Sullivan immediately briefed Nathaniel on what happened in the hospital yard. The two protestors were tackled by members of the Marine band. Both men rambled about war atrocities and the blood on President McKinley’s hands. They’d obviously hoped for a shot at the president, but when it was clear he wouldn’t be there, they settled for a shot at his wife. The president had cut short his trip to the Treasury and was already back home, comforting his wife, whose nerves were still tightly wound despite the sedative. Caroline and Rembrandt arrived home minutes later, both shaken but unharmed.

Not so Nathaniel. He’d been hit with a spray of birdshot. It hadn’t been able to rip through his wool suitcoat but caused a mass of wounds on his exposed neck and left hand. Dr. Tisdale cleaned the wounds and spread a bandage over the side of his neck. The skin on his hand was torn and swollen. The doctor insisted on putting his arm in a sling to keep the hand elevated and close to his chest.

Nathaniel stayed in his office late that night, nervous energy making it impossible to relax. Besides, he needed to write a new rule forbidding any alterations to a meeting with the president without written approval from the Secret Service. It shouldn’t even require stating, but a high-ranking man like Captain Dorset had made the blunder, so it needed to be formalized in writing. The sling was on his left hand, but it still slowed down his writing.

It was after nine o’clock when someone tapped on his office door. All day he had been visited by members of the staff to congratulate him, though he didn’t feel like a hero. His lack of vigilance had put Mrs. McKinley in an unsafe situation.

“Come in,” he said.

It was Caroline. The fact that she was still circulating with complete freedom in the White House was another security flaw, but he’d already tried and failed to have her removed. She was dressed casually, but a spray of lilies of the valley was pinned in her hair. The lilies reminded him of those ridiculously huge bouquets of flowers he’d been forced to bring in the carriage. They’d ended up being a distraction and a security breach. He would add a ban on security agents assisting with carrying frivolous items to his list of new rules.

“I came to see how you are,” she said, glancing at his sling and swollen hand.

“Fancy opera gloves won’t fit,” he said tersely.

“You don’t need to be rude,” she replied, still standing in the open doorway.

“And you could have stood up for Rembrandt when Mrs. McKinley attacked him over his vest.”

She lifted her chin. “I choose my battles carefully.”

“As do I.”