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direction uncertainly. "Do I have to?" For the first time since she had arrived, the child looked as if she might cry.
    "That's what we use when Band-Aids aren't strong enough, honey." Honor smiled reassuringly.
    "Yeah, but they don't work on magical cuts, so maybe they won't work on me either." The child's tone was dubious.
    Quinn raised an eyebrow. "Magical?"
    "Mr. Weasley," Honor stated, as if that would explain things.
    "Huh?"
    "In Harry Potter!" Arly clarified. "Ron's father is a wizard and he needed stitches, but Muggle medicine doesn't work on wizards."
    "Ah. I see." Quinn nodded thoughtfully. "That makes sense. I'm sure they'll work on you though—unless you're a wizard too?"
    "I don't think so." Arly shook her head seriously. "Are you going to put them in?"
    "Yep. But first, I'm going to make it so you don't feel it when I do." As she spoke, Quinn pulled on gloves and Linda opened an instrument tray. Turning her back slightly so that the child would not see her draw up the lidocaine into the syringe from the bottle that Linda held out to her, she said, "Soccer, huh? So what position do you play?"
    "Wing."
    "Midfielder? You must be a really good passer."
    "Most of the time." Stitches forgotten, Arly asked excitedly, "Do you play soccer?"
    "I used to, when I was in college." Quinn gently wiped Betadine around the edges of the laceration,
    "What position did
you
play?"
    "Offense."
    "Were you good?"
    Quinn laughed and glanced at Honor, who merely shook her head and grinned.
    "Uh—well, not bad."
    Quinn stepped slightly out of Arly's line of vision and leaned down with the syringe. "I'm going to put in some medicine now that will feel a little bit like a big mosquito bite. You ready?"
    "Okay."
    Softly stroking her daughter's arm, Honor watched as Quinn slowly and carefully injected the local anesthetic. The secret, she knew, to minimizing the pain of the injection was to do it extraordinarily slowly, but most surgeons lacked the patience. Quinn, however, couldn't have been gentler. Her hands were steady and sure, and Honor realized as she watched her child lying quietly during the procedure how truly gifted Quinn was.
Who are you, really, Quinn Maguire?
    When the injection was completed, Quinn glanced at Honor. She'd seen parents, even seasoned medical people, faint when their children were injured. Parents could handle anything, apparently, except their own child's suffering. Gently, she asked, "You okay?"
    This time Honor's smile was sure and strong. "Fine. You're very good."
    Quinn blushed, her heart racing. "Arly's the star."
    In ten minutes, the wound was cleaned, irrigated, and sutured. Throughout the process, Arly and Quinn kept up a running conversation regarding the virtues of various soccer positions and strategies as if nothing were happening. By the time Quinn had applied Steri-Strips in lieu of a bandage, the girl seemed to have forgotten completely about her injury.
    "So, can you come to one of my games?" Arly asked eagerly as she sat up, her eyes fixed attentively on Quinn's face.
    For the second time, Honor's daughter caught Quinn off guard, and she found herself at a loss for words. Helplessly, she looked at Honor. "Uh..."
    "Quinn just moved here, honey," Honor said gently. "She's awfully busy right now."
    "Maybe someday, though, right?"
    "Maybe," Quinn said awkwardly.
    "Thanks," Honor said softly as she lifted Arly down from the stretcher.
    Quinn smiled into Honor's eyes, warmed by the tenderness in her voice. "Sure."
    "I'm going to need to take off early today so I can get her home. I'll see you tomorrow."
    Nodding, Quinn watched mother and daughter disappear with Linda, leaving her in the empty room with the discarded dressings and used instruments. She suddenly felt as abandoned as the space around her. That was often the case after the intense high of dealing with an emergency, but this time she missed more than the adrenaline rush. She missed the heat of Honor's gaze upon her face.
    She was