“I have every right,” Quill responded as he jerked open another drawer.

“That is my desk!”

“Here they are,” her husband said. “I suspect that my medicines have somehow found their way into your desk.”

Gabby pressed her lips together as Quill gathered three small bottles and put them on the table. He picked up the first. “My mother visited these charlatans as well.” The bottle crashed into the fireplace. There was a brief scarlet blaze. “Must have had alcohol in it,” he remarked.

He picked up another bottle. “Don’t recognize this one.” The bottle followed the first into the flames.

“Don’t you wish to be cured?” Gabby said desperately, seeing her purchases disappear before her eyes.

“Not at the expense of my life,” Quill responded. He was looking at the third bottle. “This is a bit more interesting. Did you know that it will cure plagues of every kind and description? Rubbish.” The last bottle shattered against the bricks in the fireplace.

“Those were mine,” Gabby said hotly. “You had no right to destroy my purchases.”

“Were you intending to dose yourself?” Quill asked. His voice was calm, but his eyes were alive with anger. “I shall not drink another fraudulent concoction—ever.”

“That is irrational.”

“I must request that you do not buy any more headache cures,” Quill said. He turned his back to her and strolled over to the fireplace.

“Don’t turn away!” Gabby said in a wild fury.

He poked a few scraps of thick glass back onto the hearth and spoke over his shoulder. “I am waiting for your response, Gabby.”

She saw red. She reached out blindly and caught Mr. Moore’s brown bottle in her hand. “You forgot this one!” she shrieked, and threw it at her husband as hard as she could. It sailed past his shoulder and smashed against the fireplace. Brown liquid seeped down between the seams of the bricks.

Quill jumped back when the bottle exploded. There was silence as viscous liquid dripped onto the hearth. Slowly he turned around.

Gabby’s hair had fallen around her shoulders, and she had her arms crossed. She was beautiful. She was wrathful. He would give anything to take her in his arms and change her mind about the virtues of connubial pleasure.

He walked toward her. “Apparently, I married a woman with a formidable temper,” he said.

“My lady,” Margaret called through the door. “Would you like to change from your walking dress now?”

“Promise me, Gabby.”

“I promise not to buy any more concoctions for your headache, Quill.” Her voice was leaden.

“Thank you.”

“Although I am not the only one with a temper.”

“I swear I never played the maniac until I met you.”

The scratching was repeated. “My lady?”

Gabby sighed. “One moment, Margaret.” She looked up at her husband. “I was only trying to help.”