“Look towards the light, please. The other way. Good. Can you move your feet for me?”

Alva wiggled her toes obligingly.

“Good. And how do you feel now?”

“Fine. A bit tired,” she said.

“Well, I don’t see any lingering effects of the encounter,” he said, returning his tools to his bag. “Sam, I admit I don’t exactly know what I’m looking for here, but she’s returning sensible answers, her reflexes are all fine, and she doesn’t have ongoing symptoms. If any of that changes—”

“I’ll let you know.”

Benedict nodded curtly and picked up his bag. “You might as well walk me out,” he said. “Mrs. Webster, it was a delight to see you. Please contact me if you have any lingering concerns.”

“I’m sorry to have put you to such trouble.”

“It was no trouble at all,” he replied as he left the room, Sam behind him.

He waited until the door was firmly closed before speaking. “You must understand, I’m very limited here,” he said, walking down the stairs. “The family’s staying in the city for another two weeks. If you bring her down, I can borrow equipment from one of the hospitals and give her a more thorough examination.”

“Do you see any reason for concern?”

“A seizure like the one she had is always cause for concern, ghostly interference or no,” Benedict said. “Keep an eye on her. And damn it, be careful. You’re a nuisance, but you’re the only brother I have. I don’t want to have to bring Mother into this.”

Sam laughed, feeling some of his fear dissipate. Benedict wouldn’t lie to him. “Like she’d stop me,” he said. “She’s more likely to demand to see my notes and mount her own ghostly expedition.”

“Saints preserve us,” his brother said, and gestured up the stairs. “I like her. But mind yourself. She’s a bit out of your experience, I think.”

And on that enigmatic note, he clapped Sam on the shoulder and walked out the front door.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Cold morning light pierced through her windows as Alva leaned back against her headboard, painting clean-cut lines over her bedsheets. She followed one line to Sam, stepping back inside the room and looking down at her in concern. In the uncompromising brightness his strong bones stood out fiercely, like he was a Viking warrior from long ago, back from battle, his full lips the only hint of softness in his face.

She smiled. A Viking warrior, if such warriors were kind and funny and gentle and brilliant. She couldn’t really see Sam Moore brandishing a weapon and raiding neighboring villages—he’d be more likely to discuss more efficient crop rotation so everyone could have enough to eat, no raids necessary.

“He’s headed back to the train station,” he said, resettling in the chair.