Sister Monica Joan stumbled through the door of the public house. "Arms of the Angel" it said above the door. That was obviously a sign from God. She had gotten lost but He had led her here, to this alehouse.
She had fled the new Nonnatus House, the ancient book of healing clutched in a cloth, meaning to go to the Turners' residence. The home of Dr. Turner and Sister Bernadette. She who had forsaken the succor of the spirit for the slaking of the flesh. And he who doubted her memory and clarity of mind, the wisdom of ancient healers, the knowledge revealed by the stars, even perhaps the power of the Almighty.
She must and would make him read about the mysterious ailment described in the old text, the ailment she was sure the two babies suffered from.
Inside the pub, she leaned against the door frame, her breathing labored. She glanced around, confused by the many faces, the activity and noise, the clouds of cigarette smoke. She made her way to the bar. "Here, young man…barkeep," she called, "I fear I have lost my way and it is dreadfully inclement this evening. Might you render me some assistance?"
"Dear sister, you seem in distress," said a voice at her elbow. "May I be of any help?"
She turned to find a tall, spare gentleman of advanced age at her elbow. His craggy face was handsome in an earnest sort of way. He had a full head of disheveled white hair that flopped forward over his forehead. She could not praise his sartorial style— a rumpled raincoat over an ill-fitting suit, a knitted vest of some garish orange color, and an appalling tie. But all of that faded to insignificance. His head was tipped to the right and his eyes—so dark, intense, full of worry and care—they seemed to burrow into her soul. She couldn't look away.
For a moment they regarded each other
"Please, dear lady, you are drenched to the skin." He was sliding his raincoat from his arms, flaring it up and around her shoulders, wrapping it around her then holding it tightly closed at her neck with his hands.
"It started raining," he said. "You might have gotten lost."
"I was lost," she said, still held by those intense dark eyes. "I took the wrong turn."
He smiled. "But I was in the right pub."
"Yes," she answered. "But your raincoat. My raiment is exceedingly damp. Are you certain?"
"I am completely certain."
His face, his eyes, his tone—she had never encountered such before. She felt an unfamiliar flutter inside, such as she had not felt for many, many years. She smiled at him. "Thank you, sir, you are exceedingly kind. I fear, however, that I do not even know your name."
"Peter. Dr. Peter Thomas."
"Sybilla," she answered. Oh my, where had that come from? She hadn't uttered that name aloud in sixty years.
"Well, then," he said, a smile lighting the eyes that still held hers, "we've made a start."