“Is she?” Hal said, between breaths. “She was—is—ill. Very ill. He said so.”

“Hunter is a physician and a good one,” John said firmly. “He won’t let her die.”

“He let my granddaughter die,” Hal said passionately, forgetting to breathe. He coughed and choked, his grasp whitening on the neck of the wine bottle.

“The child was his daughter,” John said, taking it from him. “He didn’t let her die. People do die, and you know it. Stop talking and bloody breathe, will you?”

“I know … better … than any … one,” Hal managed, and succumbed to a fit of coughing. A hank of hair had come loose, and strands were sticking to his face. The dark hair was streaked with white; John couldn’t tell how much was powder.

Hal did know, of course. His first child had died at birth, along with its mother. That had been many years ago, but such things never went away altogether.

“Breathe,” John said sharply. “We have to fetch Dottie, don’t we? I can’t find her and then tell her first thing that you’re dead.”

Hal made a sound that wasn’t a laugh, but might have been if he’d had more breath. He pursed his lips and blew, though the resulting air was only a thread. Then his chest relaxed; it was no more than a fraction, but it was visible, and John took a deep breath of his own. Hal stretched out a hand toward the letter on the desk, and John fetched it for him.

He picked the ball gingerly apart, smoothing it flat on the table.

“Why didn’t … he fucking … write the bloody … date?” Hal demanded, straightening up and wiping a hand roughly down his face. “We’ve no … idea how long … it’s been since it—since it happened. Dottie could be dead by now!”

John forbore to point out that if that were the case, Hal’s knowing the date of Hunter’s letter would make no difference. It wasn’t a moment for logic.

“Well, we need to go and get her anyway, don’t we?”

“Yes, and now!” Hal flung himself round, wheezing loudly and glaring at the things around him, as though daring any of them to get in his way.

Perhaps just a little logic …

“I don’t know what the army would do to Hunter if they catch him,” John said. “But I know damn well what they’d do to you, should you just—go. And so do you,” he added needlessly.

Hal had got himself in hand. He glared at the letter, mouth tight and wet eyes burning, then looked up at John. He pursed, blew, and gasped, “Well, what does he mean … you can ‘discern’ his friend’s … name? Why you?”

“I don’t know. Let me see that again.” He took the letter, gently, feeling the weight of sorrow it bore. He’d seen enough letters stained with tears—sometimes his own—to know the depth of Hunter’s anguish.