Jed woke early with the light just starting to creep over the window. Mansion House was quiet at this hour, as quiet as ever it got, with the breath and turning of the men in the wards, the house itself settling every day against the weather or the light footsteps of the nuns. He dressed quickly, tied his cravat more loosely and tucked a small volume under his arm, expecting at least a quarter hour of solitude on the back veranda. He made his way there as silently as he could, the doors on the third floor all still shut tight against the day.

He was only a little surprised to find Mary standing on the porch. He knew her to be an early riser, invariably already busy at her work, cuffs and collar neat, skirts swishing gently, when he came down to do his morning rounds. He couldn't tell if this was her usual way or whether she had found waking before the dawn to be the only way to find a moment to herself- a moment without a cry, a demand, a smirk from Nurse Hastings. She turned her head slightly as he came to stand by her; this near, he could smell the faint fragrance of the lavender she favored.

"Good morning, Dr. Foster."

"I think you know better than that, Mary."

"Well, then, good morning to you, Jedidiah. Though I see you have brought your reading and I am loath to disturb. I can leave you to it…" She angled her head slightly toward the book in his hand but what he perceived was the shining bird's wing of her neatly parted hair before it was contained in its complicated mass of braids.

"Oh, no, please don't. I would rather you stayed. What was the object of this morning's contemplation, if I may ask?"

"Have you spent much time in the North, in New England, Jed?" she asked.

"Well, a few weeks in Boston at lectures at Harvard a few years ago and the same in New York City, though I know you Yankees don't consider it New England proper. Why do you ask?"

"The flowers, the garden," she gestured with her hand across the lawns, "we do not have our spring come like this, all this riot of blossoms, the bees already getting lost in the hospital… Ours comes slowly, the cold recedes reluctantly." He nodded.

"I miss it, I miss our New Hampshire spring, the crocuses coming first through the deepest snow, then the forsythia. Do you know it?" He shook his head slightly, having a hard time placing it, the botany he had loved as a boy driven out by the diagrams of muscles and bone, the angles scalpels needed to dive to cut away dying flesh.

"It's a shrub really, it grows everywhere in New England, all these little yellow flowers and then it is green everywhere. It comes with the daffodils, they are all gold and yellow together, the sunshine coming back to us even as the snow still falls. Last spring, well, my husband was ill but still well enough to importune me to go for walks, fresh air instead of the sick-room. It snowed in April but all the daffodils stayed bright, even with the snow on the petals, bowing their heads. I miss that, the smell of the snow and the yellow daffodils together… this spring is not my spring, all the flowers in the garden and the trees, the air so warm, the winter totally forgotten…"

Jed listened to her talk about her home, her memories. Her voice had changed as she spoke, she paused more, let herself choose her words for the feeling they conveyed, the beauty she remembered, rather than the efficient clarity she strove for on the wards. He had moved closer to her as she spoke or perhaps they had sidled next to each other; he could feel the warmth of her arm in its drab flowered blouse through his shirt-sleeve. Her apron was bleached but remained off-white, like the throat of a violet, against her dark blue skirt. He moved his empty hand before thinking, caught her fingers in his.

"I wish we could find you some daffodils then."

"Oh, I am being silly, I know. Can you imagine Nurse Hastings if she heard? I am sure no flower dared to grow in the Crimea the whole of that war." She gave a little laugh and he smiled, hearing Nurse Hastings's strident voice in his mind. He turned to see Mary more clearly, but was interrupted by a cry of pain from the house.

"We must fly. I will meet you on your rounds—perhaps I can find you an apple or a roll as you have missed your breakfast?" Mary started walking toward the door briskly, not waiting for his response and he knew there would likely be both in the pocket of her pinafore, wrapped neatly in a linen cloth, for the moment he could find to eat. With any luck, it would be before the dinner hour. He thought, as she moved through the door, so quickly beyond his line of sight, he would try to find her something of her home…

It was Sunday night, a week had passed full of surgeries and men crying and men trying not to cry and failing, boys with their first whiskers dying with blue lips. Mary opened the door to the little room Matron Brannan had finally given her after six weeks of sleeping on the floors or any other cot or bench she had found. It was slightly larger than a closet truly, seemed to have been the dressing room for another room, and held only the bed, a bedside table and small wardrobe where her dresses hung. She set her lamp next to the picture of Gustav on her table and jostled something. She turned the lamp up, her eyes too tired to make the object out in the dim room.

It was paper, heavy paper, the quality evident, rolled and tied neatly with a piece of string. A mystery, she thought. She pulled the knot and the paper unfolded, eager to lay flat again. She saw a daffodil, sketched quite well, petals with their furled edges, sepals sharp, the stalk falling away in a green curve. It was carefully painted, deep yellow and the rich light green of new growth, a dash of ochre on the stamens. She saw two small letters, E.G., nestled beneath on drooping leaf. There was a second piece of paper tucked in, foolscrap, torn from another book by its rough edge. This was covered in surprisingly elegant cursive and read,

"Dear Mary, I have found this was the only daffodil I could lay my hands on in Alexandria for you. It took a bit of wheedling on my part to the estimable Miss Green, who could not understand my request, but did agree to sketch this for me and used her paint-pots to give it life. I am sure she has done a better job than I could, my days of botanical drawing long past, and perhaps it let her revisit the days before the war when I am sure a young lady such as she spent long afternoons sketching flowers with her teacher. In any case, I hope it is a happy reminder of the home I know you miss, though you say little. Please accept it, my friend, and know that there is someone here who seeks your happiness even as you spend your days caring for everyone else but yourself—JF"

She was speechless. The effort he had put into it! Such a brief conversation from over a week ago, a week she would expected every memory drowned by the suffering of the men and the fatigue of the long days. He had listened and schemed, must have sought out Emma Green and made his odd request nicely enough that she had agreed, despite his usual brusque manner. She looked at the color, the yellow the rich shade of summer sunshine in Manchester, not the fainter hue of early spring. She felt its warmth rise up in her chest, toward her face. She placed the sketch carefully on the table, using the frame that held Gustav's image to hold a corner down, and placed the note from Jed in the small drawer below, safely away with her other treasures. She lay down to sleep, her body tired and longing for enough time to change from her clothes, time she did not have tonight, but felt the happiness of the gesture sustained her, sent her swiftly to a dreamless sleep. She woke the next morning with a smile before she even glanced at the drawing.