Patrick smiled, thinking of the origami frog lesson he had led with Timothy's Cubs group. It was so rare he got to join in on Tim's activities like that (even if he had been late), and it felt good to utilize a skill that wasn't medical in nature. The boys had seemed to enjoy it. He gathered the last two pipettes and placed them in the box of equipment he had collected for Tim to count, inventory, and clean. He knew Tim didn't enjoy this particular chore, but he did enjoy earning money, so it worked out for all involved.

The phone rang. "Morning," Patrick answered nonchalantly, assuming it would be a patient or midwife.

"I've been discharged," a small voice spoke on the other end of the line.

"Sister Bernadette?" Patrick replied, unsure of what he was hearing.

"I'm supposed to go to Chichester, but I won't."

"Why is that?" Patrick asked, mostly for something to say. Why had she telephoned, instead of writing?

"I thought-" she breathed in, "for a long time, that I was in the wrong place. I wasn't. I was just living the wrong life."

Patrick leaned on the desk. Was he hearing what he thought he was hearing? "I wrote to you."

"Yes." Her tone was open, inviting.

"I don't know if I said too much, or not enough."

"You said - what was necessary, and I'm coming back to Poplar."

Patrick smiled with relief at her words. She was coming home. "When?"

"Today," she replied, breathing deeply.

"You need to rest, to convalesce." Patrick was incredulous.

"I've had enough rest to kill a mule," she insisted, "and I know my own mind for the first time in many months, which I find remarkably invigorating."

Patrick smiled. Oh, how he had missed her.

"I'm on my way to catch the bus."

"You are not travelling thirty miles by public transport!" Patrick insisted. "Sister Bernadette –"

"Forgive me," she interrupted, "but I don't answer to that name anymore."

Patrick was speechless, but before he could formulate a reply, Nurse Noakes appeared at his door, asking for his assistance with Dolly Smart. Sometimes he cursed his job. "I'm sorry," he said into the phone, "I really am, but duty calls."

"I understand" she replied, and before he could say anything else, she had hung up the phone.

Patrick's mind raced as he examined Dolly Smart. She had called him. She had called him to tell him she was being discharged. She was not angry. She was not Sister Bernadette anymore? What did that mean? A tiny voice inside him whispered that she had forsaken her vows, that she wasn't a nun anymore, that she had done it for him! He was not a vain man. He knew that if she had indeed abandoned her vocation, it had been for lots of reasons, not just for him.

He told himself not to hope too much, that there could be a lot of reasons for her to say what she said. The main thing was, she could not take a bus thirty miles home to Poplar. She was still weak, and her immune system was still recovering. Who knew what manner of germs and diseases she would be exposed to on a public bus? There was nothing for it. He had to go and get her, bring her home himself. The rest would work itself out in time, one way or another. Dolly Smart was settled, Nurse Noakes was more than capable of looking after her, and Nurse Lee would arrive shortly. Patrick raced to the car.

He found Timothy there, wanting to come on his rounds. "We're not going on my rounds," Patrick explained.

"Then where are we going? Can we get some chips?" Timothy was hopeful.

"No. We're going to find Sister Bernadette. She's been released from the sanitarium. She said she'd take the bus home, but she shouldn't, so we have to find her and bring her home ourselves." Patrick mind reeled. She wasn't Sister Bernadette anymore, that's what she said. But he had nothing else to call her – he didn't know her real name, and had no way of explaining all this to his son right now. He just had to find her. Then all would become clear.

As they raced out of Poplar and onto the rural roads that surrounded London, Timothy chattered away – it was an adventure for a boy of his age. They rarely left Poplar. Patrick barely registered any of Tim's words – his mind was roiling, his stomach was full of butterflies, and question after question formed in his thoughts. Where could she be? What if it rained, or if she got lost? What if he couldn't find her? What if she wasn't well enough to travel? What if something happened to her? And there were other, more personal questions – why had she called him? Had she renounced her vows? Had she done it for him? Did she share his feelings after all? What would happen next?

Patrick concentrated on the road – it would hardly do to have an accident on the way to rescue Sister Bernadette. How he longed to know what to call her now – she seemed adamant on the phone that was not her name anymore, but hadn't said what to replace it with. He realized he was on the lookout for her habit and wimple, but perhaps she wouldn't be wearing that anymore. What would she look like in ordinary clothes? He felt warm all over, thinking about seeing the shape of her, her skin, her hair.

"Dad! There's a woman in the wrong clothes and I think it's her!" Patrick peered into the mist, trying desperately to see what his son had spotted. As he looked down the road, a figure appeared in the mist. It was a woman, petite by the looks of things, and wearing clothes that reminded him of the years after the end of the war. It was her! Patrick brought the car to a stop and told Timothy to stay put. Then he got out of the car and stood for a moment, taking in the sight of her. A million little details stood out all at once: how tiny she looked in ordinary clothes. Her gilded hair (at last! He could stop wondering what it looked like. It was a beautiful golden colour, and so exactly what he had imagined), the fact that she wasn't wearing a coat – it was not a warm day! She'd clearly been walking for a while, and carrying two suitcases. He felt himself approach her. He was desperate to touch her, almost to ensure she was real, and then his instincts took over, and he placed a hand to her forehead. She gave him a small smile, as if to say "Do as you must, Doctor Turner." Her skin was reassuringly cool and dry. Without thinking, he took off his overcoat and placed it around her shoulders. He was struck again by how tiny she was.

"What if it had started raining? What if you had got lost?" He didn't want to interrogate her, but thoughts of everything that could have gone wrong filled him.

"I was lost. I got the wrong bus," she replied, not taking her eyes from his. He felt as though he could stare into her eyes forever.

"I was on the right road." Thank God.

"Yes." She gave him a small smile. He felt as if the sun was shining just on him. "I know you so little, but I couldn't be more certain." That was it. The fulfillment of all his hopes and wishes over the past several months. She was sure. Of him.

"I am completely certain. And I don't even know your name." Patrick felt light-headed, as though none of this was really happening.

"Shelagh," she said, a bit shyly. Her name was Shelagh.

"Patrick." He replied. He wouldn't be Doctor Turner to her for one more day.

"There," she said, her voice seemingly full of hope, "we've made a start."

Patrick stood and looked into her eyes (Shelagh! his brain repeated over and over. Her name is Shelagh!

Timothy's voice interrupted their shared reverie. "Dad! Are you going to stand there all day? You said we were coming to bring Sister Bernadette home!"

Shelagh broke into a grin, and Patrick returned it. He turned and put a hand at the small of her back, just a small gesture, but one he wouldn't have dreamed of if she'd still be in her habit. Shelagh started towards the car, and Patrick let her go, stopping to pick up her suitcases. Timothy hopped out of the car, holding the door open for Shelagh, who got into the passenger seat. Timothy went around the car and got into the backseat. Patrick put Shelagh's cases in the truck, and got behind the wheel. He stole a glance at Shelagh. She sat primly in the passenger seat, hands in her lap. Patrick felt his face break into a huge grin. Everything he wanted, sitting close enough for him to reach out and touch.

Timothy began pelting Shelagh with questions. "What was the sanitarium like?

"Very restful, thank you Timothy. How have things been at home?"

"Boring mostly. But Dad did show us how to make an or-i-gami frog." Timothy stuttered over the words. "You get to blow in it's bottom at the end. Why are you dressed like that?"

"Timothy!" Patrick chided, though secretly he wanted to hear the answer. "Shelagh is tired and probably just wants some quiet."

"Who's Shelagh?" Timothy asked, without guile.

"I am," replied Shelagh. "Shelagh Mannion is the name I was born with. The reason I'm dressed like this is that the way I used to dress, the habit, was symbol of my vocation as a nun, and I'm not going to be a nun anymore." Patrick's heart leapt. She had confirmed not only that she shared his feelings, but that the obstacle between them, her vows, would no longer be an issue.

"So…. you're not Sister Bernadette anymore? You're Shelagh?" Timothy confirmed.

"That's Miss Mannion to you, Timothy," Patrick chimed in. Shelagh smiled and nodded.

"So, Miss Mannion," Timothy intoned, "where are you going to live now? Isn't the convent just for nuns? Or are you going to be a nurse now?" Tim was certainly hitting all the bases.

"I'm not sure," Shelagh replied. "I don't think I'll be living at Nonnatus House anymore, so I'll have to find lodgings somewhere."

"Why don't you want to be a nun anymore? Is it because you weren't allowed to have any fun?"

"Tim, that's a very personal question," Patrick chided, while Shelagh smiled beside him.

"It's all right. I don't mind. That is a very complicated question though Timothy, but the simple answer is that I wanted a different life than the one I was living." She glanced at Patrick, a blush coming over her face.

"That's what I thought. Being a nun seems awfully boring to me." Tim had a mischievous look on his face.

"That's enough now, Tim. Miss Mannion needs to rest." Patrick's voice was firm. She did need rest, despite what she'd said on the phone.

They were silent for the rest of the ride back to Poplar, and when they entered that part of London, Patrick turned to Shelagh and asked where she would like to be taken.

"Nonnatus House, please, Patrick." She seemed to enjoy saying his name.

When they pulled up, Patrick went around and opened the door for her. "Do you want me to come in with you?" His voice was soft.

"No, thank you. But may I ask a favour?" She looked up at him. He was reminded again how tiny she was. She seemed so much smaller out of her habit.

"Anything," he replied.

"Will you keep my cases? Just until I find some lodgings, which I'll do as soon as I'm finished here. They got quite heavy while I was walking, and I'd rather not repeat that experience."

"Of course." He spoke gently. "Would you like me to wait here for you?"

"No, thank you, Patrick." Oh, the thrill of hearing her say his name. "I'm sure you have other things to do."

Guilt crept over him. In fact, he had neglected his rounds today. "Nothing that can't wait. Well, I'll leave you to it then. You know where to find me." Patrick resisted the urge to kiss her – it was way too soon for that, but the urge was strong. Instead, he gave her a smile, and stood by the car while she headed into Nonnatus House. He imagined there was some formal process she had to go through, to renounce her vows. He supposed she didn't have much by way of possessions to pack.

As Patrick headed around the car, he caught Timothy's eye. "Chips?" he asked his son.

"Yes please!" replied Tim.

At the chip shop, Tim ate with gusto, while Patrick picked away at his with little enthusiasm. His mind roiled. How did one court a former nun? Was he just supposed to show up at her lodgings, wherever she ended up, and ask her on a date? After all they had been through, after everything she had given up, how could he just… take her to the pictures, or a dance? And what would people say? He shuddered to think about Sister Evangelina's reaction. And the residents of Poplar could be vicious gossips. He hated to think of Shelagh as an object of chatter. There was only one way forward.

"Eat up, son, I need your help with something." He said to Tim, who's mouth was full of chips.

Tim wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, which Patrick chose to ignore, just this one time. "If it's washing more equipment, you still owe me half a crown for the last batch."

Patrick smiled. "It's not that. I need your help buying a present for Shelagh."

"What kind of present?" Timothy inquired.

"A ring."