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don’t do healing anymore.”
    “Please.”
    Not another one. Abby wasn’t sure why Gwynne got this constant parade of former clients and strangers coming through who were not here to visit the spa, but to visit her—or, more accurately, to beg her for help. They complained of fatigue, arthritis, fibromyalgia, infections, acid reflux, headaches…the list went on and on. They called, they came in person, and for all she knew they e-mailed, and Gwynne always turned them down. She wondered what had made her close the door on what by all appearances had been a spectacularly successful career as a healer.
    “Can’t you make an exception?”
    It had to be so hard for Gwynne to say no to these people. But say no to them she did, every single time. “You should see a doctor.”
    The boy wriggled away from his mother and stopped in front of Abby and stared at her harp in awe. She switched to a medley of nursery rhymes she figured he’d recognize. At “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” he shrieked and ran back to his mother, then slumped against her leg.
    His mother glanced at him distractedly. “You think I didn’t do that first? The medication isn’t working.”
    “I can’t help you,” Gwynne said tightly. “I wish I could. I really do. But it’s beyond my abilities. You need to see a doctor and put your son on another medication.”
    Abby segued into one of her favorite meditative tunes, hoping it would do something to help the mother. Gwynne looked like she could use it too.
    “Please? My friend said what you did for her son was a miracle.”
    But Gwynne didn’t want to be a miracle worker. “Spontaneous remission. Conditions like that sometimes go away on their own.” She reached across her desk and touched the woman’s hand in sympathy. “I didn’t do anything.”
    Spontaneous remission. Abby had heard that phrase tossed around by nurses in her vicinity. Because there was no such thing as a miracle worker. Not Gwynne, healing a little boy’s tenacious parasites. Not a musician with a harp, easing patients’ pain when the pain meds stopped working. There was no easy way to explain those recoveries, and spontaneous remission sounded more scientific than we don’t know . Could Gwynne really heal?
    “But what am I going to do?” the mother wailed.
    “See a doctor.” It was killing Gwynne to turn her away—it was clear from the way her whole body was leaning in, her face troubled. But she wouldn’t do it. “I don’t want to give you false hope. If I treat him and that makes you hold off on seeing a doctor, he could get worse. I don’t want him to get sicker than he already is because I let you believe I could heal him. Because I can’t. I can’t heal him.”
    The mother pushed away from the desk. “I guess I’ll just have to pray.” Her son ran around her in circles and she grabbed him by the hand as he zipped by.
    Gwynne bit her lip and watched them go. Once they were gone, she put her head in her hands, elbows planted on her desk.
    Abby continued to play, flowing easily from one tune to the next. At first she tried to make Gwynne feel better, but soon she got caught up in the music and played for the pure joy of it. Music had always transported her, and with this particular harp, with its strong, even tone and its glorious resonance, that was even more true. Rees harps never went up for resale because once you got your hands on one, it sounded so good you never wanted to give it up. She could play this instrument forever. But eventually she did decide she couldn’t play forever , and stopped.
    “How’s your ear?” Gwynne asked, not looking up.
    It took her a minute to come back to earth and realize Gwynne was talking to her. “It’s better. The doctor put me on antibiotics.” Again. If only music could heal her ear infection as effectively as it soothed sick patients.
    Gwynne grunted. “Finally, someone around here who’s willing to go to a medical doctor for help.”
    * *