After I’d shared the photos with Gaynor, she agreed not to divulge what I’d told her. She realized my life was chaotic enough given the situation with James, and since she had not been directly involved in the discovery of the apothecary shop, she didn’t feel it her place to dictate my next steps. That said, she did ask me to think very carefully about what I would do with this information, given the precious historical nature of what I’d found. I could hardly blame her; she worked at the British Library, after all.

Now, the reality was that only two of us knew the full truth; only Gaynor and I knew about the workplace of the murderous apothecary who lived two hundred years ago, and the unbelievable source of information she left buried deep within the bowels of an old cellar. Once this present crisis was behind me, I would have to make a few difficult decisions about what to reveal, and how, and to whom—and how this played into my own, recently resurfaced passion for history.

To my relief, James didn’t seem interested in reliving what had happened a few hours ago. “I’m ready to get back,” he said, taking a sip of water while I perched on the side of his bed.

I raised my eyebrows. “You just got here last night. The flight home isn’t for another eight days.”

“Trip insurance,” he explained. “A hospital stay is more than enough reason to file a claim on the cost to get home. As soon as I’m out of here, I’ll rebook my flight.” He toyed with the edge of the bedsheet, then looked at me. “Should I book you a seat, too?”

I blew out a sigh. “No,” I said gently. “I’ll take the original flight home.”

Disappointment flashed in his eyes, but he quickly recovered. “Fair enough. You need space, I get that. I shouldn’t have come out here at all. I realize that now.” A few moments later, a member of the hospital staff appeared with a tray and set James’s dinner in front of him. “It’s only eight days, at least,” James added, digging ravenously into his meal.

My breath quickened. Here we go, I thought. Sitting cross-legged at the end of his bed, a corner of his bedsheet over my lap, it almost felt like we were back in Ohio, back into our normal routine. But we would never know our old “normal” again.

“I’m quitting my job at the farm,” I said.

James paused, a bite of potato suspended in front of his mouth. He set the fork down. “Caroline, a lot’s going on. Are you sure you don’t want to—”

I rose from the edge of the hospital bed, standing tall. I could not fall victim to this talk of reason, not again.