“Indeed.” As he turned toward a wickedly sharp dagger, the slant of light struck his eyes pale as ice. He took it from its stand and turned it over in his hand. Wren couldn’t look away from the pointed edge as he caressed the flat side of the blade. “And if I was lucky, sometimes my brother, Charles, would set aside his economics books to swordfight with me. Father was always thrilled to see us flailing about with all the expensive antiques he bought me.”

“And when he didn’t?”

“I found other ways to occupy myself.” The knife in his hand flashed a reflection of his smile at her. “If Charles couldn’t be bothered, there were servants or dogs or horses to torment into giving me attention. I’ve always had a persuasive streak, anyway.”

When he replaced the dagger on its stand, she felt oddly relieved.

“But that’s quite enough about me.” Nervousness edged into Lowry’s conversational tone. “How is our Henry faring?”

Dismally, she wanted to say.

However, Wren suspected Lowry wasn’t the type who could handle the truth entirely unsweetened. “He’s … sick. From my initial assessment last night, I would say his most concerning symptoms are lung damage and heart irregularities. I treated him with palliative care as best I could. It’s an aggressive disease.”

He swore under his breath. “Do you have any idea what it is?”

“No. Not yet.” Admitting it aloud flooded her with shame. Even though the circumstances were … less than ideal, she’d never been so thrown by a disease. Wren turned away to absentmindedly inspect a flintlock pistol in its case. “It’s not like anything I’ve seen before. You mentioned in your letter the doctors didn’t know, either?”

“No.” Lowry frowned. “None of their tests revealed anything conclusive.”

“I see.” Wren kept her tone as neutral as possible. Panicking him would do her no good. “Well, it’s responding well enough to my magic for now. I’ll have more concrete answers for you soon.”

“I can only pray you do. If anyone else dies…”

“He won’t,” Wren said firmly. “I promise.”

Not in this house, anyway.

“If only I had your confidence,” Lowry said. “Or your abilities. I’ve absorbed enough of my father’s ravings about biology over the years, but what good is knowledge if it cannot do anything to help people? I’ve felt so powerless.”

Wren frowned. With any other patient or patron, she might have offered him more sympathy or reassurance about Hal’s prognosis. But she was exhausted, still on edge, and she had an agenda far more important than preserving Lowry’s feelings. She had to confirm whether he knew he was harboring a monster in his home.