“Thanks.” Harry nodded to the doctor. He grabbed his son by the shoulders and marched Sammy out.

Their voices carried into the room from the hallway as Elise laced up her boots.

“I’m sure the doctor’s very aware that we don’t eat bugs,” Harry said.

“Lady Elise was going to make me eat them, but we ate squirrels instead.”

Three days later

Elise slipped into her blouse and did up the buttons behind the medical curtain, the tile floor cold on her bare feet. After a thorough examination, Dr. Kourtney, the London specialist, had taken several in-house X-rays of Elise’s pelvis.

A short nurse with a deep smoker’s voice cleared her throat on the opposite side of the curtain. “Lady Elise, Dr. Kourtney has your X-rays. When you finish dressing, I’ll take you to her office.”

“I just need my shoes.” Elise slipped into her heels and followed the nurse down the corridor to Dr. Kourtney’s office.

“Won’t you have a seat?” Dr. Kourtney, a small woman with sympathetic eyes, motioned toward one of two tufted leather chairs facing her desk.

Clasping her hands in her lap, Elise sat perfectly composed, the way her mother had taught her: no slouching, her legs close together, her attention on the speaker. Inside she was a quaking mass of pudding.

“I’ve gone over your X-rays at some length, and I agree with your previous doctor’s diagnosis. It is most unfortunate, but you will never bear children of your own.”

The dreaded words Elise had fought to accept repeated themselves like mortal wounds to the soul. She swallowed several times.

“I understand.” Elise stared at her feet, fighting the bitter disappointment.

She had waited weeks for this appointment, waited and hoped for a better verdict than the agency physician’s diagnosis.

“You might consider adoption or going the surrogate route,” Dr. Kourtney suggested. “I’ll give you information on both.”

“No, thank you.” Stabbing pain tore through her stomach, and Elise fought the sudden onslaught of nausea.

“It’s also best that you take up a new sport. Running can damage the repair work.”

“I can’t run?” Elise crossed her arms and hugged her body.

“I’m saying only run sporadically—on occasion—not daily or even three or four times a week.”

Elise sat like a lump as the knockout blow connected. “What can I do?” she asked numbly, surprised she could even speak.

“Take up swimming. Hillwalking. Bicycling. Rowing. Any low-impact activities will do.”

“I see.” And she did. She would never regain field-agent status, nor would she bear a child. “Thank you for your honesty,” Elise said mechanically, falling back on banal platitudes.

Elise grabbed her purse and bolted out of the building, sucking in great gulps of air on the way to her car, heedless of the rain spattering the pavement around her.