The boat was already progressing up the river in the dusk as they emerged at the top into what appeared to be, at first glance, a gathering of the medical aristocracy of London and their friends, circa 1750. The effect on Lucy was almost surreal. After a moment she recognized some of the characters before her from endless trips to one hospital or the other. There were about fifty people standing or sitting. Three fresh-complexioned nurses, in long flowing dresses, giggled at Dr. Stafford. The Three Graces, Lucy mused. Then they took in Lucy’s appearance behind him, and turned away, resigned, mingling with a group of young housemen. The registrars made small talk with the younger female doctors, and the wives watched one or two of the housemen. The senior staff gravitated toward the administrative heads and board members. The whole scene had a kind of unnatural naturalness about it; a costumed period quadrille.

Odd. No Jane Cook. Lucy could see she was missing. She whispered something to Alex. “Minding the shop,” he explained. “Otherwise she’d be here. She’s loyal to the hospital first and last, but she’ll be sorry not to be able to fraternize with Amel off duty. He’s her hero.”

“Mine too. We all need them, you know.”

Outdoor heaters warmed an area of tables and chairs, which was covered with an awning and surrounded with clear plastic screens keeping the heat in while affording a panoramic view of the passing river. The macabre decorations in their most obscene forms seemed to have failed to climb the stairs. Amel, absurdly dressed as Scott of the Antarctic, was standing at the edge of the deck deep in conversation with two women—a tall, willowy, dark one, and a curvaceous but equally eye-catching blonde. Alex and Lucy edged their way across, and Amel greeted them warmly.

“The Great Alexander. Strange you didn’t wear something Macedonian. I am so glad you have come amongst us. And your radiant companion, Lucy. How lovely you are. I am not at all surprised, but entirely enchanted.” He took her delicate hand in both of his, looked at her properly, and she felt the sincerity of his compliment. “Please, say hello. These beautiful ladies are also eminent doctors—Zarina Anwar and Angelica LeRoy, leading surgeons both—though we don’t often let them out of Harefield! They assisted Mr. Denham and me in your transplant. Ladies, six weeks on and in a form more collected than you first met with, may I now present Lucy King, television documentary maker.”

Lucy’s eyes widened in awe at the two women before her—the one dark, cool, and refined, with immaculate nails; the other blond, smiling, and vivacious.