“Given correctly, the medicine will not cause any further damage,” Sudhakar agreed. “I agree that there is little physical risk. But I insist that patients have the right to choose their own medicine. I do not treat people without their consent. This medicine is made from a deadly poison, Gabrielle. In the wrong hands, it has killed people. Under those circumstances, it is doubly important that the patient have the right to decide whether he wishes the risk.”

“It’s for his own good,” Gabby protested wildly. She was on the edge of hysteria. Sleeplessness, worry, and guilt were beating an unhappy rhythm in her brain.

“We”—Sudhakar corrected himself—”I do not force people to bend to my will. You sound dangerously like your father this morning, Gabrielle.”

“My father! My father doesn’t give a hang about anyone else!” Gabby cried. It was a relief to say it out loud. “I’ve been thinking about it ever since I got on the boat to London. He doesn’t care about me, and he never has!”

“The question of love is not relevant. Your father believes that he knows what is best for each person in the village,” Sudhakar pointed out. “And he makes certain that his way is implemented, whether the person in question agrees or not.”

There was a pounding moment of silence.

“I cannot believe that you would compare me to my father.” Gabby’s eyes were dry and her head high.

“I speak the truth as I see it,” came the reply, uncompromising and yet gentle. “If your husband wants nothing to do with my medicine, then he should not be given it behind his back. It is his choice.”

“My father allows people to make choices,” Gabby protested, grasping at a tangent. “He simply makes them leave the village if they don’t agree with him. I don’t see any similarity. I love Quill. I love him too much to spend my entire life watching him suffer. I will…I will have to leave him.”

“In that case,” Sudhakar said, “leaving the marriage will be your choice. I have seen patients flee from their dying spouses, and I sympathized. There is nothing harder than watching a loved one in pain.”

Gabby’s lip trembled. “I’m sorry, Sudhakar. I didn’t mean to remind you.”

“My son died a long time ago.” He sounded tired. “Time passes.”

“Still,” Gabby insisted, “when Johore was dying, you tried every possible medicine. Remember when I came down from the big house and you gave Johore the medicine I had brought? He didn’t know that you were giving him the medicine, and what’s more, he would likely have refused it! You know Johore hated my father.”

“Johore…Johore was dying,” Sudhakar said. “He could no longer make choices for himself.”

“I don’t see the difference,” Gabby said passionately.