Six pints of fluid were eventually obtained (minus the volume that had soaked into Raven’s clothes), decompressing the patient’s abdomen. This would, more than likely, alleviate her breathlessness and markedly reduce her discomfort. Raven’s discomfort was not so swiftly relieved. He had to fight a strong impulse to run from the room, but dutifully remained, fluid seeping into his trousers, while the professor monitored the flow. He stood his ground until Simpson had applied an adhesive plaster to the patient’s wound, then excused himself with as much dignity as he could muster, determined to leave before the patient woke up.

As he climbed the stairs to his room, feet squelching in his shoes, he heard footsteps behind him. He sighed as he realised that his embarrassment was about to be compounded. Of course it had to be Sarah, returning from the druggists’ with a basket containing several large stock bottles of chloroform.

‘What happened?’ she asked, concern morphing into amusement. As he turned around, a glob of something left the ends of his hair and hit the wall.

‘We managed to decompress Mrs Glassford’s abdomen.’

‘So I see,’ Sarah said, unable to contain a snort of laughter. ‘I am certainly no expert in complex medical procedures, but I suspect you may be in need of a change of clothes.’

Raven said nothing, turning away to resume his ascent. He realised with some confusion that she was following him. She continued to do so until he entered his room, where he was further disturbed to see her put down her basket and move towards him as though meaning to help him off with his saturated clothing. This intended resumption of a familiarity they had once enjoyed only served to remind Raven of what intimacies she now shared with someone else.

‘I can manage,’ he said, brushing her hand away from his shirt button.

Sarah stopped smiling.

‘I’ll bring some warm water and towels,’ she said, and left him to remove the rest of his clothing alone.

TWELVE

hen Sarah returned, she found Raven already dressed, a pile of sopping garments at his feet. He accepted the ewer of warm water she had brought up from the kitchen wordlessly and unsmiling.

Raven bent over the basin on his washstand and, without ceremony, tipped the ewer’s contents over his head before vigorously scrubbing at his face. He then dried his face and hair, and handed the wet towel to her, his expression inscrutable.

She had thought the levity deriving from his misfortune might help set a tone for them to speak again, but she reckoned without him feeling humiliated. She had forgotten how proud he could be, how sensitive about how he might be perceived. In his absence she had recalled only the things she liked about him. Small wonder she had suppressed the very thing that had driven them apart.