, but he doubted the girl knew anything worthwhile yet. "Where does she live?" he asked.
    "On River Road."
    "That's quite a hike from here. If you wait a bit, I can take you there," he suggested.
    She looked from him to the door, the pair of women waiting outside, one leaning against the other. "Looks like you have more patients. I wouldn't want to keep you from them."
    He glanced at the pair, then remembered that he had promised Winnie Beason that he would definitely come by the hospital today to look in on a couple of her children.
    He smiled at Essie as he opened the door for her. She accepted the gesture naturally, as if she were one of the ladies she served. In a way, she was, especially when compared to most of his patients—derelicts and whores, some half insane from poverty and drink and the diseases that stemmed from them.
    Essie paused as she passed him. "Thank you for everything," she said.
    He watched her go, repeating the name of the woman she would be working for. "Wilhemina Harker."
    As soon as he could, he would find out everything he could about her. Essie was one of his special charges. He vowed to look out for her, and make certain that she came to no harm.
    He motioned to the next patient to come inside. Both women did. "She can't walk without help, sir," the healthy one said.
    Rhys studied his patient—the sweat on her forehead, the deep, hacking cough. Tuberculosis, most likely, though it was possible that typhus was coming early this year.
    Sometimes he wished it would wipe out the lot of them, and leave space in the world for more decent folks.
     
    Essie's bags weren't heavy, and Exeter was hardly a huge city, so she decided to walk to her new home. The route took her north, through the center of town, then up a narrow road that ran along the Exe River. The houses weren't grand, but they were well tended enough that she guessed most of them employed a gardener. It made her feel better about her future, until she spied number 37, her mistress's home.
    The stone wall and iron gate in front of it seemed imposing enough, and the entry garden with its stone fountain was untended but still beautiful. Needs a bit of work, not much, she thought as she slipped through the half-open gate. There was no narrow path to a side entrance, so she walked toward the front door instead, listening all the time for some sign that Mrs. Harker was at home.
    The door wasn't locked, and no one answered her call, so she stepped inside.
    The first thing she noticed was that the air smelled of a man—sweet pipe tobacco and bay rum cologne. And it was a man's house, with its thick oriental carpets and dark leather settees. Essie ran a finger along the sofa table, noting the sharp line she left in the dust. "Mrs. Harker," she called again, and heard a reply, faint with distance, from the rear yard.
    She moved quickly through the house, frowning when she saw its small scale, and the disappointingly tiny kitchen, then went through the rear door into another garden, this one sloping gently down to the riverbank.
    Mina Harker had changed into a light green dress. She was stooped down, pulling vines away from the rose bushes. "I always wanted to see this garden in its full summer beauty." she