Dr. Wells was a middle-aged man with a warm smile and a comforting attitude. He was expensive, but Beatrix and Lucas had decided that they would not allow budgetary concerns to prevent them from engaging the best professional available. And one thing was clear: Dr. Wells was an authority on his subject. Their previous appointments with him had been productive, and they both had confidence that he would provide them with the information—and, if necessary, the treatment—that they needed.

They sat down opposite him in his well-appointed office. An assistant brought in a tray of coffee and biscuits.

Beatrix shifted uncomfortably, anxious to get started. “Do you have the results?” she asked.

“I do,” the doctor said. He gave her a consoling smile, and Beatrix felt her stomach plunge. “I’m afraid the news isn’t what we might have hoped.”

Lucas squeezed Beatrix’s hand. “Go on,” he said.

“As you know, we tested you both. I’ll start with you, Beatrix.”

She thought that she was going to be sick.

“The ultrasound showed no obvious issues. Your egg reserve is fine. Your biological clock has years left to run. Your ovaries are in good shape, certainly healthy enough to ripen eggs. The blood flow to your ovaries and follicles was checked with what we call a colour and power Doppler and, again, it was excellent. We assessed your uterus: no polyps, fibroids or any other factors affecting implantation or anything that might cause miscarriage. And the blood flow to the uterus and the lining of your womb was also good. There is no reason why you wouldn’t be able to implant embryos, and your chances of miscarriage are the same as any other fit and healthy woman of your age.” He shrugged, as if dismissing any concerns that he might have had regarding her. “There’s nothing wrong with you at all, Beatrix. You should be able to conceive.”

“So it’s me?” Lucas said. “I’m the problem?”

Wells looked at him sympathetically. “Well,” he said, “it does appear that that’s where the problem is arising.”

“Or not,” Lucas said, his joke falling flat. Beatrix squeezed his hand; he relied on humour when he felt vulnerable, and she knew that he felt exposed now.

“We ran the full battery of tests, Lucas. And it seems that you were dealt a bad hand when you were born. Fertility is often a matter of genetics, and there’s not much that can be done if you are unfortunate in that regard. We think you have what’s known as Klinefelter syndrome. It’s a chromosomal condition that affects male physical and cognitive development. It’s caused by a subject having one additional X chromosome. It interferes with male sexual development, often preventing the testes from functioning normally and reducing the levels of testosterone.”

“Is it something I got from my parents?”