“I’ll move my chair to the corner and stay there the whole time, but I’m not leaving tonight,” he said.

Liza’s mouth twitched up at the corners, but when she spoke her tone was no-nonsense. “What am I going to say to the others, if you please?”

“Tell them I’m eccentric. And tell your cook I’ll give her a prototype of my new cooker before it’s released.”

She considered before shrugging. “Yes, that’ll likely do it. I’ll bring some blankets up. But you’re to stay in your chair, mind—there’ll probably be people in and out of here all night.”

He nodded. “Oh, and—” He pulled his notebook out and wrote a brief message. “Have someone take this to the telegraph office. Get it out tonight, I don’t care if you have to wake someone up to do it.”

She lifted her eyebrows and hurried out, presumably to go relate the whole story to everyone in the kitchen.

“The doctor didn’t like you very much,” Alva said, her voice sleepy and a little slurred. “It’s strange. Everyone likes you.”

“You didn’t,” he said, smiling at her and pushing a stray lock of hair out of her face.

“Course I did,” she said, and turning so her face snuggled firmly into her pillow, she drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, still sprawled in the chair next to Alva’s bed, Sam woke to a knock downstairs. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he leaned forward to check on her, anxiously noting that she was still too pale. He left the room and was closing the door behind him when his brother walked up the stairs, carrying his black medical bag.

“All right, damn it, I’m here,” Benedict said, the purple under his eyes testifying to his own sleepless night. “What’s so urgent I had to leave my bed at three this morning?”

“Mrs. Webster had an accident,” Sam said, skipping the formalities. “I’m worried it may have affected her brain. I want you to check.”

“Mrs. Webster? The one with the house?”

The one with the house, my future, my heart, everything that’s at all important in the world, Sam thought, but settled for a nod.

Benedict gestured towards the door, obviously deciding to save his questions for later. “In there?”

Sam opened the door and followed him in. Alva was sitting up in bed, looking pale and a little confused.

“Sam?” she said, her eyebrows snapping together over eyes that looked bruised against her white skin. “What’s going on?”

“You remember my brother, Benedict,” he said, sitting next to her and taking her hand. “He’s a doctor, specializing in the brain. I want him to examine you, to make sure you’ve taken no lasting injury.”

“Only to my pride,” she said, but it lacked her usual snap. “Really, Sam, there’s no need.”