There were no implements of torture in the room. At least, none visible. On the right was an examining table, with a scale on one side and a sphygmomanometer on a stand on the other. On the other side of the room was a long couch.

Dr. Milford sat at a desk, reading Iris’s paperwork. He motioned to a chair in front of the desk without looking up.

“Be with you in a moment,” he said. “Please take a seat.”

“You made my friend cry,” said Iris. “Don’t even think about trying anything like that with me.”

“Trying what, Miss Sparks?” asked Dr. Milford, looking at her for the first time.

“Whatever it is you do that makes people cry.”

“You never cry, Miss Sparks?” he asked.

“Do you?”

“Yes. Please take a seat, and we’ll start properly.”

“What if I want to be improper?”

“You’re taking an aggressive approach for our first meeting, I see.”

“And that bothers you.”

“Merely observing,” he said, getting up from his desk. “Take your jacket off and sit on the examining table. I want to take your vitals.”

“You cannot, sir, take from me anything that I will more willingly part withal,” she said, removing her jacket and draping it over the back of her chair. “Except my life, except my life, except my life.”

“We’ll talk about suicidal tendencies later, Lady Hamlet,” he said, removing a stethoscope from a case on the desk. “Up on the table, unbutton your blouse, and roll up your sleeve, please.”

She complied. He listened to her chest and back, had her breathe deeply, then put the sphygmomanometer cuff on her upper arm and inflated it with a rubber bulb, making the mercury rise in the cylinder next to her while holding a pocket watch in his other hand. They watched the mercury drop together when he released the pressure.

“On the high side,” he said. “How long has that been going on?”

“Since the war ended,” she said.

“You may dress,” he said, sitting down and jotting the information in her file. “Oh, step on that scale first.”

She stepped on the scale, concealing her dismay as he slid the last weight further to the right than she had hoped.

I was wrong about the instruments of torture, she thought.

“Have a seat, please,” he said. “Now, for the basics. Age?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“Education?”

“Bachelor of Arts Title, Cambridge.”

“Parents both alive?”

“Yes.”

“Together?”

“No.”

“Separated or divorced?”

“Formally divorced in thirty-two. Separated—well, it was a slippery slope. He came home less and less, then not at all. By that point, it was hard to notice that he had moved out.”

“I doubt that very much, but we’ll explore that in time. Married?”

“No. A couple of close calls.”

“Interesting remark from someone in your line of work.”

“Yes, isn’t it?” said Iris smiling brightly. “I bet you think you’re the first ever to say that.”

“Sexually active?”

“Yes. One might even say overactive, but we’ll explore that in time, too. Won’t we?”